#looks up from being very lost in thought about fic titles only to realize ive typed up five enormous paragraphs. hrm | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alrightberries · 3 years

Text

dante’s inferno

request: wassup homie could you maybe write a college au fic where levi and reader are rommies, then one day reader brings home an adopted cat without levi's prior knowledge? You could decide what happens next lol. Tysm 🥺

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff, semi-crack ❈ word count: 4k

❈ summary: college au. in which you bring a stray cat to your dorm and your neat freak roommate won’t let you keep it.

alternatively: a compilation of college shenanigans where you and levi are best friends who are bad with feelings (ft. an unamused cat named dante)

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. mentions of alcohol and smoking. implied smut.

a/n: this was supposed to be loosely based on the nine circles of hell according to inferno by dante alighieri— hence the title— but i did my research wrong so now it’s loosely based on the seven terraces of purgatory according to divine comedy. i’m keeping the title tho.

Inspired by this art by @ryuichirou on tumblr.

Permission to repost art was granted by the artist. Do not repost/edit the art without explicit permission from the artist.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

i. first terrace: pride

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why?”

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why.”

Levi’s tongue clicks in annoyance. His eyes glance next you where the offending creature lay on your bed; tail curling, paws kneading at his your favorite fleece blanket. Quite frankly he’s a little offended when the little shit has the audacity to glare at him back.

He’ll never admit it, but his ego’s a bit bruised because the cat’s glare was slightly better than his.

“I said no,” he firmly replies, looking back to you. “It’s bad enough I have to share a room with an anarchist who has no respect for boundaries—“

“One time, I forgot to use a coaster that one time!”

“—and now you expect me to share a room with a dirty fur ball who does nothing but eat, shit, and sleep?”

“He’s a cat, Levi.” You murmur, scooping the cat into your arms. “And he has a name,” you give a nervous smile when you see your rommate grit his teeth. He feels a headache coming.

“You named it?”

“Dante is not an ‘it’.”

Levi makes a move to step closer but immediately stops when the ‘Dante’ hisses at him.

“Aw, he likes you.” You coo.

“Clearly,” he replies unenthusiastically. “Listen,” he sighs. “I respect your cat’s pronouns but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to stay. Or do I need to remind you of the mac and cheese incident?”

Okay, maybe he was on to something. If you got caught with a pet in the dorms you’d breach your third and final warning, and you’d be forced to dorm off-campus. The fact that you were still here after the mac and cheese incident was solely because Levi pulled some strings (aka asked Erwin, golden boy of the campus who owed him a favor, to pull some strings).

But you couldn’t just let Dante go. There was something about him that felt so familiar; something about his black fur, thin silver eyes, unamused snarl, and overall grumpy demeanor. Especially endearing was the way he’d grumble and pretend to be annoyed whenever you tried to cuddle him but would complain if you stopped.

You just couldn’t figure out who or what he reminded you of.

Maybe you would’ve figured it out too if you weren’t so distracted with watching Levi and Dante stare at each other. Your eyes dart back and forth between the grouchy cat sitting on your bed and your grouchy roommate sitting on his desk. Both were slightly crouched over with their heads tilted up in a show of dominance; they were engaged in what seemed to be a glaring contest, gunmetal irises unamused and mouths taut in a snarl as they protected their territory.

You sigh. You really, for the life of you, couldn’t figure out why Dante felt so familiar.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ii. second terrace: envy

Levi is not jealous. He’s not.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he sulks alone on his bed. His arms are crossed and his lips are in a pout, eyebrows knitted in distaste, occasionally glancing to your side of the room where you sat up on your bed. He’s sure whatever movie you chose to watch together is interesting and all, but right now all he could pay attention to was that stupid cat. Sitting on your stupid lap. Getting its fur stroked by your stupid hand. Getting all the love and affection his stupid self should be receiving.

It was him you should be cuddling, not Dante. Saturday nights were reserved for him and you, not you and a cat while he happened to be in the room. He’s been trying to make a move on you since high school and he can’t fucking believe he’s losing your attention to a cat. Sure, he’s always been too chicken to make a move and had to suffer seeing you get together with assholes— as per your type during your emo high school days— but this was a new low. He can’t wrap his head around the concept that he’s losing his longterm crush to a motherfucking cat.

When you coo at how adorable the fleabag was for what felt like the 50th time that night, Levi decides he’s had enough of the cuddle-hogging piece of shit.

Wordlessly, he crosses to your side of the room and lifts the cat from its perch, ignoring your protests as he sets it down on the floor and tells it to ‘scram, you little fuck.’ He uses a hand to dust your lap free of any microscopic cat particles Dante probably left behind before lying down his head down once he was satisfied. He grabs your hand to put it on his hair.

“Stroke.” He orders, eyes closing.

“What? No! You pushed off Dante.”

“He was in my spot.”

“You couldn’t have given up your lap pillow for one night?”

“One night?” He scoffs and turns to look at you. “You’ve been abandoning me for two weeks. That disgusting, tic-infested, rabies-carrying slob has no business sitting on your lap.”

“He’s not disgusting, you gave him a shower before you agreed to let me keep him. And I took him the vet to make sure he had all his shots. He’s clean, Levi.”

“Tch, good. Now throw him out and let him find someone else to freeload from.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” You guffaw. “You’ve been grumpier than usual. And why’re you being such an ass to Dante? He’s just a cat.”

“Don’t think he’s special in some way. I’m an ass to everyone.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re always extra mean to him?”

He doesn’t reply. His lips are downturned into a frown when he looks away with a click of his tongue, and you realize with a sigh you won’t be getting an answer from your cryptic roommate soon. Your fingers start mindlessly stroking his undercut when you get lost in your thoughts— a habit you developed through years of Levi using your lap as a pillow. He always complained the first few times you did it but you knew it calmed both him and you, and that it put both your minds at ease. Moreso Levi right now, apparently.

You’re keenly aware of how he seems to curl up into you the more you keep going. You watch as his shoulders slump down when you stroke the side of his face, and his eyebrows relax slightly. From your angle, you could even see the way his eyes close in content. Maybe even a tiny smile if you were being delusional.

Your lip twitches upward.

“Oh my god, Levi, are you jealous of a cat?”

“Shut up and play with my hair.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iii. third terrace: wrath

“You owe me a new cravat.”

You blink up at your roommate. “What?”

“You owe me a new cravat.” He repeats. He pulls from his pocket a white piece of fabric— barely recognizable— torn into shreds, releases it mid-air. It gently lands on your open palm.

“Wait, did Dante do this?” You ask, eyeing the slik in your hands.

“Unless you went feral in the middle of the fucking night and decided to cut up my clothes, yes.”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry. I swear Dante will never—“

“You actually owe me three cravats,” he interjects. “The first two I overlooked since they weren’t that expensive but I draw the line here.” His lips are downturned into a frown, eyes poorly concealing his clear distaste. “This one’s my favorite and it was made from silk.”

You eye the fabric in your hands once more before nodding in understanding, setting down the once beautiful cravat before taking out your wallet. It was only fair that you paid him back; he was being more than generous with letting your cat stay and keeping it a secret, and now you wonder how many bad things Dante’s done that Levi’s overlooked or simply never brought up with you.

“Sure, I’m really sorry. How much do I owe you?”

Levi doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls out his phone and types something on what you could only assume was google, most likely looking for the same brand of the cravat your cat had just torn into shreds. You weren’t entirely sure how much those could cost, but surely you could afford—

“What the fuck!” You screech, eyeing the page with very, very hefty price tags listed. Holy fucking hell where did he even get the money to buy something so expensive. Gulping, you nervously look up at your unimpressed roommate. You already knew he was taking it easy on you; his aura was the only thing intimidating, at least he wasn’t giving you the murder eyes. And even though he was a man of his word, you were thankful he hasn’t reported Dante.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Levi looked pissed beyond belief.

“Uhm... can I pay you with a check that’ll definitely bounce?”

“You will pay me in cash.”

“Fuck, fine!”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iv. fourth terrace: sloth

Levi silently works on his desk. His laptop’s open in fromt of him, numerous notes from classes and books from the library surrounding him. The gentle sounds of clicking and clacking echoe throughout the room as fingers typed at the keyboard, eyes concentrated and lips pulled taught as he focuses on his task. He’s on a roll. He’s almost done with this part of his research, nothing could snap him out of this, he just needs to—

“Levi, when do you think Dante will come back to me?”

He stops typing and grits his teeth.

This is how it’s been the entire night. Ten minutes of peace before you ask him some stupid questions that could’ve been answered with common sense.

“Fuck if I care.”

“Do you think it was something I did?”

He resumes typing. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.”

“Even after all we’ve been through?”

“Still no.”

“I miss him,” you sigh. “I miss him so much.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left the door open.”

It’s been a week since Dante escaped the dorm and Levi doesn’t understand why you’re still so depressed about it. I mean, you only lost a cat that you loved and treasured and treated like family. Surely a week of moping around in your pajamas and eating nothing but chips and soda was catharsis enough.

He hears you shift in your burrito blanket, presumably to turn away from him so you can sulk into the wall next to your bed. Good. Now he can get back to working on—

“Levi do you think Dante-“

“Enough.” He grits, slamming his laptop shut.

“Where’re you going?” You ask, eyeing the way he hurriedly stuffs papers and books into his bag along with his laptop.

“Out.” He replies, grabbing his keys and his coat. “I can’t stand this shit anymore.”

Your head is burried in your blankets when he slams the door shut and all you could do was slump down because great. You lost Dante, and now you’ve royally pissed off Levi.

Great. Just fucking great.

Unlike your cat, however, your roommate comes back hours later, just before curfew. He doesn’t bother with a hello— he never does— and neither do you, opting to stay hidden underneath the sheets. Though suddenly, there’s a dip in the mattress followed by a pur next to your head.

Could it be?

“Dante?” You murmur, lifting your head from underneath your cocoon of fabric. Small black paws and silver eyes meet your gaze. “Dante!” Immediately sitting up, you pulled him to your lap, scratching his little head and cooing about how much you missed him as he purred and curled into to you.

Levi would never say it, but he missed seeing you smile at the little fleabag.

You turn to look at your roommate. “How’d you find him?”

“Asked around the campus. He wandered into another dorm building and probably thought it was ours.”

“Well yeah but... I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” He replies instantly.

“Then why’d you find him?”

“I hate him, not you.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

v. fifth terrace: avarice

“I fucking hate both of you,” Levi grumbles, staring at the dorm.

Towers of boxes lined his supposed to be clean dorm room. He had a hard time prying the door open since it was blocked, and he wasn’t even sure how the boxes weren’t blocking out the light from how high they were piled. Dante’s sat on a stack of box directly next to the door, purring and flicking his tail around. Levi squints his eyes and glares at the little shit.

“You especially.”

“Mrow?”

Levi’s day had been, with no irony or sarcasm at all, amazing. He got a good grade on his research paper; the guy in front of him at the cafe accidentally ordered an extra serving of (coincidentally, Levi’s favorite) tea and gave it to him for free; and he got full marks for the presentation he’s been worrying about for weeks. His class even got dismissed early so he had an extra hour for lunch. He knew you didn’t have classes, so in honor of his great day he thought he’d do something nice and take you out for lunch. His treat, of course.

But any trace of his good mood vanished when he went back to the dorms and got greeted to a room that looked like it came from an episode of Hoarders.

This is what he gets for trying to be nice.

“Levi! Is that you?” You called out.

“What the fuck happened?”

You laugh sheepishly— at least Levi thinks you do. He couldn’t see you beyond the hundred boxes that took up your shared room. He hears some rustling and the sound of things being moved around before finally your head pops out from behind a wall of brown, smiling at him apologetically before walking towards him (and tripping a few times).

“Remember when I said I’d order some toys for Dante as a surprise?”

Levi’s eye twitches. “Don’t tell me—”

“I accidentally ordered 10,000 instead of 10. Online shopping struggles, am I right?” You nervously chuckle at his pissed off face. Levi was not in the mood.

Your smile widens as you make twinkly gestures with your hands. “So uh... surprise?”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vi. sixth terrace: gluttony

The clinic is still when you first entered.

The harsh smell of alcohol and sterile metal makes your nose grimace, and the coldness of the thermostat brings goosebumps to your arms. Behind the wall, somewhete in the waiting room, cats are hissing, dogs are barking, and you could even hear the sound of birds angrily chirping and rattling their cages.

Dante cowers in fear on the silver table, and your heart aches. His ears are down and his fur’s standing on its ends, but you couldn’t comfort him. Not right now, at least. The veterinarian still needed to do a few more checks.

You gulp, “how’s... how’s Dante looking, doc?”

“Not good,” she murmurs. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she takes a deep sigh as she eyes the information on the chart. “It’ll take months before he can walk properly again, possibly more if we don’t do anything about it soon.”

“Don’t tell me... is he—-”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she sighs. “But your cat is heavily obese.”

The corners of your lips twitch down into a frown, and your palm is warm when you start to stroke Dante’s fur. He calms down a bit from your touch, less on edge but still guarded as he warily eyes the doctor’s gloved hands.

“But I don’t understand,” you reply. “I’ve been following the recommended diet you put him on, and I haven’t been feeding him anything other than the cat food and vitamins you recommended. How’s he still obese?”

“Well, we could look into other solutions, but for now I think we ought to look at whether or not Dante has an underlying health problem.”

Levi tunes out the chatter between you and the vet, bored eyes staring into nothing. He’s leaning against a wall and he’s watching the cat carrier. Your bag’s slung over his shoulders and your coat’s in his arms, and he was sure you didn’t even need him to be here for “moral support.”

He mentally scoffs. You probably just needed a chauffeur to drive you for free, and honestly, Levi would rather feel like a chauffeur than a coat rack.

His eyes make contact with Dante’s, and all the fear in the cat’s eyes is suddenly gone, replaced with a steely glare and bared teeth. A warning, one no one else notices but him.

Levi gives him a solitary nod, understanding what Dante wanted to say.

Don’t tell Y/N I’ve been sneaking to the neighbors.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vii. seventh terrace: desire

There’s something about the buzz of alcohol and nicotine that makes Levi confident—- the liquid courage in his veins and the smoke in his lungs clouding his judgement. Perhaps that’s where he finally gets the balls to cross the room, drunken eyes on your equally intoxicated ones, before he pulls you in for a kiss.

The kiss starts slow, with lips just interlocking and lightly testing the waters. But then he feels your tongue make its way inside his mouth and your fingers weave into his hair to tug him closer, and Levi loses the last threads of inhibition he has. His tongue massages yours and one of his arm wraps around your waist, the other comes down to grope and knead your ass. He feels you walk backwards and your hand pulls at his tie, dragging him with you. Suddenly he’s trapping you against a wall, lifting one of your legs up to wrap around his hips so he could grind his crotch into yours.

Levi doesn’t expect his first kiss with you to be like this; messy and full of tongue and spit, full of fingers clawing at clothes and small grunts escaping your lips. He was hoping it’d be more romantic, with warm cheeks and fingers softly intertwining, shy kisses exchanged through little smiles.

But he’s not about to complain—- he’s wanted to be with you for years, and god he loved having you like this. Loved having you all hot and desperate, trapped between his firm chest and the wall. His cock is hard in his pants, and he just about growls when he feels you start to undo his belt, the fly of his pants coming down as you got on your knees and stared up at him with innocent eyes as you pull out his aching boner. There’s a cheeky grin your face when you pump at his length, and your tongue peaks out of your mouth before—

“Levi, are you okay?”

His eyes snap open, and he’s greeted to the sight of your worried face directly above his.

“Fuck!” he yells, and his forehead slams into yours when he flinches away. “Sorry, sorry” he quickly ammends when you yelp in pain.

He’s covered in sweat, he notices. Chest heaving, heart beating a little too loud for his liking, and he silently pulls the blankets over his cum stained boxers when you sit beside him.

God, he was really hoping you wouldn’t notice the fact that he came in his pants like a high schooler. And it was before dream you even got to suck him off. How much more pathetic could he be.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, m’fine, it’s just...” your eyes are distracted, staring off into space. Fingers trace his thighs, and you sigh. “You were having a nightmare,”

Levi blinks. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare,” you repeat. “Kept tossing and turning and groaning in your sleep. And you kept making these... funny faces,”

“...right,” he nods. Sure, a nightmare. A nightmare he never wanted to wake up from.

It takes about ten minutes to reassure you that yes, he was fine, don’t mind the way his cheeks are flushed, he was just... shaken up from his nightmare, is all. Then you’re back to bed, sleeping the night away, and twenty minutes later he’s on his way back to bed too; this time with a fresh pair of boxers and a content look on his face, all thanks to him finishing off his fantasies in the communal bathroom during his shower.

The door makes a quiet click when he shuts it behind him, and he freezes when he catches sight of Dante sat up on your bed, tail flicking behind him as he gives Levi a knowing look.

Levi squints his eyes, and he threateningly whispers, “you tell no one.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

epilogue

The half empty room brings a frown to your face, and all you could do was pout as you sealed up the last of the boxes.

“Why do you have to leave again?” you ask, and Levi turns around as he finishes folding the last of his clothes. He shrugs. “Cats aren’t allowed in the dorms.”

You owed him your entire college career, that much was sure. The RA’s found out about Dante, and Levi had taken the fall to spare you. He wasn’t required to move out since it was only his first strike, but he insisted on doing so so that Dante wouldn’t be alone, saying he already found an apartment nearby and he’ll never hear the end of it from you if he didn’t take Dante with him.

Bullshit. Levi had a soft spot for Dante, you knew that much. He wasn’t doing it for you, he was doing it for himself. Though normally you’d be overjoyed to know that Levi really did secretly like the cat he pretended to hate so much, this time, you were just pissed. You couldn’t believe a fucking cat was stealing away the guy you’ve been in love with since high school. Sure, you were too much of a coward to ask him out, but he was basically your boyfriend already—- the entire campus knew you inadvertently had dibs on each other.

“Yeah but... do you have to leave me alone?”

“I asked you to come with me, and you said no.” He points out. “I still don’t see why when we’ve been roommates since we were freshmen.”

“It’s different off-campus!”

“How?”

“Because it’s like... it’s like we’re moving in together, y’know?” you reply. “And it seemed wrong to move in with you when we’re not even dating.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, handing you a spare key to what you could only assume was his new apartment. You glance between him and the key in your hands, and he rolls his eyes when he realizes that you still don’t get it.

“I know we’re doing this backwards since couples don’t typically move in before the first date,” he says before gesturing to Dante. “But we already have a son, and I know you’re his favorite parent. We can share custody until you can move in with me.”

You blink. “What?” Your brain stopped working when Levi referred to you as a couple, and you’re pretty sure your heart stopped beating too. At this point, anything he said went in one ear and out the other. He flicks your forehead.

“Hey— ow! What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“And you’re being a prick!” you grumble. “It hurts, y’know.”

He scoffs. “What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” he scoffs.

Your mouth moves faster than your brain, “I’d rather you kiss me.”

Wait. What?

Before you could go back on your words, Levi shrugs. Warm palms gently grab your cheeks, pulling your face closer to his. Your eyes widen and you momentarily freeze, brain definitely not working anymore. He hesitates when you don’t make a move, but then you’re shyly leaning forward, and that was all the confirmation Levi needs.

“If you insist,” he whispers, and suddenly your words die on your tongue when his lips interlock with yours.

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin imagine #snk imagine #writing

871 notes · View notes

penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years

Text

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

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

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

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

-D.H. Lawrence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How far along are you?”

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

“I… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t know.”

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

“Would he not be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

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

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

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

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

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

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

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kind.

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needs to know.

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

Wise.

Perceptive.

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

Strong.

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

Gentle.

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

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

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

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

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

Stars, how you want to let him.

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

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

Disciplined.

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

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

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

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

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

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

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

Nothing can.

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

Treasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darling, I’m…”

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

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

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

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall we do something about that?”

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

“Allow me.”

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

Or so you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anchor. Anchor against me.

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

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

You still have much to learn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

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

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

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

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

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

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

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

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

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

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

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

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

560 notes · View notes

mari-beau · 3 years

Text

GIVE ME A REASON: PART ONE -A Rogue One Fanfic

So… This is my playing with Jyn and what happened Post-Scarif in my headcanon where Cassian and Jyn survive. Sort of a companion piece to my fic ‘Partners’ (in that it takes place in the same sort of AU).

Title: Give Me A Reason: Part One

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Jyn Erso POV, Cassian Andor

Pairing: Cassian/Jyn (mostly pre-ship?)

Spoilers: Rogue One; Episode IV A New Hope

Setting: Post-Rogue One AU (Cassian & Jyn live); Also during/post A New Hope

Warnings: None? (references to scars/wounds and some hurt/comfort, angst? Half-nakedness? Jyn being a bit of an overprotective b****?)

Words: 1283

Summary: Jyn’s entire universe has been turned on its head, so maybe she’s clinging a little too hard to the one thing she feels certain of (strangely enough) as she tries to figure out her place in the galaxy. And maybe she’s being a little overprotective of a wounded captain.

There was a buzzing in Jyn Erso’s head. It cut through the blissful haze, sharp and shrill.

No.

Was her first and only thought. The buzz stopped.

Mmm, better. She turned her face into the fragrant warmth of bare male skin, and sleep settled back over her like a blanket.

Another shrill buzz tore that pleasant blanket of contentment off her with a jarring shock.

Fine.

She opened her eyes, found her companion still fast asleep -which was good, he needed it- realized the buzzing was the door chime and made her best attempt to slip out of the bed without waking him. Fortunately, his sleep over the past few days had been more akin to comatose unconsciousness, and he didn’t even stir.

Son of a Vekrak.

Jyn looked around the small military quarters but ultimately gave up. Her clothes had disappeared when she’d woken up in the infirmary, replaced with a medical tunic and pants, which were currently in a pile buried beneath other dirty clothes in the corner of the room. But any body parts the sight of which would scandalize most species, were covered, and as for others, well that was whoever was disturbing her nap’s problem.

And she had to get to the door to cease the annoying buzzing alarm before the idiot disturbed her companion as well. Or else, she might not be responsible for what she did to them.

Not if they caused Cassian Andor any harm, in any form, even if it was just waking him up.

Jyn tapped the door controls a little harder than necessary, but preempted another buzz of the chime, the intruder standing in the hall with their finger raised to the outside controls.

It was a woman, in Alliance uniform, who promptly came to attention. Why exactly, Jyn couldn’t guess. Jyn may have led a tragedy of a suicide mission on behalf of the rebellion, but she hadn’t officially joined up, had no rank (or probably right to even be) on the Yavin 4 base.

Oh.

The formality of the woman’s response was to mitigate her obvious surprise and discomfort. Her blue eyes wandered about rather frantically, taking in Jyn’s appearance, the quarters behind her, the bed with the (hopefully still) sleeping captain who looked like he’d been through a war, which he literally had. Her eyes went back to Jyn, avoiding her face, lingering a little bit too much on the non-soldier’s bare legs. Apparently, the undergarments she had borrowed from Cassian’s meager stock of clothing did not merit ‘decent enough to answer the door’.

It wasn’t like they were too tight, revealed too much… Okay, so the sleeveless undershirt was thin enough that Jyn’s nipples probably showed through, but while it probably fit Cassian pretty snug, it was not like it was skin tight on her. And the undershorts were likewise a little loose, which had forced her to roll the waistband down to below her hip bones. But still… Hadn’t the woman ever seen another woman sleeping in a man’s undergarments?

Blue eyes darted to Jyn’s rat’s nest hair, fell to her mostly exposed shoulder, the one with the angry looking blaster scar, still fresh, pink and aggressively thickly textured.

Jyn sighed. Honestly, could she blame the woman for staring?

“Can I help you?” she asked, taking pity on the soldier.

“Uh, yes, uh… Miss Erso.” The blue eyes finally settled on Jyn’s face and the woman seemed to steel herself to face the uncivilized heathen. “I’ve been sent with a request from Command for Captain Andor.”

Jyn narrowed her eyes as the woman’s gaze slid past the half-dressed civilian again, this time for more than a glance at the man lying in the bed, who was even more naked than Jyn was, as she’d left him in just a pair of undershorts, a lightweight blanket only covering his hips and upper thighs. Parts of him were still covered in bandages, his skin discolored with bruises both dark and faded, a fresh blaster scar on his side to match Jyn’s. Nearly every vulnerable part of him was exposed. But the base was on a farking jungle moon, and while the higher ups’ quarters likely had decent environmental controls, it could get stifling in the lowly spy-captain’s small room, especially with two bodies squeezed into the same narrow cot.

But Jyn wasn’t about to sleep anywhere else. For her own sanity, she had to be close, until she was certain he could protect himself again. He was too vulnerable as he recovered from his Scarif injuries. He was too vulnerable to be ogled by some Alliance messenger girl.

Putting a hand on the doorframe, Jyn moved to fill the space as best she could with her petite body, blocking the other woman’s view of Cassian as much as she could.

“He can’t take any of Command’s orders,” Jyn said, knowing the underling didn’t deserve her disdain but unable to keep the bitterness from showing. Cassian had given everything just short of his actual death to the rebellion. “He’s on medical leave.”

Force, he couldn’t yet stay awake for more than a handful of hours a day, could barely stand upright, let alone walk more than a few steps.

“They want you both to come to the ceremony this evening,” the messenger girl said hastily, slurring most of the words together as Jyn reached for the door controls to close it in the soldier’s face.

Jyn hesitated, completely thrown. “Ceremony?”

“To recognize the heroes that defeated the Death Star. And to honor those who lost their lives, in that battle. And on Scarif. As the only Alliance survivors, Command wanted you and Captain Andor to be present.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. What difference to the dead did it make? Why should she care about appeasing Command’s conscience? It wasn’t worth dragging Cassian from his recovery to be paraded about so the Alliance could feel good about itself. Jyn had done what needed doing, just as Cassian had, just as the others had. It was pain and sorrow and death. And no amount of ‘thank you for your valor’ or whatever bantha shit would make it better.

The satisfaction, the only justification that soothed Jyn’s conscience, was that they had done the job, had defeated Krennic. But what if Cassian needed more to assuage any survivor’s guilt he’d been accumulating? Beneath that stoic exterior of his, she sensed a very soft, troubled soul.

“I’ll tell the captain when he wakes,” Jyn said. “It’s his decision. He might not be up to it.”

“I’ll inform Command that you may be absent.” The soldier shifted her weight. “It starts in 3 hours.”

Jyn frowned. “That’s kind of last minute.”

“Well, once the decision was made to evacuate, there was a bit of a rush to-”

“Evacuate?!” Force, you hole up in a man’s bed for a few days and you lose all touch with the outside world.

“Uh, yes. The Empire is sending a fleet as fast as possible to destroy Yavin base.” It was apparent on the woman’s face that this quick task someone had sent her on was turning into a conversation she hadn’t bargained for. “Someone should be around with your evacuation unit assignment soon. Captain Andor will probably either be grouped with his Intelligence garrison or…” Another glance at the unconscious wounded man (which Jyn didn’t know why it irked her that someone dared look at him, but it got her temper up fierce). “Or he’ll be put in with medical evac.”

The soldier had made no implication either way, and Jyn didn’t even bother asking whether she’d be assigned to the same unit as Cassian. Because it didn’t matter what the Alliance said, Jyn wouldn’t be leaving his side.

Read Part Two

#fic: Give Me A Reason #Rogue One #fanfiction #rebelcaptain #Jyn Erso #Cassian Andor #but like mostly Jyn in this chapter #hurt/comfort #possessive!Jyn #this is going to be multiple chapters/scenes #but like I needed to get it out before moving onto the trash 'mission fic' that's plaguing my imagination

17 notes · View notes

set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years

Text

scars and stories

prompt: scars

whumpee: nick burkhardt

fandom: grimm

hi! this fic is weirdly not very whumpy...it’s much more like...Thinking and Talking and not hardly any pain at all which is So not my brand but this is how it ended up. i hope that you like it despite the fact that, for a fic written for a whump event, it’s really not so whumpy at all lol. (title from champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends by fall out boy)

Renard has been at the hospital for six hours now. At first, it had been stressful, but he’d had company. They’d all shared in the anxiety and the fear of Nick being in the hospital - again - with a very large, very bloody stab wound in his stomach. And then a nurse had come out and they’d all stood up in unison, and he’d given them one look and taken a step back like he was worried they were going to attack him, then delivered the good news. Nick was okay, stable, and sleeping. And then the bad news - visiting hours were up.

Renard had managed to talk his way into being allowed to stay until Nick woke up (one of the perks of being a police captain), and the rest of the group had insisted that he provide them with updates as they had made their way out the doors. They’d also half-bullied, half-begged the hospital staff to let them stop by an hour before the visiting hours resumed the following morning.

And now, Renard is here, by himself, sitting in a chair while Nick sleeps in the hospital bed next to him. It’s odd seeing him so still, paler than normal with several small cuts and scrapes on his face and an IV in his arm and a pulse monitor on his finger.

“He’s alright. I know you’re well aware of that, but it’s worth repeating, anyway. He’s a real fighter,” says a voice from the doorway. Renard looks up in surprise, instinctively reaching for his weapon until he realizes it’s a doctor. In fact, it’s the doctor who is responsible for stitching Nick back up. He relaxes, slightly sheepish, and lets the man continue.

“He’ll have another new scar to add to the collection, though it’ll hardly be his worst. I have to say, I’m…well, impressed sure isn’t the right word, but…I’ve worked on plenty of cops before. Your detective here has more scars than any of the others, and I’ve operated on lifelong officers, thirty year veterans, the works. Detective Burkhardt has them all beat.”

Renard doesn’t know what to say in response to that. It’s not surprising that his young detective - young Grimm - has scars - he’s been shot and stabbed and in countless fights, and frankly he’d be more surprised if Nick didn’t have scars. It’s more the fact that he apparently has so many - enough to impress a doctor who creates scars for a living.

And what’s more, Renard realizes, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen any of these supposed scars. Nick is virtually always wearing long sleeves and pants, and his face and hands have somehow avoided being badly hurt.

Before he can do too much more thinking on the fact that he’s worked with Nick for years and never seen any of his scars that he can recall, the doctor says, “I’ll be on shift until four, if you need anything.” He leaves the room, giving Renard a wave goodbye, and then he’s alone again.

Renard gives Nick another once-over. He still looks as pale and vulnerable as before, and his right arm is poking out from under the blanket with an IV sticking into the skin. He doesn’t want to touch the arm and risk pulling the needle out, so he instead carefully untucks Nick’s left arm from the blankets. Just to see if the doctor had really been telling the truth (though there’s not any reason for him to have lied).

There are a couple of scrapes, clearly from this most recent fight, and a few small, faded scars. Most of them are short, thin. Grazes from knives, maybe. There’s one near the inside of his elbow that looks like a bite. He’s about to push up the sleeve of the hospital gown, where he can just see the edge of what looks like something jagged and deep and painful on Nick’s upper arm, when Nick moves and makes a soft noise, and he quickly pulls away before Nick can wake up and ask him what exactly he’s doing.

Nick wakes up slowly, blinking around and looking down at himself and the hospital bed, clearly completely confused. He winces softly as he sits up, putting a hand to the spot on his stomach where Renard knows several fresh stitches are holding him together.

“What…?” he asks, voice soft and scratchy, as his eyes finally land on Renard.

“You were stabbed,” Renard reminds him. He passes over a small cup of water that had been left for him by a nurse at some point. “You lost quite a bit of blood. You were in surgery for awhile, and you’ve been asleep for the past few hours.”

“Oh.” Nick looks at him with a kind of questioning expression, and Renard pretty easily works out what it means.

“It’s the middle of the night. The hospital staff allowed me to stay, as a police captain, but visiting hours are long over.”

There’s a look of…surprise, mixed with something like gratitude, on Nick’s face.

“Why?”

Renard shrugs. “It’s confusing enough waking up from surgery after being stabbed. And more confusing if you’re completely alone.”

Nick hums softly in response, his eyes starting to close. Renard doesn’t want to keep him awake, but he is also a bit curious, and his detective is…uninhibited, thanks to the pain medicine he’s currently on, and he may not get a chance to ask again. So he goes for it.

“The doctor who operated on you told me you have more scars than anyone he’s ever seen.”

That wakes Nick up. His eyes open fully, and make contact with Renard’s. “What?”

“I’ve just…never seen them. You’re always wearing long sleeves, and we’re not exactly the kind of people to talk about…anything like this.”

Nick shrugs like it doesn’t matter at all. “Yeah, I’ve got scars. Part of the job.”

“Which job?”

“Both, I guess. Mostly the Grimm stuff. Y’know, my Aunt Marie was covered in scars. I never knew until a doctor told me, when she was here, before she…”

Scars run in Nick’s family, Renard realizes. Physical, emotional…being a Grimm takes its toll over the course of a life. Has already taken its toll on the man in front of him, who has only been a Grimm for a few short years.

“How bad are they? The scars.”

Another shrug. “Some are big. Mostly they’re small. I don’t know, I don’t pay much attention to them.” Nick looks down when he says this, his left hand picking at the edge of the blanket. “Guess this will be one of the big ones.”

“It will,” Renard agrees, matter-of-fact. The injury itself had been bad, deep and long and jagged, and he’s sure the new scar, right across Nick’s stomach, will serve as a very prominent reminder of this particular event. (He’s also pretty sure it won’t be the only scar - getting stabbed tends to leave more than one kind of mark, but that’s a talk for another time).

“Do you have any scars?”

Renard shrugs, not entirely surprised that the conversation is now turning towards him. “A few. Mostly from my time serving as an officer. One or two from Wesen-related incidents. Nothing close to what you have, though.”

“It is kind of a lot, isn’t it?” Nick asks, and he sounds as though he’s never really thought about this before. As though he’s always accepted this - this pain, these scars - as something that is simply a part of his life. The thought makes Renard equal parts angry and sad, and he looks away from Nick for a moment and decides to change the topic of conversation to something a bit lighter. He’s hounded Nick with enough questions for now, he decides (though he also decides that they will be picking this topic up again at a later date).

“How’s your -” he starts, looking back at Nick. Who has fallen asleep again, still pale and not himself, but peaceful, now, too. “Never mind,” he finishes. Lighter topics of conversation can wait.

Renard stands from his seat by the bed, and before he can think the better of it, reaches out and pulls the blanket tightly around Nick, tucking his left arm back beneath it. He lightly touches the side of Nick’s face. “Sleep well,” he says softly, then sinks back into his chair and waits for the morning to arrive.

thanks for reading! hope you liked this despite it being not my usual sorta thing lmao. anyway i wanted to write this when i rewatched the first couple eps and a doctor asks nick if he knows about aunt marie’s scars. it got me thinking like, nick should have scars too what with all the shit he’s had happen to him. so i decided to write it and give him some :) may revisit this concept later...who knows.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump24 #emotional whump #i guess #grimm #nick burkhardt #my writing #i say things #scars #another fic title i have been waiting to use forever lmao #tbh tho i am very very much out of my emo phase fob still goes Hard

8 notes · View notes

stuckylibrary · 3 years

Text

Group Ask 179

What is a group ask?

Previous Group Asks

AO3 Search Tutorial

Please send us an ask stating which group ask and which person you are replying to. Thank you so much in advance!

Anon 1 said: (dubcon, maybe noncon?)

hi, do you know of a fic where post-ws, bucky comes in from the cold and finds steve, & they start a relationship. but towards the end it's revealed that (the big plot twist), bucky doesn't actually feel anything for steve and is only in the relationship because he thinks he has to be like steve's bucky from before the war/feels as though he has to play the role of bucky barnes and thinks that's what that entails/or similar icr exactly. steve, who thought bucky meant it, is really hurt. thankyou

Anon sent in Out of the Dead Land by orphan_account (complete | 62,707 | E)

opaline-pixie said:

Hello. I’m looking for a story that I read years back. All I remember about it was that Bucky liked being bound up. Steve took them to a cabin and instead of bondage tape he bought vet tape because it was cheaper. That and I remember a game where he blindfolded bound Bucky and surrounded him with sex toys and Bucky had to guess what they were.

Anon 2 said:

I read this fic a while back; I remember that the summary was part of a book that Bucky had written about the accident that lost him his arm (he had a Stark prosthetic, and was touchy about people liking it)? It was an AU where Bucky and Steve were both college professors, with Steve possibly an art teacher? I think Bucky and Steve didn't get on at first? There's a scene where Steve does a painting lesson for some of the professors, and a faculty event/party towards the end? Thank you!

Anon 3 said: (sex work, polyamory)

i’ve been looking for the fic where steve or bucky experiments in sex work and does a porny photoshoot that turns into a threesome w peggy on set for like an hour now and can’t find it. any idea?

buckycuddlebuddy and somesortofitalianroast sent in Push It by thepinupchemist (oneshot | 8,982 | E)

eclipseofparis said:

Hi! I hope you’re all doing well. I’d like to ask if you know or are familiar with this fic. It’s a time travel au (??) where Bucky as The Winter Soldier was accidentally or purposefully sent by Hydra to the 1930s? or 1940s? to kill pre-war Steve Rogers. Before Bucky went back, he told Steve abt Pierce. TFA timeline still happens and when Steve woke up to the new century, he acts all oblivious but in actuality he was plotting his revenge on Pierce. He did killed Pierce in the end I think?

Anon sent in Savage God by LenneWithMilkAndHoney, PottersPink (restricted, complete | 36,127 | M)

Anon 4 said:

i’m looking for a fic I read before, what I remember is bucky works at a company where steve is like the boss/ceo and steve is an ass and fires him one day, then later steve asks bucky if he wants to be in a D/s relationship with him and Bucky moves in to steve’s apartment? that’s all I remember, I hope it’s enough!

buckycuddlebuddy, miraishu, Anon, keepyourelectriceyeonme, wayward-lives, its-a-harlequinade and time-lord-no-more sent in Collar Full of Chemistry by 2bestfriends (complete | 188,111 | E)

Anon 5 said:

hi, I’m looking for a doc that I’m pretty sure is from Buckys pov and it has a recurring motif of a story about a woman going into a river. very literary, it’s like the type of story that has an all lowercase title. Hope that helps

Anon 6 said:

Hi! I’m looking for a WIP fic where both Bucky and Steve are princes. Steve comes to live with Bucky because Steve’s dad thinks it will help Steve learn how to be a better prince. I remember Thor working as the stables guy too. Peggy and Becca are also Bucky’s older sisters in this fic. Thanks!

Anon, emzy2 and possibleplatypus sent in Amaryllis by paperstorm (complete | 70,386 | E)

Anon 7 said:

I'm looking for a fic(probs 1 chap) that basically takes place in a nightclub or somewhere similar, and Bucky sees a girl with a pixie cut and black sparkly dress at the bar, goes to talk to her, and realizes that she is, in fact, a dude(Steve) pretty sure hes not trans,,, the do the dirty,,, pretty sure there's fanart in it too

Anon 8 said:

Hi, what’s that fic where Steve has to teach Bucky how to masturbate or at least just had to be in the same room as him? I stopped reading it a while ago and there’s a lot of works in my ao3 bookmarks that say deleted and I’m scared that’s one of them! Thank you

possibleplatypus sent in Need A Hand? by TeamDamon (complete | 14,555 | E)

keepyourelectriceyeonme sent in both fics mentioned in this post as possible answers

sleeplingsupernova said: (HTP)

We can't find this story anywhere anymore. It was an HTP where the Winter Soldier just got through a mind wipe and was still in the chair and a doctor was trying to give him a blow job and kept getting mad at him because he couldn't get hard. I remember reading it on AO3 but no matter what I try to search up I can't find it. Thank you so much!

Anon 9 said:

There was a story I read once where Bucky worked at planned parenthood and would escort women from their cars into the clinic, protecting them from the protesters? I can't find it and I was wondering if you guys know what I'm talking about? Thanks!

Anon 10 said:

im so sorry this is vague but im looking for a book with the cap quartet in sams house i believe? all i can remember is that bucky drags steve under a dining room table because hes trying to protect him when something makes a loud noise in the house, im pretty sure it was sam dropping a pan. thank you if you can think of it!

Anon 11 said:

Hey, im looking for a fic where steve is buckys neighbor and he has a little kid. Bucky also a kid, but he's older, maybe a teen. Bucky has a crush on steve and starts helping him out like driving him to work and shoveling his snow because he's struggling and always seems to be late to work. Ive tried hard to find it but i cant, please help!

Anon 12 said: (sex work)

looking for this fic: steve find bucky in an alley (?) and because they used to know each other he offers bucky a place to stay, but bucky thinks thinks steve wants some sexual favour in return because he’s been doing that for a while (i think he was homeless?). steve doesn’t want any of that and takes bucky to his place, i think i remember that he was rich or that it was a penthouse or smth? anyways bucky starts trusting steve again and eventually they get together. i’m worried it’s deleted 😭

cafelesbian and its-a-harlequinade sent in tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt* by Cafelesbian (complete | 198,037 | M) *rape/noncon

#group asks

29 notes · View notes

always-and-forever-a-killjoy · 4 years

Text

Good afternoon fuckers, I wrote approximately 3k words in between roleplay, looking after kittens, and

Title: knight in a beat-up green jacket

Wordcount: 3055

Summary: Jet Star and the Kobra Kid are injured. Party Poison is having a rough time. Cherri Cola just wants to be helpful.

Warnings: Major warnings for hospitals, mentions of/implied serious injuries, and mentions of death as well as general awfulness. Please be careful when reading!

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Party Poison was going to cry. Or scream. Or pass out. Because the report had come in, Dr. Death Defying’s gravelly voice echoing through the radio with the dreadful news. Bad news from the zones tumbleweeds. It looks like Jet-Star and the Kobra kid had a clap with an exterminator that went all Costa Rica and uh, got them selves ghosted, dusted out on route Guano. And Poison’s world had shattered.

They and Fun Ghoul had driven out, as fast as the Trans Am would take them, searching for their brother and friend. Kobra’s bike had been lying on its side by the side of the road, broken and scorched, just like his brother’s body would be-

But Kobra had been alive, if barely, and so had Jet. So Ghoul and Poison had bundled them in and rushed them to the hospital, and the doctors had taken then away without even a single reassurance. All they had gotten was a grim “We’ll do our best,” from the head medic. And now Ghoul had xyr head in xyr hands as he and Poison waited anxiously and Poison was going to pass out. They followed Ghoul’s lead and buried their head in their hands, trying to breathe and mostly failing. Kobra could be dead right now, Jet could be gone and Poison wouldn’t even know, not until the dour-faced head medic came out and told them so. Their brother could be dying, in pain and without his friends, and Poison wouldn’t even be there.

Just as it seemed like they couldn’t bear it any longer, rough, scarred hands materialized in their field of vision, pulling their hands away from their face.

“Poison. Poison.”

“Fuck off,” Poison choked out.

“Poison,” Cherri Cola’s voice said again, very patiently. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Nothing is going to be okay!”

“It is, I promise. I’m here-“

“And what’s a fucking wavehead going to do?”

They almost regretted the words, watching Cherri flinch. His voice was calm though, when he next spoke. “I checked in with the medics. Kobra is stabilized, but not ready for visitors. Jet isn’t out of the woods yet, but they think he’s going to be okay.”

Poison froze at that, hardly daring to hope. “They’re going to be okay?”

“They’re going to be okay.” Cherri was still holding their hands away from their face, squeezing them gently in his rough, calloused ones, but he let go and reached to wipe a couple of tears Party hadn’t realized were there off their cheeks. “It’s okay, don’t cry. They’re going to be alright.”

That only made them cry harder, more tears pouring down their face. A strangled sob made its way out of their throat, and they crumpled entirely, throwing their arms around Cola. His arms were warm when they wrapped around Poison in return, rocking them gently back and forth.

“Shh. Shhh. It’s okay.” Cherri kept repeating that until Poison’s sobs turned to sniffles, making vague noises of comfort as they took a few shuddering breaths.

He didn’t release them until a medic came over to tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, are you Cherri Cola?”

“That’s me. Is there word on Kobra and Jet?”

“The Kobra Kid is ready for visitors, if you want. He’s not awake yet,” they added as Poison sat up straight, clutching Cherri’s shoulders. “But you can go see him.”

“All of us?” Cherri asked, frowning.

“Only one visitor at a time.”

Poison leapt to their feet. Their throat didn’t seem to want to form words, so they gave Cherri their most pleading glance, practically begging. Thank the Phoenix Witch, he quickly nodded. “Poison will go, of course. I’ll stay here with Ghoul.”

Ghoul didn’t question that, and Cherri gave Poison’s hand a quick squeeze, flashing them a small smile. “Go on, see your brother.”

They tried to smile back, letting go of his hand as the medic led them through the whitewashed halls. It was too similar to Battery City for their liking, but at least in this building the paint was chipped and scratched, bits of graffiti scrawled occasionally here and there. Poison tried to focus on that instead of what this place reminded them of or where, exactly, they were going.

It felt like both too long and too short before they were entering a hospital room, staring at the figure on the bed. Kobra was so still, unnaturally so. Not that he was usually energetic, per se, but he was never perfectly still, always fiddling with something or other. He looked small lying there- he always looked small to Poison, even if they were a frankly unfair amount shorter, but now he looked even smaller than normal. There were bandages wrapped all around his shoulder and upper arm, and an IV sticking out of his other arm. Poison wanted to cry just looking at him, but their tears were all cried out so they settled for sitting in the chair beside him, grasping his hand tightly even though they knew he couldn’t feel it.

Kobra didn’t wake, but Poison thought they caught a tiny bit of movement, and their heart skipped a beat. “Kobra? Kobra?” He didn’t stir, and Poison settled back again, not releasing his hand. They were never letting him go again, they decided.

True to their resolve, they didn’t move an inch until the medic came back to kick them out, insisting that the doctors needed to look at their brother. Poison was left to find their way back on their own, winding through the too-white hallways and trying not to think.

Ghoul was asleep on Cola’s lap when they arrived back at the lobby, curled like a cat, and Cola put a finger to his lips in the universal motion of ‘shh’.

Poison approached quietly, settling next to the other two. “Ghoulie fell asleep?”

“Cried xemself to sleep,” Cola whispered, brushing a hand over xyr hair. “How’s Kobra?”

They could feel tears prickle their eyes again, remembering Kobra’s still body, but they blinked those away fiercely. “He’s…alive. Still passed the fuck out, but alive.”

“Thank the witch.”

“Any word on Jet?”

Cola shook his head. “I’m assuming they’re alive, since no one’s come to tell me otherwise, but no word otherwise.”

“That was so reassuring.”

He just sighed, the sigh turning into a yawn halfway through. “I wish I had more news to tell you, but no one’s told me anything- the reason I was the one being told news earlier is because I technically ‘checked them in’. I think you and Ghoul were having too much of a rough time.”

Cola’s yawn made Party yawn as well, rubbing at their eyes. “They just rushed Jet and Kobes in, didn’t ask us anything. We went and sat down, and then you showed up.”

“Ah. Yeah. They were looking around for people who were with the two injured ‘joys when I came in, I figured I’d just give them the info they needed.”

It rankled their pride to admit they had needed help, but “Thank you, Cola.”

That earned them a faint smile. “Never thought I’d live to see the day you didn’t call me Pepsi.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not.”

They definitely weren’t leaning against him, not at all. That would be very undignified for Party Poison, leader of the Fabulous Killjoys. But they didn’t protest when Cola wrapped his free arm around them cautiously, pulling them closer on the shitty hospital waiting chairs as Ghoul snored quietly. And if they leaned a bit on his shoulder, who was going to say anything?

The next morning, Party Poison woke up in a shitty hospital chair with Cherri Cola’s head leaning on top of theirs and Fun Ghoul stretched across both their and Cola’s laps. All in all, not the weirdest place they had ever woken up, but it was definitely up there. Especially given that there was a killjoy (neutral?) in the colors of a medic standing in front of them.

“Ahem, excuse me?”

Poison blinked at them. “Fuck off, my crew’s sleeping.”

“Your friend is awake.”

They sat straight up, knocking Cherri’s head off them (to a lot of swearing from him, which they ignored). “Which one?”

The medic checked their chart. “The killjoy known as Jet Star.”

“And they’re awake?”

“Yes, but there are some…complications.”

Cola was somewhat more awake by now, blinking and yawning with another muttered “Shit.” He pushed his hair out of his face. “What complications?”

“They’ve lost an eye.”

Poison appreciated, in some distant corner of their mind, the way that the medic didn’t try to sugarcoat the words. They just said it, straight-up, which was far better than dancing around the subject, in Poison’s opinion. But the greater part of their mind was involved with worrying about Jet. How were they going to take the news? Would it be harder for them to do what they needed? Would they be freaked out?

“Fucking shit,” Ghoul swore from Poison’s lap, and they almost jumped. They hadn’t realized xe was awake. “Can I see them?”

“Yes, but only one visitor at a time.”

Ghoul cast Poison a pleading look. Although they would never admit it, not in this lifetime or the next, his puppy-dog eyes were very convincing. Not to mention that the worry in them broke Poison’s fucking heart. “Go on. I saw Kobra, you can see Jet.”

“Thanks, Pois!” Ghoul leapt up, almost toppling to the ground, and hurried after the departing medic.

Cola yawned and blinked at Poison. “Good morning, I guess. Sorry about falling asleep on your head.”

“I fell asleep on your shoulder, it’s fine.” They weren’t paying much attention to him, busy worrying about Kobra. “You think the medics would let me see Kobes?”

“Worth a shot.” He yawned again, running a hand through his messy hair. “If you want, I can talk to the head medic. They seem to have a soft spot for younger ‘joys, they’d probably let you see your brother if we ask nicely.”

Poison ignored the weird surge of guilt that Cola still hadn’t gotten to see either Kobra or Jet. They hadn’t seen Jet, and Ghoul hadn’t seen Kobra, so why should Cherri fucking Cola get to see either of them? “Great, let’s go ask.”

Cherri led them across the room, heading up to the tall and dour medic who had told Poison “We’ll do our best.”

“Hey.” Their voice was flat and calm.

“Hey…senior medic Dowdy, was it?” Cola’s voice was neutral bordering on friendly, and the medic’s face softened as Poison came to stand next to him.

“That’s my name, yep. And you are…Cherri Cola?”

Cherri nodded. “And this is Party Poison.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m assuming you two are here about seeing your friends?”

“We were hoping Poison might be able to see their brother, the Kobra Kid, since our other friend Fun Ghoul is with Jet Star right now.”

“Ah.” Dowdy frowned. “Well, Kobra isn’t awake yet, but I don’t think some visitors would hurt. Come on, both of you.”

Poison glanced at Cola, finding him already staring back.

“I don’t have to come,” he said quietly. “If you’d rather visit Kobra alone.”

Even though Cola had offered, and even if they didn’t trust him all too far, Poison didn’t have the will to keep him from seeing their brother. “You can come, but it’s not pretty.”

“Believe it or not, I’m rather used to not pretty.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

Cola’s voice softened slightly. “I think it’s harder for you to see him than me to see him, so the only question is if it’s harder for you to have me there.”

Why was he so goddamn fucking nice? “I don’t care.”

“I’m coming, then.”

Poison would never have admitted it, not in a thousand years or more, but it was nice to have Cherri next to them when walking the halls of this too-clean building where they weren’t in control of a single goddamn thing. They hated feeling helpless, always had, but at least with Cherri Cola there (and still trying to get his fucking hair to stay out of his face), they didn’t have to feel alone.

Another thing they would never admit to was the way they reached back, fumbling for Cola’s hand as they entered the room. It was long habit, forged by a good while of reaching for Jet whenever shit went south, but they never intended to reach for Cola of all people. Ghoul, at least, would have been understandable- xe was a member of Party’s crew- but Cola? Absolutely fucking not.

Thank the Phoenix Witch, he said nothing about it, simply giving their hand a small squeeze. Poison didn’t squeeze back, but they didn’t let go either, not even at Cola’s tiny gasp upon seeing Kobra. Their brother looked not much better than yesterday, still far too small and far too still, but as they watched, he shifted slightly.

“He’s on his way to getting better. Assuming he does recover, we predict it will be one or two more days before he’s awake,” Dowdy informed them. “Now, I’ve got other patients to attend to, I’ll come kick you out if I need.”

Poison damn near cried, thanking every deity out there that Cherri was too absorbed in watching Kobra to even notice. He had moved. He was alive, and on his way to well. Poison thanked every deity out there for that as well, even muttering a few prayers under their breath.

Once the initial relief had worn off, it was back to watching their baby brother lay there, quiet as anything and still too fucking still.

“He looks so still. Still and small,” Cherri said softly.

Poison hated that his first thought was the same as their first thought. “He’s too fucking small. And too fucking quiet.”

Cherri nodded and squeezed their hand again. “He’ll get better though.”

“You trust the medic?” It wasn’t like they trusted his word much, but Cola did know just about everyone in the Zones and the reputations thereof.

“Dowdy’s been working at this hospital for as long as I’ve been in the Zones. I’d trust them with my life- and I trust them with Kobra’s, which might be worth more.”

Poison shot him a glance. “Look, it’s not like I wouldn’t be sadder if Kobes died than if you did, but I’d still be sad.”

His smile was wry. “I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

“You’re a decent person, even if you’re insufferably nice.” They shrugged. “Plus, Kobes likes you.”

“So not too personal then.”

“You’re my brother’s friend, nothing more.”

Cola gave them a small nod of acknowledgement. “I don’t mind, so long as all of you are safe.”

“Stop being insufferably nice.”

“Then how will I be insufferable?”

“You could try not being insufferable,” they muttered.

He grinned. “I could, but there’s no fun in that. Besides, my plan is working. I’ve distracted you from worrying.”

Poison glared at him, but something he had said jogged at their memory. “You’re a bastard, but uh...sorry for being a dick to you when you first got here.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No, it was shitty of me. I should’ve dealt with stuff without being pissy at you, even if I was worried.” They stared at the floor.

Cherri sounded both surprised and happy when he next spoke. “Well. Thank you, Poison. That was a nice apology.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“No, seriously, I’m proud of you. You’re getting better at acknowledging your actions.”

Poison looked up and made an ick face at him. “You sound like every other adult.”

“I am almost thirty, you know.”

“Old person.”

“Hey! Rude youngster!” He was smiling though, and so was Poison, the shitty situation briefly forgotten.

“You guys are fucking loud.”

Party Poison’s head whipped around so fast their neck hurt, turning to see Kobra Kid blink sleepily from the bed. “What?” was all they could think to say.

His voice was quiet, but it was there. “Said what I said. You guys are fucking loud.”

The noise they made was halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Of course the first thing you do when you wake up is complain.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a little bitch.”

There were tears rolling down Poison’s cheeks now, but they couldn’t muster the energy to care. “Fuckface.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch boy.”

“Baby fucker.”

“Dipshit.”

“Asshole.” Kobra turned his head vaguely towards Cherri. “So how long have you loud bastards been stuck with each other?”

“Only since yesterday,” Cola told him. “When you and Jet came in.”

“Is Jet okay?”

Poison shot Cola a warning glare as he opened his mouth. “They’re going to be fine.” Kobra could find out later.

Thank the witch, Cola nodded along. “They’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Kobra’s eyes were drooping again. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Dowdy arrived back a few minutes after that, and kicked them out just as promised. And thus began their second round of waiting, this time waiting for their friends’ recovery as opposed to news of them.

Cherri Cola stayed with Poison in the lobby as they waited for Fun Ghoul, and then he offered to wait with Ghoul while Poison went to see Jet. He waited with them through the next night and most of the next morning, until Kobra was awake again, and he stayed right by Poison’s side when Jet Star came down to the lobby for the first time, soon to be released from the hospital. Cherri was there when they had to help Kobra limp on out to the Trans Am, and he took the papers with all sorts of instructions on wound care from Dowdy. Cherri Cola was with the Fabulous Four from the moment he arrived at the hospital to the moment they got back to Dr. D’s radio station, where the Girl had been staying, and she came running into their arms.

Later, when Ghoul would laugh and say “You’re a fucking hero, Cola. Like a knight in shining armor and all that”, he would smile and say “Not a hero. Just a poet.”

Maybe not a knight in shining armor, but Poison certainly thought he had been their hero in a beat-up green jacket.

#auri writes #cherri cola #party poison #kobra kid #ttlofk #i still don't understand tumblr tagging #danger days #danger days fic

26 notes · View notes

aceofwhump · 5 years

Note

Do you have any Lucifer fic recs? Especially anything involving wings?

Do I!!! I have so many Lucifer fic recs (161 to be precise) and that includes 31 fics involving his wings. This includes him cutting them off, him being insecure about them, his grooming them, team lucifer seeing them, etc.

Free the Devil from Pain by Navaros: “Looks like those sick bastards sewed the prosthetics onto his back.”Sick indeed. Chloe wanted to vomit at that thought, the bile already rising in her throat.“Give me a few more minutes, I’ll free the wings too. I can’t cut them loose in this position.”And with that the young forensic expert was back at work.

The Breakdown by SilverWolf7: Raphael visits Lucifer early in the morning to apologise to Lucifer. Lucifer lets out emotions he has been holding in for a very long time. Wing grooming.

Fluffy Blankets and Crossed Fingers by procrastinatingbookworm: In the God Johnson episode, Lucifer ends up being so high on the haldol that he can’t hide his wings. Besides dealing with this incredible revelation, Dan, Ella, and Chloe have to get a very loopy and not-at-all-helpful winged civilian consultant out of the building before anyone realizes he has wings. Bonus points if their methods for doing so involve a fluffy blanket and a lot of crossed fingers.

I’m Sorry by StrayDevil15: In the aftermath of 3x24, Lucifer is having a really hard time. Ella comes to the rescue. Self harm tw.

Castaway by ariaadagio: The Devil is real. A sentence Chloe Decker never believed until Lucifer Morningstar burned out her skepticism with his hellfire eyes. It’s a “Hell” of a reality shift, but Chloe realizes she may not have time for gradual acceptance when she discovers that one of the bodies in her most recent murder investigation isn’t human. Worse still, the next target might be Lucifer. A story that begs the question: who prays for Satan?

Malediction by orchidcactus: Chloe and Lucifer must face the consequences of 3x24, as well as dealing with new events that unfold around them.

It’s Only Me by mishasan7: She started to back up, back away from him, her eyes never leaving his face, and gasped, “It’s all true.”Lucifer felt a prickle of unease. What was true? She already knew Pierce was the Sinnerman, how could this possibly be a surprise to her now?“Detective?”What was wrong? Why was she looking at him like that?

Lucifer’s Protector by JAKishu: Trixie and Lucifer have been kidnapped, locked in a small cell and used as leverage against Chloe and her case.

Detour (with Jigsaw Puzzles) by HiroMyStory: An accident leaves Chloe and Lucifer snowed in.

Revealing by shadowolfhunter: He’s badly hurt. Chloe’s seen his true face, and Lucifer thinks she doesn’t want to know him any more.Ella’s mapped the scene. She knows what has to have happened. There’s only one answer she needs. She goes back to Lucifer’s loft apartment.

Ashes by theleafpile: Lucifer burned his wings, severing his connection to Hell.And Heaven.He vastly underestimated how much it would affect him.

And There Was Light by ariaadagio: When Lucifer Morningstar is found half dead in the desert, Chloe Decker is determined to find out why. The problem is … not even Lucifer knows the answer. As Chloe’s world is flipped upside down by incontrovertible evidence of the divine, Lucifer grapples with feelings of violation and futility. God’s meddling has started a chain reaction, but to what end?

Cleanse by ScooterThyme: After the chaotic events in the loft, Lucifer flees back to his penthouse. Once she’s dealt with the fallout at the scene as much as humanly possible, Chloe follows.Lucifer changes his mind about his wings.

Domini Canis by WhenFandomStrikes: When a strange and mysterious group of religious zealots known as the Domini Canis come to Los Angeles in search of the divine, they manage to kidnap Lucifer, Amenadiel, Charlotte and Chloe. The results of which brings a lot of secrets out of the dark and into the light.

The Bitter End by lucidwaking: SPOILERS FOR 3.24 this is my take on what happens next. Title may be deceiving this is coming out a lot less dark than I thought it would. I just had Blind Pilot stuck in my head when I named it.

After by apparition: Chloe comes face to face with the Devil. She’s terrified, but it’s his vulnerability that reminds her that he’s still the same Lucifer.

Broken Inside by fandomoverload: Chloe and Lucifer end up at a survivor’s meeting and Lucifer decides to tell a story. He gets a lot off of his chest, and Chloe draws the wrong conclusions. A one shot for now, more notes in the story.

Knives and wings don’t mix, Luciben8615: Lucifer groaned again, then inched the blade further into his traitorous muscle. Nearly there, just a bit more-The demon blade hit a clump of nerves, and Lucifer’s vision whited out as he screamed.

Home by Navaros: After waking up in the middle of nowhere, burned, exhausted and with those stupid, useless, feathered appendages on his back, he had no idea why they were back or who knocked him out. But that wasn’t important right now. He wanted to go home. The long forgotten and atrophied muscles screamed when he tried to move the wings more than just to open them or lay them against his back, and even that was painful.

Devil’s Advocate by Praemonitor: Non-chronological though interconnected ‘minisodes’ to catalogue the misadventures of Lucifer and Chloe, squeezed in-between their respective and occasionally overlapping day jobs. Minisode I - Lucifer babysits. That’s all.Minisode II - Lucifer and Chloe weather a storm.Minisode III - Lucifer earns back his wings in a bloodier fashion.Minisode IV - Chloe learns a thing or two from Dante’s Inferno.Minisode V - Maze and Chloe take on the original she-devil.Minisode VI - The Christmas Minisode. My personal favorite.Minisode VII - Chloe meets the family.Minisode VIII - Enter a certain petty dabbler in the dark arts.Minisode IX - Lucifer fractures a wing.Minisode X - Lucifer and Chloe go to Hell. Literally.

A Mutual Friend by jumble_of_fandoms: Pierce finds out some information about Lucifer that changes everything. If the Devil himself is going to break his deal, then Pierce is determined to do everything he can to break Lucifer. How far will Lucifer go to protect the woman he cares for?And how far is Pierce willing to go to break Lucifer?

Fever Dreams by Antarctic_Echoes: Lucifer isn’t about to let an odd chill stop him from seeing Chloe. He wants to tell her everything…. No more going backwards.And so he reveals himself – just not in the way he intended.

I Cut My Wings Off: A Lucifer TV Fanfiction by Anna_Erishkgal: Irritating, arrogant, and full of himself, Chloe goes to Lucifer Morningstar’s apartment to see if he made good on his promise to set up a meeting, but what she finds there only leaves her with more questions than answers. A one-shot drabble (at least for now).

Sympathy for an Angel by FearTheSpock: In the aftermath of the Season Finale, Chloe wakes in the middle of the night to a very clumsy home invasion.

If I Lose Myself by BurningUpASunJustToSayHello: If Lucifer’s fall from Heaven was a tragedy, then falling for Chloe was a goddamn sin.

Avenging Angel by Chlucifiction: It’s not Lucifer who finds the auctioneer, and his wings. Instead, Chloe beats him to it. (New story - not related to previous works). Comments encouraged :)

Wings are for Chickens by FearTheSpork: When Lucifer does a good deed for Chloe and Trixie, he’s rewarded. Although he isn’t too sure if he likes what he’s got.

Damnatio Memoriae by iceQueen1: Chloe tries to solve the riddle that is Lucifer Morningstar. Dan even manages to help. When mysterious ritualized killings start showing up, Chloe suspects Lucifer may know more than he lets on. Problem is, she doesn’t know what she thinks she does. Eventual Lucifer Whump.

A Walk in the Desert by Yunnaros: After waking up in the desert, Lucifer fly back to Chloe’s house to find a surprising number of people concerned by his disappearance.

Faint by chashkieh: Prompt: The pain of injuries and amputation never really go away. When Lucifer cut off his wings there was likely phantom pains of a lost limb in the immediate aftermath that faded as he adjusted but occasionally rears its ugly head on a rainy or hot/humid like most injuries. One day it flares in the middle of a case and is aggravated by one of Dan’s casual clap on the back. Basica

#theladyoffangorn #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #wings #wing whump #whump #whump fanfics #lucifer whump #mod post #mod replies #fic recs #fanfics #mods fic recs

172 notes · View notes

vegetalass · 5 years

Text

Dog House

GOD this fic has been the death of me!!!! i started writing it OVER a month ago after getting the idea at disneyland....

ive honestly put so much time into it that i cant read it anymore and it probably sucks since i cant tell if its good quality anymore...

but i hope its okay! i really am proud of it

beside, i LOVE john wick so... it cant be too bad haha... *broken heart emoji*

i posted it on AO3 here if you want to read it with better formatting

Enjoy!!!!

Warning: contains light violence

John Wick/Reader - 5105 words.

_________________________

It is a beautiful day. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and as the waves crash against each other in front of you, it seems as though the world is stuck in time with your breathing.

It is warm, and things are good, as you think about what you should name the tiny gray sand crabs that rest in the small green bucket by your feet. You watch someone in the distance lift their hands and wave at you, smiling from afar, the sunshine a blanket that blocks their eyes from meeting yours, and you push yourself to remember what color they are.

Though it is warm, and you are resting, suddenly, the world spins and you are no longer at the beach but on a cold floor, and the sky is not blue but deep red. Although they were just waving, you can hear the shots, taste the blood and then see as the light goes out behind the eyes of the only person whom you so desperately love.

The image of raised arms blur as they reach out to you in one final stretch, and though you can’t remember their last words, and you’re sure that you don’t want to, you know that they have asked you to take care of the only thing they have left besides you.

A dog.

A dog who is loved and warm and probably asleep, safe at home in wait of a person who is not you and never will be, as you are busy holding a dead body and screaming as you watch a man dressed in black walk away and never come back...

And you are... Oh, God.

You are...

You...

You are at the dog park, and the sun is bright, and the sky is blue.

You open your eyes suddenly, hands clenched into fists, with your heart hammering wildly against the bones in your chest. Your pupils dilate and then burn, the sun seeming so bright against the backdrop of the green grass and dogs in your vision who bound about through the open park as though there is not a care to be had in the world.

Maybe there’s not, and God, you wish there wasn’t, but you’re not a dog and you don’t like the park. You have long since learned better than to live in some pretend world where you can spend weekends at the beach with all the people you love, because at this moment in time, they are all dead.

Except your dog, that is, and he’s not even really your dog. But you love him, so you save the complaining for in your head and just tell people that he was a gift rather than an inheritance after his original owner died.

You try not to focus on the past often, but it’s hard, especially now that you’re alone. It’s not like you crave love or anything like that, really, because you understand that all things come and go. It’s just that your idea of the future has always seemed to rest on the balance between finding peace and hope, and you have been ashamed to say that as of late, you are not someone who can be considered either peaceful or hopeful.

Not since you watched love die by the hands of a Heckler & Koch P30L.

Baba Yaga, you remember. The title always used to seem so silly.

Whatever, you think, hands still clenched, eyes still aching, Those days are over now, and I’m at the park.

Even if you can remember every single shot and the moans that came from the dying body you held in your arms after a raid that you were barely lucky enough to escape from alive. You almost wish that you-

“Hello?”

Someone says and you jolt, the deep voice piercing the bubble of concentration you were lost in. You raise a hand to your heart in shock, as you gaze wide-eyed at a man who stands in front of you looking hesitant and apologetic for something that’s completely unbeknownst to you.

You didn’t even notice when he started standing next to you, his tall frame shading you from the sun as you try to look around him, confused.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to stop and say I’m sorry,” he voices immediately, sounding weirdly concerned about something you gather you’re supposed to know about but don’t.

So you freeze, almost completely sure that you look like an idiot as you stare at this stranger with your lips turned down in what’s probably an awkward frown.

“What are you talking about, sir?”

“I...” He blinks at you, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, before his face softens and his dark eyes look down to avoid your worried gaze, “Sorry. Forget about it.”

You blink, still surprised that someone is initiating contact with you at all, before you nod at him slowly.

“Okay,” You hesitate, unsure of what to call him, and what he could’ve meant by his words. He doesn’t seem like anyone you could’ve met before, but you still can’t shake the odd feeling that you have when his eyes bore into yours, “You are...?”

“John.” He replies slowly, almost in a sad way, and you smile back at him absentmindedly, trying to forget the embarrassing miscommunication that just occured as he reaches out to shake your hand.

Again, there is that familiarity to him, an uncanny edge to his presence that makes you feel like deep down, you’re supposed to recognize who he is.

However, you don’t bother wasting any more time with fitting the key into the lock of figuring out who he is, because you find everyone to be slightly familiar now, most faces blurring once you decide whether or not it’s worth it to keep looking at them.

Deep inside, you know it will never be the same.

Nobody is the same.

Besides, by now your concentration has slipped again, as you are distracted by a dog in front of you who is wagging its tail, its little gray face smiling at you as though you are some kind of angel in heaven.

Which you’re not, but the dog wouldn’t know that.

“Is he yours?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun as you reach out to pat his head, once, twice, and then over his ears. The dog’s eyes squint in a deeper smile, so focused and intense that you almost don’t notice the way that John is glancing at you.

“Yes,” he says, relieving some of the tension between your awkward silence, “Do you have one?”

You turn to him, gazing at his profile, before you point, eyes glazing over the crowd as though you can’t remember who you’re looking for.

“I’m watching him for a friend,” you say, distracted by the happy wag of your dog’s tail in distant sunshine as you glance back at John as he nods.

You think of the beach, the sand crabs, and then of the guns that robbed you of that day and all others that could've been like it, and how much a dog enjoys playing in water.

You go silent again.

“...Name?” Johns voice startles you once more, just like when he first spoke, still deep and powerful, and you have to stop yourself from flying off your chair for a second time.

“What?” you turn your head toward him, blinking like a stupid, sitting duck. You never used to get distracted by boys.

“I said, do they have a name?” he smiles, hesitantly, almost kindly, even though you can tell that he knows that there is something deeply wrong with you that you are never going to explain. Not to someone normal.

Not to him.

“Oh,” you laugh, feeling breathless and slightly embarrassed, trying to play off the fact that you’ve already lost yourself again in that far-off world where you’re still on the beach, and still with the people you love. Even if it feels like a different earth entirely now that it’s gone, the sunshine at the park keeps reminding you of that day.

You thought you knew better than to play pretend, and you’re unsure of what to say, realizing very quickly that you don’t have a name for the animal, at least, not a new one, and you blink, nose scrunching, before trying to reply in a way that won’t make you cry, “I actually, uh… don’t.”

It’s not funny, but you laugh nonetheless, and as he raises an eyebrow at you in confusion, you do your best to smile, at least so he doesn’t question why.

“That’s strange,” he says, in the midst of your childlike giggle, sounding more confused than upset, “My dog doesn’t have one either.”

Though you fall into silence again, being stunned by his response, it’s only after you take another five, okay, maybe ten peeks at him at your side, do you find that you are no longer thinking of the beach, or of the blood that is stained on your hands, but on the fact that John seems to be glancing at you, too, and you don’t have to guess why.

He seems nice...

Kind of.

ii.

You dream of a man dressed in black, but you never see his face.

You are sad, and wake up with wet cheeks, but when you finally open your eyes, it seems as though the clouds did all the crying for you as it rains sheets outside your window.

You are going to die.

You are going to die, and the last thing you can think about is the man in your dreams, the dark suit he was wearing, and the gun in his hands, a Heckler & Koch.

You can’t say that you know what love is anymore, though part of you wants to say that one day, you could.

However, you’re still not really that hopeful for the future, and it’s been too long since your last… romantic adventure... that you don’t really think that dreaming of some kind of evil monster in a nice outfit really constitutes as being romantic, and hits the bullseye more for being creepy, instead, especially since you are about to die.

Besides, you’ve been thinking about John-From-the-Dog-Park (as you’ve taken to calling him) a lot more than you should’ve been lately, and it’s probably weird to be grouping the two of them together whenever you think about what it would be like to start dating again.

Deep down, you know that being in love would be too hard, as you’re busy taking care of a dog you did not want and still wake up screaming every night because of the way your last relationship ended. But there’s another factor that hangs heavy over your head, and it’s because you have since restarted the process of accepting dangerous jobs you know you’d might not complete again, all for some dumb gold coins.

And this is the part that’s not a dream, even though it all feels so similar.

Though you can’t say that you were expecting this outcome to be your end, it doesn’t really surprise you that you’re going to die distracted and lost on the floor of some restaurant bathroom you have never been to before.

You hadn’t wanted to start working again. In fact, even the thought of seeing that damn leaderboard one more time made you shake, but you couldn’t stop yourself from charging up your old phone and digging up your gun from under a pile of years old blankets after at some point deciding that there was no other way to move on from your past except than to die because of it.

And now, there’s nothing you can do to change your decision except to wait for the end and hope that your neighbors take care of your dog when they realize you didn’t make it back home.

They always said that life is fragile. That you had things to live for, goals to set. And in a way, they were right. You have a dog, and a long road to recovery, but if you were to make it, even if not very far, you had at least one more conversation with John-From-the-Dog-Park to make.

But you cannot ignore the gun in your hand, and the way your sweaty fingers burn with fever as you hold it against your chest. It’s almost as if the entire space around you is some kind of fever dream as you barely slid into the bathroom fast enough to hear the final shots being unloaded into your former coworker’s head just outside its door.

You are going to die, and it’s because John Wick is here, and everyone else who was hired with you to take him down is dead.

You swore to yourself that you’d stop taking jobs. You’d promised. But it’s hard to keep a promise when there’s no one to keep it for, and when you thought you’d gotten good enough at running away and then being presumed dead that you could always make it out of these situations alive. Not that Winston didn’t give you a monstrous earful when he heard your voice for the first time in years after you called to ask who is standing chairman, but… he believed you were dead, at least.

You had wanted to apologize for running away, but in the end, he was right. If John Wick can’t escape, then neither can you.

And that’s why you’re going to die: because John Wick is here, and you can hear his footsteps approaching the locked bathroom door from which you are hiding behind, and the only thing you can think to do is long for things that are just quite out of reach.

Peace, for one. Love, another.

In their absence, you forgot what it felt like to be scared. To be sad. To realize the fact that your dog would be alone once more in a world where you never get to see the beach again.

But beaches don’t usually have guns, and the one in your hands reminds you that it’s waiting to be used just as the bathroom door creaks open despite the prayer you made when hoping that it wouldn’t.

Even though you know that you should probably be praying, you can’t help but think of the man in your dreams instead; the ghost, his gun, and then the color of someone’s eyes. You can barely remember who they belong to before you’re finally able to squeeze the gun in front of your face as though closing your eyes might be a shield that saves you from dying.

From John Wick.

You think about John-From-the-Dog-Park, and it’s only when the footsteps stop and the room rings in silence as you look up and see him that your brave facade falters and you realize the truth.

“John!” You half sigh, half scream when you finally manage to pry open your eyes all the way to take in the sight of the familiar man dressed in black peering down at you as if he were some kind of half-wit assassin.

You can’t tell if he’s shocked to see you, as by the time he is opening his mouth to respond you have already climbed from your slippery spot underneath the sink and left your gun behind to dive straight into his arms and heave.

Bloodstained and sweaty, as your fingers wrap around his waist and you sob into his chest, it’s only when he rests his hands on your shoulders that you realize how you distraught you were at dying. Part of you wonders if maybe the reason you’re crying is because you’re relieved that now, you don’t have to.

“What are you doing here?” John asks, distressed, sounding like an angrier version of the person who always startles you at the park.

It would be scary, except that you do not care if he’s upset and ignore the question. Ignore the fact that John, your John (at least, the one from the dog park) is the John Wick and was this close to killing you.

You knew he looked familiar.

“I said-”

You shush him, finally allowing yourself to release him from your grasp, using your dirty hands to smear grime across your face as you try to clear your eyes and nose of snot, tears, and blood so that you can look him in the eyes. You don’t know where he put his gun.

“I thought you were just some random guy with a dog,” you laugh, the same way you do when you’re trying not to seem bothered, which is uncharacteristic for someone who was about an inch away from dying.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he responds, unmoving.

When you try to continue to smile, it falters instantly when John’s face doesn’t change to mirror yours and his lips do not crook upwards even the slightest bit. If you were happy to see him, he looks almost enraged at seeing you, and you can only whisper in return.

“I’ve been meaning to quit,” you shrink backwards, your hands now at your sides, as you realize you hadn’t managed to think far enough ahead to wonder what you would do if you didn’t die.

Which you didn’t.

“I think… I should go home now,” you decide out loud, feeling as though the way he is staring at you in silence implies that there is still a chance he might kill you, but you continue to look in his eyes nonetheless, “But it was really nice to see you.”

You begin to hobble away, resting a hand on the cool wall next you while you stupidly turn your back on a man who you are well aware is not kind. A man who has lost more than most people could imagine. But you don’t worry, you don’t even have the energy to, and decide that if he kills you, it would probably be a good thing.

Besides, you’ve only really spoken a few times, and you know that you have both lost the same thing.

He’s just the one who did all the killing.

You stop walking.

“John?” You ask suddenly, not looking back, the empty air responding in the only way you need, “When you apologized to me, did you mean it?”

You can envision face, the way his lips are always in half a frown. You can see his hair, it being just that little bit too long. And you can remember his eyes, and how they look at you as though you are someone he thinks will never be normal, because they always look the same as when you were holding that damn dead body.

You didn’t even recognize him. It was a miscommunication. You were someone else.

But you know now. The dark suit, the Heckler & Koch, and the way he didn’t kill you. Again.

You look at him, and you realize the reason why he was saying sorry was because he had killed somebody who you had loved, and that he had known the entire time.

The realization makes the world spin, and what little light is shining in the bathroom begins to make you feel sick. Your eyes blur as you begin to cry again, your hands now too limp to wipe your face of the tears and your body too tired to keep you standing upright while you process the new information.

“John,” you gasp, just as you begin to collapse, reaching out for him in the hopes that you don’t end up on the ground.

While you do realize that there’s a lot you should probably start being angry at him for, such as how he robbed you of the one thing you’ve been holding onto for years, the only thought you can seem to process is how warm his body is when he does manage to take your hands in his and pull you to his chest before it’s too late.

Nestled in arms, it doesn’t take much of an effort to close your eyes and pretend that he is someone else, and that this whole night never happened.

John’s voice is low, his lips close to your ear when he finally speaks, killing your fantasy almost instantly, “You didn’t recognize me, did you?”

You continue to weep, shaking your head no while you cling to his body. There are words you wish you could say to him; angry, nasty words. Yet, for some reason, nothing comes out when he finally takes your face in his hands to look into your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, before you can manage to speak, one hand back to holding yours, the other pressed into your hair. You’d feel guilty about this, as though you were the one pressuring him into responding this way, holding you like this, but you can’t bring yourself to move, and are so angry that you hope it hurts him to touch you like this, too.

You remember the beach, and how easily the sky can change from blue to red, and you suddenly think of the man in your dreams, the one in the suit, and decide that he sort of looked like John. At first, it makes you feel worse, and part of you boils with rage while you try to come to terms with the understanding of what he’s done to you. But there’s another part of you, one that you’re not sure whether to be grateful for, that also reminds you of how in love you could’ve been with the man you met at the park; the one with the happy, gray dog, if you had just decided to move on.

But it's not that simple, and these versions of people in your head just ended up being the same person.

Your body aches, but you shudder in relief when you finally release John’s neck, trying to avoid looking into his eyes one more time by using your dirty fingers to smear grime across your face. While you can’t say that you’ve forgiven John-From-the-Dog-Park for being John Wick, you still try to focus on the positives: that you are not dead, and you can finally go home to feed your dog in peace.

You should know better, as John breaks the silence first. John Wick, that is.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asks, reaching out for your hand. Though you want to say no, you can’t help but nod, still unable to look him in the eyes in fear of blushing at the man who killed the last person you loved.

iii.

Once again, it is a beautiful day. The sun is bright, and the sky is a beautiful blue. This time though, you are not at the beach, but at the dog park, and your dog is racing against the wind next to another dog you have seen before but do not know the name of.

You try to call out, voice swallowed by something you can’t place, but you don’t really mind, because it’s warm out and you feel sleepy. You watch as your dog runs towards another, a friendly looking gray one, and realize that John must be close by.

So you smile, feeling contented with this dream version of your favorite killer and his dog in a world where he is not a killer and you can be together...

But something doesn’t feel right, and you...

You...

You open your eyes to the sudden sound of knocking, before you realize it is too late to answer and the door to your house swings open in haste.

It is John, except this time he is not dressed in black and he is not covered in blood, and he looks so funny in contrast to the person you always think about, even if you’ve seen him in his pair of sweats before.

“Hi, John,” you smile, eyes closing again, chest stuttering slowly as you suck a breath through your teeth.

“Are you…” he pauses, seeming unsure about the sight that’s in front of him, “Have you been shot?”

“Yea,” You say, squeezing your eyes shut with your fingers pressed against your side. You know that you’re bleeding all over your ugly old couch, but for some reason you can’t bring yourself to mend the wound and save the cushions, as by this point, it’s probably too late to try.

“How?”

“You know…” you wave your hand around, blood trailing down your fingers, and you know that John is most likely thinking of the night when he decided not to shoot you and then of the next time he decided not to shoot you and instead sobbed in his arms, “Work.”

“I thought you wanted to quit?” he asks, though it comes out more as an accusatory statement than anything else. You wish you had a better response, a better excuse, but the only thing you can do is grunt, eyes closed, while you focus on trying not to bleed out.

You can remember the leaderboard and the assigned mission, firing your gun, and then escaping, but your memory stops at the part where you managed to get caught and then torn open by someone else with a firing weapon.

It’s probably not important now, because John is still hurrying to your side, seeming concerned if not just polite, and then lets you reach out a hand for him in a way that seems a little bit familiar.

“Hey, John?” you ask, not waiting for a response before you continue, “Do you ever think about how things could be different?”

He stays quiet, as you have noticed by now that he doesn’t usually respond to your comments, but when you open your eyes to peek at his face, he looks pensive rather than like someone trying to ignore you. He catches you staring, and his face twists in a way you cannot read.

“Yes,” he says, at this point now kneeling by your side.

You nod, your fingers wiping your sweaty face, and he reaches out with a cloth to wipe for you, as you’re sure there’s more blood than tears in your eyes now by the way his handkerchief stains red.

You remember the beach, and how the slaughter that robbed everything from you also gave you a dog, which in turn gave you the dog park where you first met John.

Life is a cycle, you think, and this is the part that’s always shown as an arrow instead of a picture.

Dying.

If this were a different life, and you were not an arrow, maybe John would look at you differently. Maybe you’d both have different jobs and he wouldn’t have to watch you bleed out on your couch as you slowly forget how you even got home.

Maybe he wouldn't have taken up two spots in your mind.

But this is your life, and you are dying, and the last thing you can think about is him.

“I’m going to call a doctor now,” he says, standing up, but you reach for him, grabbing his wrist with your bloody hand, smearing red across his arm.

He blinks at you, puzzled, confused, and you’re sure that he’s wondering why you haven’t passed out yet.

“Wait,” you whisper, blinking up at his face as he hesitates, “Tell me again what they call you?”

John looks confused, but humors you anyway, even though it's not funny, “The Boogeyman?”

“No,” you whine, though it ends up sounding more like a groan, “The silly name.”

“Baba Yaga?”

You attempt to laugh, but heave instead when the gasp you let out causes your wound to burn and forces you to let go of John. As you press your hands against your side, he pulls himself away quickly and sighs when you still manage to pout at him.

Though you recognize his behavior as kind, you still can’t help but think of what you did to deserve this; bleeding out and then being forgotten all over again.

You can remember the first night he walked away, the night when you were screaming so loud you were sure the whole of New York City could hear you. The same night you watched love die, and you don't even know if John was married at the time.

In your stupor, you wonder what his wife must’ve been like, and if you are anything like her.

“You’ll be fine,” John whispers, but his voice still cuts your thoughts in half as you notice that he is staring at you, distracted by something of his own creation as his large hands move to pull an ugly pink blanket from underneath your feet to lay across your wounded body.

You’re not sure if he’s right, but you nod anyway, despite the fact that by now, you can hear his footsteps heading towards the door, feel the fading of his warmth, and when you do manage to open your eyes in one final burst of anxiety, see as he has already turned his back toward you to open your front door to leave. This time, when you reach out for him, you are reminded of the first time you lost someone who you loved.

“John,” you croak, and he stops to listen even though one of his feet is already out of the door, “We should go to the beach sometime.”

He nods, and you watch his lips to see if they twitch upward, even though in some ways, he looks as sad as when you first met him on that day when he tried to apologize.

“Thanks,” you whisper, watching as he finally leaves, hoping that if he saw your smile, you had managed to swallow all the blood in your mouth.

He hadn’t smiled back.

iv.

You are at the beach again, except that this time, you know that you are dreaming.

Still, the sun is bright and the sky is blue, and the water looks extra beautiful with a happy gray dog that splashes in its waves next to one that looks like your own.

You do not have a bucket of sand crabs at your feet, or someone close to you in the water, but you know that there is a man dressed in black somewhere nearby and that if you were to look for him, that he would wave back at you.

Even at the distant sound of sirens that go off, which seem louder with every passing second, you smile, opening your eyes to look for him, hoping that this time, he doesn’t have a gun.

#john wick x reader #john wick #john wick imagine #please kill me #i never want to see this dumb fic in my life AGAIN

133 notes · View notes

cannotgiveafuck · 5 years

Text

Billy Batson & Captain Marvel identity analysis (long post ahead)

Alrighty then! So I contemplated posting this bc it's so closely tied to the wip fic, buuuut here it is. Ive never been really satisfied with how some media portray this character bc they either lean too far towards childish or angry, or divide the identities too much. And whilst writing the fic I thought about how I wanted to portray him and what that entailed. A long semi comprehensive ramble of headcanons and character analysis based on the individual and combined identities of Billy and Marvel!

First, we have Billy. This kid who's parents died on a work trip, was left in the care of a greedy/selfish old man that did not care for him at all, has bounced through foster homes for a plethora of reasons (some of which are behavioral or abusive), and ultimately decided trying to make it on the streets was his best option (before being picked up by Dudley).

Now, backstory wise, it's all very obvious that Billy would have trust issues, especially towards adults (and double towards adults who try to control him). His learned attitude towards those that set their eyes on him (both before and especially after becoming Marvel) is guarded and aggressively defensive, he's snarky and sarcastic, ready to flee at a moments notice, and scared of being once again used, abused, and tossed aside if he were to trust someone. But at his soft core he desperately wants to be cared for, he wants affection and love and family, he wants a safe and secure home, he wants to believe in good.

All of this bleeds into his attitude towards his peers, too. Before becoming Marvel, he's a bit jaded and lost - his wrecked home life creating the chasm that keeps him from opening up and relating to others, from making real friends (the few exceptions being friends he considers family, and whom he is very loyal and protective of). After Marvel, Billy doesn't even try to associate with kids his own age. He stops going to school and is so focused on trying to be a good hero, he has distanced himself even more. But also, all the situations that he is exposed to really matures him. He still enjoys video games and sports, but he's also worrying about keeping Fawcett City and the world safe and working with JL - he doesn't have time nor patience for naive and clueless kids. But since he still is a kid and wants to have fun, those he let's in he holds onto and divulges everything to.

However, despite his hard outer shell, I do believe Billy is good and tries to be good and wants to see the good in those around him. A prominent and reoccurring memory of his parents is them telling him to be a good kid. That very much shapes Billy's views and ideologies. He wants to be a good person, which means he needs to help others (however he sees fit, from stopping bullies to carrying an old ladys groceries), but also realize that there is good all around him in everyone else, too. He has kind neighbors, and a community that helps each other, he knows everyone has their own struggles and they may direct negative emotions outward but may just need a helping hand in return. Billy knows suffering and cruelty and does not want to cause that, he wants to end it. So, theres this conflict inside him that he views as being smart vs being good. His true sunshine and trusting demeanor is boosted when he is chosen by Shazam, because now he has this divine and worldly responsibility to do and be good. And while he does not hold value in himself (abandoned and abused orphan does not hold a high confidence or self esteem level), he also wants to prove that he is worthy of inheriting this power, that there is good in this world and in him.

Now, second we have Captain Marvel. This is where identities become...complicated. The way I see it, Marvel is a mesh of 'Billy Batson', 'The Potential Adult Billy Could Be', and 'The Vessel of The Greek Gods Powers'. Since I've gone over Billy's identity, it transfers onto Marvel pretty seamlessly. So as The Adult Billy, he is still Billy Batson, but the grown up version, comfortable in his skin and in social standings with others, he is without the limiting physiological responses and capabilities of being a child. Despite all his experiences, Billy is still a kid - a bit awkward in his growing body, he's impulsive with his emotional responses, he jumps to conclusions and is very one track minded, has a hard time putting words to thoughts or instincts and understanding certain things and intentions (situations being very black and white). But as Adult Billy who is Marvel, he still sees through the same eyes, but he can filter distractions and pause to think through reflexive emotions, and he has a better understanding on just how morally grey the world can be, a gained clarity on other intentions and livelihoods, and he can empathize and read other's emotions in more detail than just the basic happy/mad/sad. Basically, Billy's brain has physically grown to that of an adult.

On the other hand, there is also what I like to believe is a...sort of third will in what makes Captain Marvel. He is, for all intents and purposes, a vessel or an avatar of sorts. He is a Chosen Champion by the Wizard Shazam to wield the powers of the Greek Gods (specifically the Greek gods, bc...well, that's a whole other post to ramble on), hes the mortal connection between them and the human world, their gift to the humans as a protector, as the guiding light of good. He is a symbol and title beyond one person. It is much like the mantle of Batman being passed on, except instead of all the gadgets and tech and databases...it's experiences and memories and wisdom gained by the previous Marvels, and available when properly called upon. Captain Marvel is like a reincarnation every time there is a new chosen champion. Billy is himself, but there were also others before him, other Marvels that existed and lived that can be remembered.

There is, however, a weird side effect to this being that the more in touch and immersed with these previous Marvel's he becomes, the more he slips away from himself - less Billy and human, more ancient and disconnected. He loses Billy's mannerisms and speech pattern and warm empathy, he still follows the ideology of good, but the charisma is gone, he's distant and cold.

All of this makes for a very interesting and fun way of writing Marvel and Billy - in how they each think through situations, how they each interact with the same people, how they each react to everything. And that's including how the same people react and treat each of them differently. Someone may see and treat Billy as a kid, but with Marvel they interact with and see an adult, a peer. When someone knows who Marvel really is, they need to consciously remind themselves that Marvel is Billy is a kid, because literally everything about Marvel screams at their senses that he's an adult (sunshine naivety aside). He still walks and talks and looks and is capable of thinking like an adult. It's not a situation of a couple of kids standing on top of each other in a trenchcoat or a kid dressing and doing their makeup like an adult. Magic has made him an adult, sort of.

At the core of it, the one experiencing and remembering and feeling everything is a child. There is no separating that, he is a different face of the same coin. So while Marvel can handle the emotional and mental exhaustion and stress of the situations he is put in, Billy Batson is going to suffer through the replays when everything is done. Because superheroing is not all saving lives and being praised, it's seeing people be hurt and bleed, interacting with the worst of humanity and others, witnessing tragedies and death in small intimate encounters and in large numbers. He is the one that will have nightmares and trouble sleeping, he is the one that will bear the brunt of the trauma and remorse, navigating detailed memories of violence and how it felt to hurt, wondering why there are phantom pains and aches when his body is not damaged, all with no trusted support system to turn to (because if he does, will the JL just see him as a child who cannot handle being a hero? will they turn him away?). Billy is the one having his childhood and innocence ripped away from him for the sake of the world. There are consequences of being the chosen champion, and while Billy is willing to accept them, will continue to fight and uphold his divine duties, will put others before himself every time, it wont make be easy.

The potential of how complicated Billy and Marvel can be, and how other heroes cannot fully comprehend it without a trusted in depth discussion (only Black Adam can understand and lemme tell you, that's a hot mess) - that's what makes him and his situation so interesting and fun to write.

#billy Batson #captain marvel #shazam #long post #character analysis rambling #i just have lots of ideas and feelings for his lightning boy #and this is just billy as a kid #as a teenager it gets even more complicated

372 notes · View notes

chocoholicannanymous · 5 years

Text

If the Spit Hits the Fan pt V (Glee)

This is the scrap fic formerly labelled “Glee 305 scrap”. Title from West Side Story, “Jets”.

Follows pt I, pt II, pt III and pt IV.

The rest of the weekend continues in the same, weird vein. At home Finn is in a funk that quite honestly is worse than Kurt would have expected. Yes, Finn had pinned his hopes on football, and having that crushed must hurt, but it seems to be more than that. Plus, Kurt would have thought that Rachel's Friday night visit should have cheered him up some.

And yet, Finn definitely doesn't act like someone who finally got sexed by his girlfriend. Oh, Kurt doesn't know that that was the plan, but. Rachel's text asking him to stay out for a couple of hours after the show certainly implied it.

Then there's Rachel, who's also acting strange. She's still being professional on stage, but that's it. It's stressful for everyone, of course, but Kurt can't get over the feeling that it's something more.

He does his best to not let any of it touch him though. Right now, all that matters is getting through the weekend, do his best onstage, and not screw up.

And finally there's Sebastian Smythe. Which is a whole new level of weird on its own. Really. Had someone told Kurt a month ago that this was how his life would look like he'd take Sebastian texting him – politely! – as a lie before Rachel's treatment or even Blaine's disappearance.

The first text shows up Saturday morning, just after breakfast closes at Dalton. Another couple drop in during the day, all detailing Sebastian's quest for information about Blaine. Apparently none of the Warblers have heard a thing. Again, not something Kurt would have believed not so long ago.

He wakes up Sunday morning to a text asking to meet. Something about that request makes Kurt uncomfortable, but it's not meeting Sebastian that does it, at least he doesn't think so. It's more that if Sebastian wants to talk eye to eye, and is offering to drive to Lima to do so...well, that doesn't sound good does it?

So, once the last show's over and Kurt's back in his normal clothes, staage makeup gone, he drives to the Lima Bean. There shouldn't be that many people there, not on a Sunday, and he's never met that many McKinley students there. The only reason he himself goes there is because Blaine loved it, and everyone he knows who's been is someone he himself took.

It should be safe.

At first they both just sit there, sipping their coffee, and making polite noises. Kurt finally speaks up after realizing he's turned a third of his scone into so much crumbles.

“So what did you want? It must have been something important for you to push for a meeting.”

Sebastian jumps a little, clearly just as lost in thought as Kurt himself had been, and clears his throat.

“Right. After I got back Friday Jeff and Nick were waiting for me – they're on my floor – wanting to know what you had to say about Blaine not performing. At first I don't think they believed me even. Then, Saturday morning it was all the others – well, the ones staying the weekend anyway. Hell, Wes even called to interrogate me.”

Kurt snorts a little, amused despite himself, because Wes so would.

“In the end it was decided that someone should go over to Blaine's, see what was going on, and then Thad decided that 'someone' meant him. Since apparently he's known Blaine longer than any of the others, or better, or something.

“It...didn't go that well. Blaine's dad answered the door, and while he was polite he wouldn't let Thad in the house. Said Blaine wasn't home, claimed that they as a family had talked about Blaine's schooling and agreed that his needs weren't met at McKinley and so on. And when Thad acted like that was the first he'd heard of it and started talking about how awesome it'd be to have Blaine back at Dalton apparently Mr Anderson got all weird. Something about how Blaine needed to get away from a bad situation, and how Dalton was too close to the issue.”

And that...really doesn't sound good. Kurt doesn't want to start assuming the worst, but he can't help but think that it almost sounds as if the Andersons sent Blaine off to a conversion camp or such and are trying to hide it.

Some of his thoughts must be visible on his face, because Sebastian takes a look at him and nods.

“Yeah, Thad took that about as well as you are. Only he didn't keep his mouth shut – for better or for worse I haven't decided yet. Because when he mentioned you Mr Anderson got angry. Not just a little, but enough that Thad got worried. He started ranting about how you'd ruined things, how he'd known all along you were no good for his son, and how if he ever saw 'that criminal' – which would be you – sniffing around his son again 'he'd take action'. Then he just slammed the door in Thad's face.”

They sit quiet again after that. Kurt's brain can't stop spinning, and the worst thing is that he can't figure out a single thing he can do to help Blaine – provided he does need help. It sounds as if the Andersons know about Blaine being drunk, at the very least, and think that Kurt's to blame. And it also sounds as if Blaine's not been that keen on correcting them.

“Damn.”

He's got nothing else to say, and neither does Sebastian.

Or so he thinks. It doesn't take too long before Sebastian gives him a serious look and asks what he's thinking of.

“Oh, nothing. Just, should I have another cup of coffee or not.”

“Kurt.”

“Fine. I was thinking that everything was so much easier when I thought Blaine had been seduced into returning to Dalton, that he was ghosting me, and that he was with you. There, happy?”

Telling Sebastian that makes Kurt feel uncomfortably vulnerable, but luckily there's no snide reply. Good, because Kurt's not above – as Mercedes would say – cutting a bitch right now.

“Why was that easier?”

“I don't have to tell you all the worst case scenarios for gay teenagers, do I? Because I'm thinking you know them just as well as I do, and I saw your face, I know I wasn't the only one wondering if he got sent to conversion camp.”

And as much as Kurt wants to leave all of this behind him, want to wash his hands of the boy who thought sex in the backseat was good enough – the boy who sang him a hundred songs, who transferred schools for him, who held his hand at Pavarotti's grave – if Blaine's in trouble then Kurt can't just pretend like nothing. He needs to help.

He just doesn't know if there's a way he actually can.

“Is that... Are they likely to have done that?”

Sebastian looks upset, and uncomfortable, and if he's got good parents – like Kurt himself does – then that's completely understandable.

“A week ago? I would have said no. I'd still say Mrs Anderson wouldn't, but I could be wrong. We don't always see the true side of people, after all.” And if he means more than just Mrs Anderson, well. That's for him to know and Sebastian to miss completely. “As for Mr Anderson, I couldn't say. I've never spent much time around him – or really met him properly. Blaine has said a few things that could be worrying, but I honestly don't know.

“I just really wish I didn't have to think about the possibility.”

And speaking of thinking about things...

“By the way, why are you doing this? I know why I am, and I can assume I know for the rest of the Warblers, but you? You only just met Blaine. And don't tell me you're just worried, because there's being worried and checking things out, but this is a level beyond that. I would have expected this from Jeff and Nick, possibly Trent and Thad. Not from someone who's still a newcomer and who quite frankly has been acting like he hates me up until not even 48 hours ago.”

Sebastian is back to looking uncomfortable, and fidgets for a bit before talking.

“I never did say sorry for the way I treated you at first. Which I am, truly. Just... It's going to sound really stupid, but I felt you were taking something from me, something I already though of as being mine.

“See, Blaine didn't tell me he had a boyfriend until like, 15 seconds before you walked up to us. Up until then? All bashful and flirting and acting available. And I'm sorry for telling you this, on top of everything else, but it's the truth. I wanted Blaine, and I thought I would get him, and then when you walked in I was enough of a horse's ass to think of you as the person taking something from me instead of being honest and realizing I was the one trying to take him from you.

“Hindsight. It's not just 20-20, it's a bitch.”

The words ring true, and so Kurt accept them. It's not until he is almost home that he realizes that Sebastian never really answered his question.

#chocoholic fics #scraps and snippets #kurt fic #kurt hummel #anti-lighthousefucker #not edited or beta read #meant for an episode revamp fic #possibly even a season revamp

28 notes · View notes

missblanchette · 5 years

Text

This Distance Between Us [1/1]

Series: Hypnosis Mic

Characters: Jinguji Jakurai/Kannonzaka Doppo; Appearances from Hifumi and Ramuda

Rating: PG

Summary: Day by day, Doppo learned that Jinguji Jakurai was more human than god.

Words: 11,287

Notes: Drowning tw in section iii. Implied self-harm tw in section iv. A JakuDoppo relationship study/Jakurai character study via Doppo’s POV! I wrote this before TDD Chapter 3 dropped, so that aspect of Jakurai’s character wasn’t taken into account though I tried to amend this fic as much as possible to include it. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it~!

ko-fi // You can read this on AO3! Thank you all so much for reading!!

❤⃛ヾ(๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )

With the ban of violence and the rise of rap, the exploits of The Dirty Dawg had spread far and wide. Their voices had commanded the attention of Japan, claiming the land as their own and bringing all those who crossed their way to their knees. For a salary-man like Doppo, however, who was more concerned with his next paycheck than the territory battles, The Dirty Dawg's ascent to power had meant very little to him -- save for the genius doctor who used his hypnosis mic for healing instead of harm. Hifumi had introduced him to the famed ill-DOC with a shove of his phone into his face and a "Look, look, Doppo-chin! Check these guys out!". While The Dirty Dawg's voices harmonized powerfully and shook his core, ill-DOC's low baritone captured him instantly. If listening to him through video had been enough to soothe his fried nerves, Doppo wondered what listening to him live would’ve been like. He never got the opportunity during that era, though, for The Dirty Dawg fell as quickly as they rose.

That said, sometimes it was easy to forget that their reign ever happened.

The screen separating him and ill-DOC disappeared within a span of two years, a sales visit at Shinjuku Central Hospital leading to him becoming his patient. Over time, ill-DOC simply became known as Dr. Jinguji Jakurai to him: his physician, his leader, and (something he was still coming to terms with) his lover. On the day-to-day basis, Jakurai embodied the patience of a saint as he treated the sick and dealt with his and Hifumi's problems; with him and Hifumi as the rogues guarding Jakurai's side, they made up Matenrou, the pack of wolves who defied the cruelty of the world. For all they faced together, Doppo felt like he had a good sense of who Jakurai was -- a genius, a legend, a god. But staring at the photograph of Jakurai smiling along with Amemura Ramuda, Aohitsugi Samatoki, and Yamada Ichiro, Doppo came to realize that there wasn't a lot he actually knew about him.

"Do you need help, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice echoed from the hallway.

Doppo startled and hit his head against the shelf, biting back a yelp as the box he'd picked up collapsed onto the ground again. He'd gone to Jakurai's closet to get a scarf for him since it would get cold later, but he knocked down a box on one of the shelves causing photographs and badges and other trinkets to scatter among the floor.

"Are you okay?" A hand rested on the small of Doppo's back, steadying him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snoop around. They all fell out and I was trying to pick them up --"

"There’s no need to worry about it," Jakurai said, rubbing his back. The soothing motion faltered, stilted and abrupt, when he caught sight of the photograph he held and Jakurai's azure eyes clouded over. "My, that's an old thing."

Without another word, he reached for it and Doppo handed it to him. He gripped it tightly, as if it were a letter bringing news of a loved one's death, and his lips pursed like reflecting upon an earlier disappointment -- a stark contrast to the radiant grin he wore as Amemura Ramuda pulled him into the group picture.

"You were cool back then," Doppo blurted out. When Jakurai's gaze snapped towards him, Doppo sputtered. "I mean, you're still cool now, but you and The Dirty Dawg made an amazing team."

Jakurai turned back to the photograph, expression unreadable.

"We were," he said, a hint of remorse in his tone. "But I believe Matenrou triumphs in every aspect."

"Do you miss them?" Eyes widening, Doppo slapped a hand to his mouth and bowed his head. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"It's okay, Doppo-kun." His fingers carded through Doppo's hair, languidly and absentmindedly, though not once did his eyes leave the photo. "Thinking about it makes me rather nostalgic --" His lips twisted bitterly. "-- is all."

Silence followed, the ticking of the clock's hands serving as the sole reminder of time flowing on and on.

"Doc -- Jinguji-san," Doppo started, the less formal title still strange on his tongue. "I'm... here for you, if you ever want to talk about it?"

With one last stroke through his hair, Jakurai's hand fell to his shoulder and he patted him. The corners of his lips tugged up. "Thank you, Doppo-kun."

Though his words were kind, they stung regardless; gratitude he’d spoken, hiding a "no, I'd rather not" underneath. There were things Doppo wasn't privy to, certainly, and he would respect that -- yet, compared to all their sessions in the hospital where Doppo had complained about his life, had bared out his emotions, had burdened him with his anguish, Jakurai hardly spoke of his own. Was he so untrustworthy as a person -- as a lover -- that he couldn't share in those thoughts? Though maybe it was his fault for being so heartless and never asking about them in the first place.

"Let's clean this up and get going, shall we?" Jakurai asked before his self-doubts could turn tail to hell. His hand left his shoulder, leaving a chill in its place, and he crouched down to pick up the remnants of his fallen memories.

Shoving the remains of his negativity to the side, Doppo stared at the scene before joining him. Jakurai barely gave the scattered mementos a glance before placing them back in the box, away from sight and away from mind. Through the curtain of his lavender locks, Jakurai's azure irises dulled and his mouth curved downwards -- his face lost within seasons that Doppo couldn't recall.

With everything cleaned up, Jakurai tucked the box back into the darkness of the closet. His previous wistfulness swept away, he smiled at him with a composure much more akin to the Jakurai he'd come to know. Doppo forced himself to return it.

Jakurai had always seemed so far away, but in that moment, he felt unreachable.

ii.

Overtime might as well have been Doppo's regular work hours, considering how often he dipped into it. Always the last to leave, it was because of the coffee running through his body that he was able to catch the last train home. The note Hifumi left him was sweet as always, but as delicious as his dinner looked, Doppo could only manage a few bites before his eyes began to fail him. He barely even had the energy to shower or change his clothes before plopping into bed. Just as he sank into the mattress, he choked on his saliva when he remembered he'd forgotten to respond to Jakurai's message from earlier.

He quickly sent an affirmative for their plans this weekend and locked his phone, dropping it onto his chest while he waited for sleep to claim him. It wasn't long, though, before his phone buzzed and shook him awake. He squinted, the light far too bright though it was on its lowest setting, but he couldn't bring himself to be upset and he smiled at Jakurai's text.

Locking his phone again, Doppo leaned back into his pillow and sleep steadily settled in, but his eyes shot open and snapped towards the clock. 00:58. Much too late for Jakurai to be awake right now, let alone replying to him -- especially when both of them had work in the morning. Fingers fumbling, he opened his phone.

Doppo frowned. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, wanting to say something -- anything -- to comfort him but the words couldn't come. "I'm sorry," he wanted to say, but that wouldn't do any good to help him fall asleep; "that sucks," was his next thought but that came off as callous; "try some sleeping pills," maybe, but that sounded dismissive also. After all Jakurai had done to help him with his insomnia, he couldn't even say something back to him. What a terrible boyfriend he was, not being able to comfort him when he needed him --

A couple seconds passed before his next message.

Doppo read the texts over again. And again to make sure he was reading them correctly. And once more to be doubly sure. Then he rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly to be certain he wasn't hallucinating. Nobody had ever asked him anything like that before; his voice was nothing special, after all, being dismal and weak among Shinjuku's white noise. "Are you serious?" he almost replied, but he was never one to deny Jakurai's requests. With jittery hands, he typed out a "Yeah, that's fine."

For something set on vibrate, his phone blared loudly in the quiet of his room. He almost dropped it, too shaky to get a grip and accept the call, but Doppo's nerves settled down as he heard Jakurai's soft breaths on the other end.

"Hi?" he said, unsure of himself.

"Hello, Doppo-kun." Tiredness seeped through Jakurai's greeting, fondness mixed in it. "How was your day? Is your manager still giving you grief?"

"Yeah, the same as usual..."

The conversation flowed on, reminiscent of their appointments in Jakurai's office but with a more casual air to it. Groans and sighs replaced Doppo's words, too exhausted to actually verbalize his feelings, whereas Jakurai hummed along to every utterance. Nevertheless, Doppo kept his complaints short and to the point because they'd gone through them plenty of times to write an entire anthology about his grievances. As their conversation fell into a lull, he directed the question back to him.

How strange it felt to be on the flip side of things, to be listening to Jakurai instead. Not that Doppo minded at all, taking in everything he said and holding onto it. In the still of night, Jakurai's speech blended together and he paused over his thoughts unlike the formalities and preciseness he spoke with during the daytime; but that didn't change anything about the softness in his voice as he told him of his day -- how his hair had gotten caught in the elevator doors, how one of the children he'd been attending to cried as he gave them an injection, how he'd heard that one of his patients had died.

Stuttering, Doppo offered his condolences as best he could and he could only imagine the sad curl of Jakurai's lips as he thanked him. His patient was an elderly one who suffered from heart pains on top of their insomnia, and Jakurai had been taking care of them ever since he started working at Shinjuku Central Hospital. Death was inevitable, Jakurai told him, but that didn't stop the regret that filled his tone.

They delved into lighter topics afterwards, carrying on like that until their voices lowered into whispers. Yet, neither of them made the move to end the call. Doppo didn't want to, either, no matter how much he yawned, no matter how much he slurred his sentences, no matter how much his eyes drooped...

"Rise and shine, Doppo-chin~ Oh, who's that?"

Eyelids weighing like iron, Doppo could hardly lift them without feeling like his eyeballs would combust into flames. To his right, a low rumble filled his ear like a windy day at Katase Beach. Something slammed down on his shoulder, eliciting a grunt from him, and hovered over his body. Squinting, he saw Hifumi looking at his phone with his mouth agape.

"Ooh, Dr. Jakurai. You guys have been talking for five hours?!"

Doppo's brows knitted together before remembering what happened last night. Never before had he jumped out of bed so fast.

"He's still on? Give that back --"

"Hi, Doc!" Hifumi said, putting the phone on speaker.

The rumble that'd been at his side echoed throughout his room before breaking into choppy breaths and then a loud snort. Hifumi giggled, lifting the phone higher into the air when Doppo reached for it.

"Wakey, wakey, Doc~"

"...Hi...fumi-kun...?" A long yawn came through, followed by a confused mumble. "I... oh dear. What time is it?"

"It's like six, but I bet it's easy to lose track when you and Doppo are having so much fun~"

Glaring, Doppo jumped up and snatched his phone back. Hifumi gave a cat-like smirk.

"Do --" A yawn. "Doppo-kun, my apologies. Did I keep you up?"

Turning speaker mode off, Doppo turned away. Hifumi pounced onto his back, ever persistent, and pressed his ear against the other side of the phone. Doppo couldn't muster up the strength to shove him off.

"No, it's all right, Jinguji-san. I fell asleep, too. I'm... I'm glad you were able to get some rest, though."

"It's thanks to you," Jakurai said. Hiufmi bounced excitedly behind him.

"It's nothing really..." He threw a look at Hifumi, but the tips of his ears grew warm.

"Of course it's something. We have not seen each other in a while, so I'm glad I was able to talk with you at least." Exhaustion dripped through as he spoke, but Doppo could hear the smile in his words.

Slapping his shoulders with the fervor of a hummingbird, Hifumi squealed. Doppo elbowed him and he finally backed off. He meant to say something else, but he saw the current hour -- 6:23 -- and blanched. Shit.

"I feel the same way, Jinguji-san, but, um, I'm sorry, I have to get ready for work now."

"Hm... oh? Oh." He stifled his yawn. "Yes, I suppose I should be getting ready as well," he said with an inkling of reluctance. "I hope you have a good day, Doppo-kun."

"You, too, Jinguji-san."

"Bye, Doc!"

Jakurai laughed. "Bye to you, too, Hifumi-kun."

Ending the call, Doppo spun around to see Hifumi grinning at him.

"Late night calls with Dr. Jakurai, hm~" Hifumi said, waggling his eyebrows.

"It's not a big deal." Averting his gaze, he rubbed the nape of his neck. "Jinguji-san was just having trouble sleeping."

"Aw, so you're like his medicine!"

Doppo's face reddened. "S-Shut up. Don't you have something else to do?"

A hand flying to his mouth, Hifumi gasped. "Breakfast!"

As Hifumi ran back to the kitchen, Doppo took a deep breath as he thought about the workload that awaited him -- another twelve-plus hours of labor, another twenty-four hours of mind-numbing stress. Though typically getting the bare minimum amount of sleep was enough to ruin his day before it started, he found motivation within the phone warm in his hold. Their call fresh in his mind, Doppo knew he wasn't the only one struggling to get up. For Jakurai, he would gladly stay up again and again; for him, too, he would do his best to get through work.

iii.

"Uh, is it always this slow?" Doppo asked, adjusting his hat as the sun steadily climbed higher and higher across the sky. He'd been sitting there at Ichigaya sandwiched between Jakurai and Hifumi for about two and a half hours now, and they'd only managed to catch one measly carp -- a joint effort between him and Jakurai (or rather, Jakurai took control of the rod when he freaked out at the fish's tug) while Hifumi waved the fishing net like a madman. He'd spent hours at work dreaming about this day -- the day he'd finally join Jakurai's and Hifumi's fishing trips -- and... "underwhelming" could only describe so much.

"Some days are slower than others." Smiling sheepishly, Jakurai’s eyes crinkled.

"Yeah, like, sometimes we don't even catch anything at all," Hifumi said, prouder of the fact than he should've been.

"I thought you said you were 'pros.'"

"We are!" Hifumi puffed up his chest, his fishing line swaying from side-to-side. "Like, Doc and I totes know how to use the fishing poles and stuff. It's just a bad fish day today."

Hunching over his knees, Doppo sighed. He and Hifumi must've had different definitions of "pro."

At his right, Jakurai chuckled and Doppo's mood brightened a bit; he couldn't bring himself to be disappointed at the sound of it. True, the trip didn't quite meet his expectations but he had to admit it was a nice change of pace from sleeping the whole day. The pond's ripples wavering to and fro and the light breeze accented Hifumi's and Jakurai's conversation about the deals at the supermarket, the scene lulling the stress and tension of the work week away. To be honest, with the three of them even having the chance to spend time together like this, Doppo couldn't have imagined anything better.

"Oh!" Nearly bouncing out of his seat, Hifumi furiously wheeled the handle. "I caught something!"

"Did you really, or do you think you caught something?" Doppo eyed Hifumi’s line. It wouldn't have been Hifumi’s first false alarm. He had the tendency to shake his rod while speaking, tricking himself into thinking he caught something when he chattered on for too long.

"I did, I really did! Quick, someone get the net!"

Jakurai reacted faster than he did, the warmth at his side dissipating as he stood up to aid Hifumi with his catch. What neither of them noticed, however, was that Doppo sat with his legs outstretched before him, and Jakurai stumbled over them. In a hurry to get out of the way, Doppo dragged his legs back but his feet knocked against Jakurai's as he did so, tipping him over and sending straight into the pond with a large splash!

"Dr. Jakurai!"

"Jinguji-san!"

They ran over to the edge of the platform, watching Jakurai flail helplessly in the water as the carp scattered off in different directions. His head bobbed up and down, eventually falling under and replaced by a froth of bubbles. Sinking deeper and deeper, his long tresses splayed up like seaweed.

"O-Oh my God, t-this is my fault." Hands trembling, Doppo clutched his face. "I tripped Jinguji-san, I made him drown, I --"

Hifumi slapped his shoulder and shook him. "Now's not the time, Doppo-chin! We have to save Dr. Jakurai!"

"How?! Neither of us know how to swim!"

"I dunno! But we have to!"

Dread crept into Doppo's stomach much like Jakurai's body falling to the depths of the pond; all the while, Hifumi yelled at the water as if begging would make it spit Jakurai back out. For a Saturday, there were hardly any fishers around and the ones there were too far away to call over. The tendrils of Jakurai's hair disappeared and an eerie stillness returned to the pond.

Now or never. Ripping off his hat and vest, Doppo shoved them over to Hifumi.

"What are you doing?" Hifumi asked, taking them on the automatic.

"I'm going to save Jinguji-san." Hopefully, the fear in his voice wasn’t too obvious. Toeing off his shoes and socks, Doppo peered down the pond and calculated how deep it was. He might not know how to swim, but he knew how to hold his breath for long periods of time. The perks of not caring about whether he lived or died.

"But you said it, we don't know how to swim!" Hifumi pleaded, continuing to take his clothes.

"I sat it on some of my little brother's swimming lessons before." He took a deep breath --

"Doppo!"

-- and jumped in.

How the hell elementary school kids made swimming look so easy, Doppo didn't know; he could barely kick his legs as he sank through the pond. The carp circled around him as if mocking him for his dumb decision. Not only would he have killed Jakurai, he'd have gotten himself killed, too; he could imagine Jakurai's disappointment in the afterlife when he learned that he'd drowned the both of them. But as he struggled through the water, he spotted Jakurai floating towards the bottom and a surge of energy powered through him. He could fail himself, but he wouldn't fail Jakurai.

With his pathetic doggy paddle, he somehow reached Jakurai. But then came his second challenge: bringing him up. His weight was one thing, but carrying him wasn't an easy feat with a single arm free and his lungs burning. In his peripheral, the carp zipped by as if pushing him back, telling him to give up -- that Jakurai was already dead and it was no use. It only edged him on, Doppo using the last of his strength to break the surface.

In his arm, Jakurai's head lolled onto his shoulder. The chill running through him surely wasn't from the air.

"Doppo, grab on!"

A splash hit the surface, sending more water into his clogged ears. It was the goddamn net. Had he not been desperate to get out, he would've sighed. Still, he held onto it and let Hifumi hoist them in.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Hifumi chanted over and over as they laid Jakurai onto the ground. He hadn't made any sign of movement nor breathing since they surfaced, but Doppo pressed an ear against his chest and heard a faint heartbeat. The dread ebbed away but only crashed back like a tsunami as the whole ordeal wasn't over yet.

"We have to do something, like -- like -- like CPR." Hifumi flittered over Jakurai's body, a blond blur pacing back and forth. "How do you do that? Like this?!"

Balling his hands into fists, Hifumi slammed it hard against Jakurai's stomach. Before Doppo could yell at him, Jakurai spasmed and he threw up water. Hacking his coughs, he struggled to sit up and Doppo hurried to his side.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, Jinguji-san! Are you okay?!" Patting his back, he cringed as the question left his mouth. "I mean, how are you feeling?"

"I'm --" Cough. "I'll be --" Cough. "Fine." Cough.

"Oh my God, Doc, you almost died!" Hifumi threw his arms around Jakurai, practically squeezing the rest of the water out of him. "Who'd fish with me then?!"

"Gee, thanks for remembering me," said Doppo.

"Okay, yeah, but like you'd rather sleep! Besides, Doc catches most of our fish,” Hifumi said, if by "most," he meant "all," and by "all," he meant "one."

Doppo readied a retort, but the sound of Jakurai's scratchy chuckle made him bite it back. Instead, he let Hifumi attend to him while he rummaged through their bag for the towel. Towel procured, he returned and began patting Jakurai dry.

"You're wet, too, Doppo-kun." Jakurai sounded hoarse from all the coughing, but Doppo was thankful to be hearing him at all.

"It's all right, I'll air dry."

"Nonsense, you might catch a cold."

"But --"

Cutting in, Hifumi grabbed the towel and wrapped it around them. Doppo moved in out of instinct, not realizing how close he was to Jakurai until he bumped into his chest. Before he could back away, Hifumi started rubbing their heads.

"See? Now both of you can be dry!"

They looked up at him. With Hifumi drying them off, Jakurai and Doppo shared a smile.

"Very well. We're in your care, Hifumi-kun," Jakurai said with an amused lilt.

"Be careful, okay?"

"Jeez, Doppo-chin, you're acting like I'll tear your hair out!" Making light of his threat, Hifumi rubbed Doppo's head extra hard.

"Oi!"

As Doppo shoved him off, the three of them laughed and fell into a steady rhythm. Hifumi hummed as he worked, and a hand placed itself atop Doppo's. He glanced over at Jakurai, who sat unperturbed as if he hadn't just drowned. Ever so hesitantly, he laid his head on Jakurai's shoulder.

"By the way, Doc, weren't you part of the military?" Hifumi mused as he worked on Jakurai's hair. "Didn't you, like, have to learn how to swim?"

"Ah, doctors weren't required to undergo that type of training," Jakurai said. His eyes fell to the pond, blue hues reflecting off them like waves. "Besides, I... have a tendency to sink like a rock."

"So you suck at swimming."

"Hifumi."

Jakurai chuckled. "You could say that it's not my strong point."

"Haha, y'know what that reminds me of? Doppo really sucked at PE. Like, one time we were playing volleyball and --"

"Jinguji-san doesn't need to know about that!"

"He's your boyfriend, of course he does. So, anyways..."

Groaning, Doppo buried his face into Jakurai's shoulder while Hifumi recounted The Volleyball Incident. When he'd gotten to the part where he gave not one, not two, but three of their classmates bloody noses, Doppo risked a peek up. Jakurai nodded along as Hifumi spoke, an amused smile on his face, but he met his eyes then and leaned in closer.

"I wasn't much better, I have to admit," he said in a whisper meant solely for him. "I gave my teacher a concussion and another classmate a broken arm during a game of basketball once."

Hiding his mouth behind his palm, Doppo snorted. The image of a younger Jakurai stumbling around in a gym and wrecking havoc popped into mind, a contrast to the serene figure he knew today but one he'd keep close. He supposed Jakurai's hands hadn't always been used for healing, but that made that fact all the greater.

iv.

In spite of of Doppo's unlucky streak, there was a tiny silver lining in it in the form of Jakurai. Despite Hifumi's reminders and the news warning of the thunderstorm coming that evening, he'd forgotten his umbrella when he rushed out the apartment. While he'd been lamenting his situation during the last of his overtime hours, Jakurai had messaged him asking if he'd like a ride since he'd be getting out of work soon. With the storm showing no sign of letting up, Jakurai also offered him to stay over at his place because it was closer. Doppo's instincts had told him not to impose any further, but the thunder boomed louder than his hesitation so he took him up on his offer.

Shooting a text to Hifumi that he wouldn't be home tonight, Doppo stretched his back and cringed at the cracks that resounded. He flopped onto the sofa with a hiss, his body protesting as it hit the firm material.

"Are you feeling well, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice drew closer as he returned to the living room, a change of clothes for him in his hands -- Doppo's own clothes that he'd left behind after the first time he stayed over at Jakurai's place. Doppo never understood how wearing your partner's clothes was supposed to be "cute." He only felt embarrassed when he put on Jakurai's lounge wear, the shirt hanging loosely off his frame and the pants running past his feet.

"Just fine," Doppo said, rolling his shoulders and wincing. "My body feels kind of sore, is all."

"I should have some eucalyptus oil to relieve the pain, if you would like to try?"

Doppo opened his mouth to reject his offer, but a sharp pain ran through his back and he clamped it shut. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. "That'd be great."

Setting his clothes next to him, Jakurai left once again. Doppo figured he might as well get changed now, so he picked up the clothes and made his way to the bathroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, he froze as he saw the heat pads on his shoulders in the mirror, sickly white against his pale skin. He chewed his lip, recalling Hifumi's words from that morning and the chitchat of his co-workers. Instinctively, he tugged his shirt closer.

"Doppo-kun, I have the oil. Would you like me to apply it?"

The door hinges creaked as the door opened and Doppo rushed to press it closed.

"T-Thank you, Jinguji-san, but I got it," Doppo said, peeking his head through the small space he allowed between them. He stuck his fingers out for the bottle, straining to keep his shoulders out of sight.

Jakurai frowned, brows furrowing. He made no move to give it to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, like I said, I'm just sore."

Jakurai tried again to open the door with more force, but Doppo put his weight on it and shoved back. "Is there a reason you won't let me see you?"

"N-No, no reason."

"If there's something wrong, I would be more than glad to take a look at it. It's better to be safe than sorry." There it was: his Doctor Voice, the one that wouldn't let any potential ailment go unchecked. Though typically calming, it nagged Doppo in that moment.

"No! No, it's nothing like that, I... ugh." Counting to ten, Doppo slowly opened the door all the way. He hunched his shoulders in, he rubbed at the pads, and he kept his gaze on the floor. "I'm... wearing heat pads. I know -- I know it's really unattractive. I'm not even thirty yet, but Hifumi called me an 'old man' for wearing them. And the other day I heard my co-workers say they're a major turn off --"

"Doppo-kun."

Doppo's head snapped up and he let out a small "eep!". He covered his eyes, the clamminess of his hands cool against the heat rising to his cheeks, as Jakurai took his sweater off. Although, he couldn't help it if he peeked a little bit. Only enough to see Jakurai's arm muscles tensing and contracting. Doppo widened the spaces between his fingers ever so slightly.

Folding his sweater over his arm, Jakurai pulled his hair back and -- oh. Doppo's mouth hung ajar. On Jakurai's shoulders sat a pair of heat pads, much like the ones he wore on his own. Gently, Jakurai tugged Doppo's hands down.

"I wear them, too, see? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about." Eyes crinkling, he chuckled. "We match."

Doppo huffed out a laugh, though any other thought running through his mind stopped short as his eyes wandered downwards. He'd always imagined Jakurai's body to be as perfect as the lavender locks that flowed down his back, to be free of blemishes, toned, and fit -- a figure befitting a man so heavenly like him. Though toned and fit appeared to be the case, the same couldn't be said of blemish-free. Marks and scars ran through his body, through his abdomen, and through his arms that ranged from muddy reds to matte whites, from short nicks to long gashes, from deeply depressed to highly pronounced.

And yet Jakurai stood there as if none of them existed.

"You have scars?" Doppo asked before he could think. He slapped his mouth. "Sorry, I just noticed them."

"It's okay, I do not mind them." Following his gaze, Jakurai's expression fell into a neutral one. "Most of them are from the war."

Fixated on the wounds that grazed him, Doppo stepped forward; likewise, Jakurai kept quiet as he approached though he showed no sign of apprehension. Fingers trembling, Doppo lifted a hand. "Can I touch them?"

Jakurai inhaled sharply, the sound harsh and strident against the stillness. "Yes, you may."

His fingers hovered over his chest, and Doppo looked up at Jakurai once more. Jakurai nodded.

Slowly, Doppo traced the longest one first -- the jagged one that ran from the lower left side of his abdomen to beneath his right pectoral, outlined in a coarse pink that encased dull white and protruded his skin. He'd gotten it during a melee, Jakurai told him, where he'd been cornered. The other men had been taken out, but one of them survived and lunged at him with a knife. Jakurai managed to defend himself, though barely.

"I thought you weren't allowed to attack medical units?" Doppo asked.

The corners twitching, Jakurai's lips pursed together.

"...There is often no regard for rules in war." He stated it like a fact, simple as that. No wonder, Doppo thought, that women had eradicated violence when they overtook the government.

His fingers traveled up, right to the round wounds about the length of his thumb on Jakurai's bicep. Like a pair of twins, they sat right next to each other, identical in every way what with being faded dark splotches that dipped into his skin. Gun shots, Jakurai told him; he'd been assisting a few wounded soldiers back to the hospital, but the enemy had crossed no-man's land and started firing. All the soldiers who he'd been helping died.

"I never thought you'd get caught in the crossfire..."

"Being in an active war zone means putting one's self amidst the action," Jakurai said, voice even. His azure irises hazed over like a fog.

They continued on like that, with Doppo tracing the scars that marked his body and Jakurai explaining the story behind each one -- each fight he endured, each body he encountered, each soldier he tried to save. Having lived in the relative peace of their homeland his whole life, Doppo shuddered hearing Jakurai recount his experiences; though, in all honesty, whether it was because of the contents of his tales or the tone Jakurai took on, he wasn't sure. He spoke with an indifference to his words, as if disconnecting himself from the events, but a tinge of regret underlain it all.

Doppo was sorry. Sorry that he had to see all of that, sorry that he couldn't do anything to absolve him of the blood stained on his hands, sorry he couldn't relieve him of the anguish he suffered through. But there was little his apologies could do in the first place and so he kept quiet.

Reaching their last stop, Doppo's fingers came to a set of scars on his right wrist. They were different from the others strewn across his body; a multitude of stripes that had carved their way into his skin, each mark precisely made and organized rather than serrated and scattered. Paler than his ivory skin, they held a blotchy, white color to them. Jakurai's wrist spasmed as he made contact with them, his arm jerking in place. His eyes didn't meet his.

"Ah, those are... older scars."

He didn't need to say anything more.

Letting go, Doppo hastily unbuttoned his sleeve and pulled it back. The scars on his left wrist were redder and thicker, angrier and more distinct; they zig-zagged and criss-crossed, their own kind of morbid pattern. Lower down laid some keloids that formed years ago. They were a sight Doppo had long grown used to, a sight he'd grown to hate, a sight that he was tempted to continue working on to this day.

He was sorry. Sorry for being so weak, sorry for being so cowardly, sorry for being so useless. But he pushed his apologies down and he held his wrist next to Jakurai's.

"Mine are, too," Doppo said, voice feeble. Their scars might've looked different, but they weren't unlike each other's. "...We really do match."

Carefully, Jakurai ran his fingers over the scars. Doppo resisted the urge to rip his hand away, his wrist twitching in his hold. Only Hifumi had ever seen his scars this close, having avoided the matter with his parents as much as he possibly could. But Jakurai's touch was gentle and delicate, caressing the wounds as if they'd re-open at the wrong move and inspecting them with a grim interest.

Jakurai let out a mirthless laugh. Softly, he said, "We make quite the pair, don't we?"

As the storm continued to rage outside, they fell into a silence, sharing unspoken words of a similar sorrow.

Neither he nor Jakurai were the touchy-feely type, much to Hifumi's displeasure. No matter how many times he insisted that they "act more like a couple" and pushed them to get out of their comfort zones, they reserved those gestures for private spaces and intimate moments. In fact, Doppo preferred it that way since it made it easier to keep things between them on the down low -- something they both agreed to early on in their relationship. He received enough attention by having a loud mouth for a best friend and being a member of Matenrou, he didn't need people poking their noses into his business for dating the renowned Jinguji Jakurai either.

But nothing ever worked out Doppo's way.

"Wow~★ So the rumors are true?"

It was his fault that things came to this. His fault for not being discreet in their interactions, his fault for causing rumors to circulate, his fault for suggesting they go to the tea house bordering Shibuya, his fault they ran into Amemura Ramuda -- the very bane of Jakurai's existence. Rarely did Jakurai show any sign of annoyance that Doppo couldn't help but cower at the storm brewing in his azure irises, even if the look wasn't directed at him.

"I believe I do not know what you're talking about, Amemura-kun," Jakurai said, tone curt. No doubt Jakurai was tall, but his height had always served as a comfort, a safe space where Doppo tucked himself underneath his chin within moments of stillness. Right then, however, he loomed over Ramuda's small figure like a wolf cornering the pup that dared cross his path.

"Huh? For real?!" Widening his eyes, Ramuda's hands flew to his cheeks with a pop! Maybe it was because Doppo wasn't used to him, but Ramuda's voice sounded like it'd gotten higher since their last encounter -- grating and pitchy, a noise more annoying than the city’s clamor. "Everyone's talking about it, y'know. They're saying that Matenrou's leader is dating one of his members!"

Ramuda's eyes landed on him, lips curling into a grin that seemed akin to a sneer. Bouncing onto the heels of his feet, Ramuda bent forward to get a better look at him but Jakurai stepped in between them acting as a shield.

"Doppo-kun is my teammate."

"So you're having some team bonding without the other one?" Ramuda stood on his tiptoes, jumping up and down with his hands framing his eyes like binoculars to scan the crowds.

"Hifumi-kun is busy."

"You're just leaving him out? That's so mean, Jakurai!" Ramuda stopped hopping and he crossed his arms, cheeks puffing out as he stuck his chin up towards Jakurai. From behind, Doppo saw how Jakurai clenched his fists and how his veins bulged in his skin. "I bet what you're doing is really, really, really bo~ring, too!"

"That’s none of your business --"

Without warning, Ramuda shoved Jakurai to the side and skipped right up to him. Before Doppo could react, Ramuda grabbed his hands and swung them up-and-down so hard he worried his arms would pop out their sockets. For someone so damn tiny, Ramuda had a strong grip. Peering up at him, Ramuda tilted his head to the side and batted his long, long eyelashes.

"Why don't ya leave that stuffy, old man and join me today, Mr. Salary-man~? I'm sure you'll have tons and tons of fun with my honeys! ♥" His finely manicured nails poking into his palms, he dragged him into the crowd and the one thing keeping Doppo from tripping over his feet was Ramuda's vice grip.

"Um --"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't manhandle my teammate, Amemura-kun," Jakurai cut in. A contrast to his usual gentleness, Jakurai pushed Ramuda away and Doppo's back hit Jakurai's chest as he wrapped his arm around him. Meanwhile, Ramuda stumbled backwards, pink hair bouncing against his shoulders, and he pouted in a way that put spoiled, little girls to shame. Jakurai's grip on him tightened.

"But you're doing the same!" Ramuda whined, hands on his hips. "Besides, you didn't even ask him what he wanted. See what a big meanie you are?!"

Jakurai's chest rose and fell, the exhale of his sigh a heavy weight blowing through his hair. Reluctantly, Jakurai let go of him and his backside grew colder as he left him. Jakurai wore an unreadable expression.

"Well, Doppo-kun." Doppo squirmed in spot, hearing the traces of irritation that leaked through. As if sensing his discomfort, Jakurai's face softened and he continued speaking in a calmer tone. "Do you have anything to say?"

Two pairs of eyes stared at him -- a bitter azure and an icy blue. Doppo's decision had long been made, but that didn't make him any less stressed. The rejection would probably make Ramuda bother Jakurai more which would make Jakurai more upset and it would be all because of him. Mentally berating himself for this whole mess, Doppo turned to Ramuda and dipped his head. He gulped.

"T-Thank you for the offer, Amemura-kun, but I'm sorry, Jingu -- Dr. Jinguji and I already made plans for the day."

He might've been seeing things, but he could've sworn he saw Ramuda's mouth twitch.

"Awww, but you're gonna miss out on sooo much fun!" Face scrunching up, Ramuda's shoulders drooped and he kicked the ground like a child throwing a tantrum. But with the blink of an eye, he perked up and returned his gaze. "But, I totally get it! That dumb-dumb Jakurai doesn't let go of anything, so I guess you'll have to be his prisoner for the day."

Grabbing his collar, Ramuda pulled him down to his level and Doppo's stomach churned at the sugary, saccharine scent of his perfume. He met Jakurai’s eyes, placing a kiss on Doppo's cheek with a particularly loud mwah that drowned out the noise of passersby. He grinned a smile that sent a shiver down Doppo's spine.

"Hit me up if you ever wanna have some fun! Catch ya later, Mr. Salary-man~! ♥"

Ramuda winked at him and stuck his tongue out at Jakurai, running off before either of them could say anything else. Once he'd disappeared into the sea of people, Doppo released the breath he'd been holding and the tension eased out of his body. He thought that spending two decades with Hifumi was exhausting, but a couple of minutes with Ramuda left him deader than dead.

"Are you okay, Doppo-kun?" Jakurai's voice returned to its mild cadence, but a ghost of a scowl lingered on his features. He cupped his face, his thumb stroking the cheek that Ramuda had kissed to wipe off the lip gloss residue. Though, with the force with which he rubbed, he might've been trying to wipe off the kiss altogether.

Fidgeting at his touch, Doppo's eyes shifted from side-to-side. "Yeah, but are you?"

Jakurai's frown deepened.

"Yes," Jakurai said in a clipped tone. "Amemura-kun is just... quite a special character."

Doppo nodded, not daring to press further lest he irritate Jakurai any more. He couldn't fault him, anyways. Even if he didn't know exactly what happened between the two, Amemura Ramuda embodied the cacophony of the city and the chaos of the crowds that pissed him off to no end and that was enough to put him off.

"Anyhow, it's best to forget that happened. Shall we get going?" Not giving him a chance to respond, Jakurai grabbed his hand and pulled him along. While keeping up with Jakurai's strides usually didn't pose a problem, Doppo stumbled over his feet as he followed behind.

"J-Jinguiji-san, we're in public...!"

Jakurai paused and Doppo nearly ran into his back at the sudden stop. Lips quirking up in a rather crooked manner for a gentleman like him, Jakurai turned to him with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes. Doppo's breath caught in his throat.

"There’s no harm if others know that you are my teammate, hm?"

Heat rushed to Doppo's cheeks and he shook his head, not trusting himself with words. Jakurai squeezed his hand, which he returned, and they made their way to their destination. A selfless saint who always gave yet never took was all he'd ever known Jakurai to be, but as Doppo fell in step with him, he wouldn't deny that seeing this side sent a thrill throughout his body.

vi.

Silence and stares weren't normally part of the menu -- especially when the planets aligned to get him out of work on time and let Jakurai join them for dinner -- but Doppo found himself at the center of stunned attention that evening. Hifumi's chopsticks clattered onto his plate, jaw dropping to the table and eyebrows flying up to meet his hairline. Across from him, Jakurai's face bloomed into a red that rivaled the color of Doppo's hair and his bottom lip quivered slightly.

Doppo squinted at them. "What?"

"You said it, Doppo-chin."

"Said what?"

"Doc's name, you said it!"

Doppo looked at him incredulously. "Yeah? It's ‘Jinguji-san’ --"

"No, not like that!" Posture drooping, Hifumi picked up his chopsticks and mimicked Doppo's pose. In fake annoyance, he said, "'Hifumi! What Jakurai and I do at his place is none of your business!'"

Replaying the sentence over and over in his mind, Doppo's eyes bulged wide. Holy shit. He did say that, didn't he? He looked over at Jakurai, who'd buried the lower part of his face with his palm and looked at his half-eaten food as if it was the most interesting thing on the Earth; his usual perfect posture faltered under his gawking.

No matter how many times Jakurai assured him that calling him by his first name was all right, no matter how many times Hifumi urged him on, no matter how many times he told himself that no, it wasn't disrespectful to call your boyfriend by his first name, Doppo always found himself tongue-tied whenever he tried to speak it and fell back to "Jinguji-san." Somehow, he'd beaten out the "Doctor" habit, but crossing the first name boundary seemed about as possible as that damn manager of his cutting him some slack.

Who knew that all it took was an incredibly taxing day at work and a lack of patience?

"I-I'm so sorry, Jinguji-san --"

"Boo!" Hifumi pouted, giving a thumb's down. "You said it already, no going back!"

"You butt out of this --"

"Now, now, let’s settle down," said Jakurai, a warble in his voice. He cleared his throat, the red dusting his cheeks having faded to a bright pink, and schooled his face into a neutral expression -- or as neutral as wobbly lips and an unsteady gaze could be, that was. "Hifumi-kun, let Doppo-kun take things at his own pace. Doppo-kun, it's not everyday we are able to have dinner with Hifumi-kun so let's enjoy it."

Hifumi mumbled an "okay" and grumbled, but as always, he was quick to return to his upbeat attitude and started chattering on about some stray cat he saw on the way home from the supermarket earlier. Doppo, meanwhile, kept quiet and watched as Hifumi and Jakurai carried the conversation. His eyes caught Jakurai's, but Jakurai looked down after a moment's hesitation and gave him a stiff smile. All of a sudden, Doppo didn't feel hungry anymore.

After they finished dinner, Doppo washed the dishes while Hifumi got ready for work and though he insisted otherwise, Jakurai volunteered to help him. Usually, working in silence wasn't a problem between them, but the awkwardness in the air led to the simple task stretching out for an eternity where Doppo skirted around him -- made worse whenever he brushed up against him or had to say something.

"Sorry, J -- ...sorry."

"J -- Um, can you pass those plates?"

"Did you get those yet, J -- ...yeah."

The last of the dishes settled into the dish rack with a louder clack than necessary. Jakurai turned to him.

"Doppo-kun, you do not need to be so afraid of saying my name." A hint of exasperation lied underneath his calm tone. "Either of them, for that matter."

"I'm sorry," Doppo said as he wiped the counter dry, moving methodically to avoid the look Jakurai gave him. "I just -- I just don't want to overstep any more boundaries."

Jakurai's face softened, though a frown marred his features. "Whoever said there were any?"

"I mean, you're you." Doppo flailed the towel in his direction, drops of water flying off. "You're Dr. Jinguji Jakurai, you're a genius who lowered the death rate on the front lines and you were part of the legendary Dirty Dawg and you're a really great guy in general." He heaved a sigh, the towel falling to his side as he slumped. "And I'm... me."

The dripping of the faucet filled the pause that followed, Doppo fidgeting in spot. His low self-esteem was no secret to either of them, neither were the comparisons he constantly made between them. For every "I don't deserve you," he uttered, Jakurai countered with a "You deserve the world," but his words could only do so much to stave off the nagging voice in the back of his head that told him Jakurai was way out of his league. Some days his reassurances were easier to swallow, others virtually impossible. And now that he'd spoken Jakurai's name as if they were equals of all things, his doubts suffocated him.

Hurriedly, Doppo returned to drying the counter. "It's dumb, I know --"

"Yes, you're you," Jakurai said. He took Doppo's chin and lifted his head up to meet his eyes, gracing him with a smile. "You're Kannonzaka Doppo, a salary-man who works incredibly hard, a member of the battle season’s champion Matenrou, and a very good friend. That's pretty amazing, no?"

Doppo couldn't bring himself to return the smile. "That's nowhere near as impressive as you."

Tenderly, Jakurai stroked Doppo's chin. "Your feats are separate from mine. Mine are not worth more than yours."

"But --"

Jakurai pressed his thumb against Doppo's lips, shushing him. "We're partners, correct? Are we not equals?"

A lump formed in Doppo's throat, his question ringing in his ears. He'd never entertained such an outrageous idea; the very notion of it incomprehensible, unfathomable. Someone as unremarkable as him paled in comparison to Jakurai's glory. Matching the crest of Shinjuku's skyscrapers that pierced the skies, Jakurai stood atop a pedestal kilometers high and all Doppo could do was stop and stare.

But here Jakurai was, the one who he'd admired for so long placing them on the even ground.

His instincts, inevitably, yelled at him to refute him -- that he was just saying things, he was simply placating him, he was merely leading him on. But for as much as his demons twisted Jakurai's words and strangled him with them, Jakurai himself shone a light upon him whilst stuck in a tempest of torments and cleared his mind, if only for a short while; his doubts would probably never leave, but Jakurai always won over all else. If he couldn't trust himself, he could at least trust Jakurai.

The weight on his chest a little bit lighter, Doppo gave a sheepish smile.

"We are, I guess. Thank you... um..." He forced out the name on the tip of his tongue. "...Jakurai."

The serenity on Jakurai's face immediately scrunched up in embarrassment, and he squeezed his eyes shut as red colored his cheeks once again.

"You're welcome, Doppo-kun," he said, choking the sentence out.

"Er, are you okay... Jakurai?"

Covering his face with his hands, he nodded vigorously and the strands of his hair fell out of place.

"...Jaku -- huh?!"

Pulling him into an embrace, Jakurai buried his face into his shoulder. Pressed up against him, the warmth of his blush seeped through his shirt and his unsteady breaths tickled the nape of his neck.

"Forgive me, Doppo-kun," came Jakurai's muffled voice. "Even though I said that you may call me by my name, I’m not used to being addressed so informally."

"T-Then I'll call you 'Jakurai-san' --"

"No." Jakurai shook his head, long locks flying from side-to-side. Softly, he said, "It makes me happy when you call me 'Jakurai.'"

Doppo’s heart thumped, skipping a beat or two at that. In the end, all he wanted was to make Jakurai happy. He'd do his best to never let him down, and he could start with something so bold such as saying his name.

"Okay..." He paused. "Jakurai."

If he strained his ears enough, he could hear Jakurai let out a noise. Doppo grinned and patted his back, a chuckle bubbling within his chest. "Mature" was one of the first words he thought of when it came to Jakurai, but "cute" fit him as well.

"...Jakurai?" Doppo said, the name still strange on his tongue. Nonetheless, it brought him a sense of giddiness he had to admit he enjoyed.

"Yes, Doppo-kun?"

"If I can call you 'Jakurai,' you can just call me 'Doppo.'"

Jakurai's knees buckled underneath his weight and Doppo used all his strength to keep them from toppling over. In the background, Hifumi whooped.

vii.

Another bought of restlessness struck tonight, though Doppo couldn't tell if it was due to his insomnia or from laying beside Jakurai. It wasn't as if this was the first time they'd shared a bed, but his body weighed so heavily, so uncomfortably, that he feared waking him up from his much needed rest with his bare existence. Honestly, he wouldn't have minded sleeping on the futon, or even the couch, but Jakurai insisted that it was fine and he wasn't one to argue with him.

As quietly as possible, Doppo turned over to see Jakurai sleeping away. He laid so still that the only indication he was alive was the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breaths barely audible within the silence of the room. A part of him was tempted to clutch onto the tail of his braid, plaited across his shoulder with not a strand out of place, but he fought the urge so as to not ruin the image of the sleeping beauty. Watching him deep in slumber, Doppo's lips quirked up regardless of his own fatigue. At least one of them was able to get some sleep.

The hands of the clock on Jakurai's side ticked by gratingly, reading 1:03 in an ever present reminder that work was steadily approaching. He watched as the minutes changed, every sixty seconds feeling like sixty lifetimes, before stifling a sigh and carefully pulling himself out of bed. Jakurai mentioned he had sleeping pills somewhere around, if he was remembering correctly. Normally he'd ask first, but he didn't dare wake him for something as small as this. If he could find them, he'd apologize first thing in the morning and buy replacements himself.

As his feet hit the cool, wooden floor, a low murmur made him freeze. He turned back, an apology ready on his tongue -- "Sorry for waking you up," "Sorry for taking things without asking" -- but Jakurai simply laid there the same way he left him. One beat, two beats, three beats, four; the sound didn't come back. Rubbing his ears, Doppo wondered if he was so tired that he'd started hearing things. He pushed himself off the bed when a groan filled the room.

He snapped back to Jakurai, still lying motionless but his features twisted in agitation. Doppo drew closer to his side, another groan escaping Jakurai's lips while his brows furrowed together.

"Jakurai?" Doppo shook his shoulder. His murmurs grew louder and his breathing became more erratic. Chest heaving heavily, his shoulders tensed and his hands clutched the duvet.

"Jakurai." Doppo shook harder, to which Jakurai's head jerked to the side. His braid became tousled as he began fidgeting, strands sticking to the sweat beads rolling down his face and neck. Biting his lip, Doppo watched as his body convulsed. Whatever he was dreaming of only seemed to be getting worse.

Breaking Jakurai's fingers free of their death grip on the duvet, Doppo grabbed his cold, clammy hands and squeezed hard. Hoping the gesture would have the same effect as it did on Hifumi during his nightmares, he tugged up.

"Jakurai!"

Jakurai's eyes shot open with a gasp, darting around the room as if in search for something -- or rather, like something was searching for him -- and his nails dug crater-deep crescents into Doppo's palm. He curled in on himself as he sat up, poised to protect himself as if he were under attack. His mouth hung open, breaths short and rapid, and finally his shaken gaze landed on him.

"...Doppo?"

"I'm here." Doppo squeezed harder. "You were having a nightmare, I think."

Running a hand down his face, the strands of Jakurai’s hair fell loose and clung to his skin which had taken on a deathly, pale hue.

"I... I believe that's right, yes." Nodding, he swallowed hard and his eyes fell to his lap. He shivered, the sensation rippling throughout his nerves and onto Doppo.

"What was it about?" Doppo asked, barely above a whisper. When Jakurai's fingers twitched, he hastily added, "I’m sorry. I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

In the silence of the night, Jakurai's gasps echoed loudly throughout. He sat motionless hunched over his figure, save for the heaving of his chest as he took in air, deeply and desperately. His lavender locks curtained his hooded gaze, sockets holding empty eyes that dulled and slackened. As his breathing steadily returned to a normal rate, his grip on him loosened though he didn't let go. Likewise, Doppo remained equally as still -- scared that any movement would set him off or that any sound would send him into disarray again.

With a small voice, Jakurai broke the quiet.

"It's a dream I have often." Azure irises taking on a faraway look, he stared ahead at nothing in particular.

"...Yeah?" was all Doppo could respond with. Comfort might not be his strong suit, but at the very least, he could listen.

"I may have saved many lives on the battlefield, but I've also taken just as many and failed much more." Try as he might to keep his voice even, it quavered and shook as convulsions racked his body. Inching closer towards him, Doppo rubbed circles onto his hands with his thumbs. Jakurai's jaw clenched, the only response to his touch. "Those lives... in my dreams, they haunt me. The ones I failed curse me for abandoning them and the others try to drag me straight down to hell with them."

Eyelids shutting close, he shuddered. The wrinkles framing his eyes deepened, his cheek bones hollower. Hesitantly, Doppo wrapped an arm around him; after a moment, the other one followed and he embraced him tightly. His presence was all he could offer him, as little as it meant.

The clock's hands ticked on, and Jakurai's arms circled around his waist and he pulled him into his lap. Resting his chin atop his head, the beating of Jakurai's heart hammered wildly against his ear.

"Perhaps that’s my fate and I deserve it." Doppo's heart broke at how resigned he sounded, stomach churning at how weak his words were. Neither suited Jakurai, neither felt right. "I have been called a genius for my work, but sometimes I wonder if I truly am one when there were so many lives I couldn't help."

"That's not your fault," Doppo said, louder than intended. Jakurai's jaw clenched against his head, his hold on him trembling as it tightened. "You're -- You're just one person. You couldn't have possibly saved everyone. Not by yourself." Softly, he continued. "You did what you could and... I think that's enough."

A stillness fell over, and he felt Jakurai's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed his words. He made neither a move nor a sound, but the drumming of his heart slowed to a steadier tempo. An apology bubbled up on Doppo's tongue as the seconds of silence passed -- for overstepping his place, for butting into something he knew next to nothing about -- but Jakurai pressed his lips onto the top of his head before he could spit it out.

"Thank you, Doppo. I needed to hear that." He spoke quietly, but the fragility in his voice dissipated. Sitting back, he still wore an ashen expression, but the storm had left his eyes. Relief washed over Doppo at the small smile Jakurai gave him. Though not the strong and gentle face he was used to seeing, it was better than before.

"You're welcome," Doppo said, thankful for the darkness covering his blush. "I-I'm here for you, if ever you need someone to listen."

Another kiss met his forehead and Jakurai's fingers threaded through his hair, slowly and gingerly. "I know. Now, forgive me for disturbing you. Let's get back to sleep, shall we?"

"Haha, right..."

Deciding to keep his restlessness to himself, he followed Jakurai's lead and laid back down. Here, Doppo found himself in the same position as he was earlier: awake, with sleep far from his grasp. He should've been used to this by now but he suppressed his sigh, not wanting to burden Jakurai any further with his own problems. As he contemplated his previous decision of searching for sleeping pills, Jakurai shifted beside him and their fingers brushed against each other's.

"Doppo..." His name hung in the air, faintly like the sounds of cars driving by in the distance. "May I hold you?"

He waited a beat before hooking their fingers together. "Yeah."

Permission given, Jakurai wasted no time wrapping his arms around Doppo and cradling him. Doppo's head pressed up against his chest, his heartbeats playing a steady rhythm in his ear and his breaths a light breeze through the strands of his hair. Finding a comfortable spot atop his waist, Doppo's arms encircled him and their legs tangled together underneath the duvet. Despite everything, Jakurai's embrace was always warm.

Neither of them managed to fall asleep that night, but they were at least able to find some semblance of peace in each other.

viii.

Date nights where they actually went out were few and far in between considering their schedules, not that Doppo minded. The times where they'd fall asleep on each other on the couch were good enough for him, but he had to admit that going out for once was a nice change of pace. Although, yes, he much preferred the quiet night ins. he didn't care where they went nor what they did so as long as they were together.

Waiting in the living room, he checked his watch -- not out of dread, but out of anticipation for the evening ahead. They'd stopped by Jakurai's place first after finishing their shifts since he had some documents to drop off, though Doppo certainly wasn't complaining about the respite. Sinking into the couch, his eyelids fluttered closed and he pinched himself to stay awake as sleep tempted him. A dull thud came from further in the apartment, shaking the rest of his exhaustion off.

"Jakurai?"

No response.

Standing up and walking towards the bedroom, a sinking feeling fell through Doppo's stomach while he fought off his negative thoughts as best he could.

"Jakurai...? Oh --"

Crouched before his closet, a box had spilled over onto the floor that scattered an array of photographs and badges and other trinkets around Jakurai's feet. They laid there ignored, though, in favor for the photo he held in his hand. From his angle, Doppo couldn't make out the image but he could see the way he pressed his lips together in a fine line and the way his brow creased as he looked at it with hazy eyes.

Doppo fidgeted by the door. "Do you need help?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Jakurai blinked and turned his attention to him.

"My apologies for the delay, I..." He glanced back at the photograph. "I got distracted."

"It's okay," Doppo muttered as he hurried to his side.

He picked up the items with haste, trying his best not to dwell on them -- badges with symbols he couldn't identify, photographs with memories he wasn't privy to, mementos of a life Jakurai led without him in it. They held no meaning to him, though perhaps the lack of meaning was meaning in and of itself; for all they've gone through together, there was still so much he didn't know about him. In his peripheral, Jakurai worked at a much slower pace, or maybe it was more accurate to say not at all. Each emblem he turned over, each photograph he took, each piece of years gone by that he picked up was held with a delicacy that made him think they'd come alive and bite back if handled clumsily.

When he was done with his side, Doppo arranged everything he'd collected into a neat pile much like the many paperwork he'd done at work. Making sure not a thing was out of place, he held them out to him. But, Jakurai didn't take them. His face held a pensive expression, his azure eyes a still sea.

Jakurai clutched the photograph he'd been looking at when he entered the room. "Doppo, you were curious about these before, yes?"

"No," Doppo blurted out. At Jakurai's raised eyebrow, he scratched his chin and chuckled nervously. "Well, maybe a little bit. Just a little! You don't have to share anything you don't want to."

Taking the stack from him, carefully and cautiously, Jakurai sat down on the floor.

"I want to."

Doppo looked back and forth between Jakurai and the remnants of his past. "Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to feel obligated to, or anything."

Jakurai huffed a laugh, lips quirking up with a forlorn touch. "Yes, I'm very sure."

Moving over to make more room, he patted the empty space beside him. The seconds of the clock ticked a full rotation around the dial before Doppo crawled over and sat next to him. Their shoulders leaning against one another's, Jakurai handed him the photograph. It was the same one that he'd seen a while ago -- the group photo of The Dirty Dawg smiling together as if their reign wasn't fated to crash and burn, to destroy each other, to break apart in a matter of months for reasons he never dared to ask. Despite being a thin piece of paper, it weighed heavily between his fingertips.

"If... we're to have some sort of future together, I thought I ought to share these with you." Sitting right beside Jakurai like this, his soft voice reverberated throughout their shared space and vibrated through his touch. His hand covered his as he held the image of The Dirty Dawg as if to support him in the endeavor, a thumb running over the smiling faces. "A fair warning that the story behind them is rather ugly. That is, only if you do not mind listening."

For so long, Doppo had seen Jakurai as this faraway figure -- a genius among the replaceable, a legend among men, a god among mortals who'd simply blessed him with his presence. He'd pulled him out of the cacophony of the city and given him solace amidst the chaos. In a world that punished them for existing and cursed them for fighting back, Jakurai stood as an unwavering pillar, the white of his lab coat a sight he'd always be following but his figure one he'd never walk side-by-side with.

But as time went on, his image of him shifted.

Jinguji Jakurai was indeed a pillar that wavered -- a genius that knew not everything of the world and held finite patience, a legend that faltered and stumbled in the face on intimacy, a god that suffered through haunted memories and bore never fading scars. Yet somehow he stood strong and steadfast, resolute and firm in his beliefs, caring and gentle in his touch in spite of all that he faced. Neither a genius nor a legend nor a god he might be, but rather a man who felt, a man who hurt, a man who loved just as he did.

There were many sides of Jakurai that Doppo had come to see, so many things he'd come to experience. At the same time, the very proof of all the things he still didn't know stared back at him. The unreachable sat within grasp and the space separating them grew smaller and smaller with each passing day.

Shaking his head, Doppo leaned in closer. Perhaps Jakurai wasn't so far out of reach like he'd once thought.

"I don't mind."

#hypnosis microphone #hypnosis mic #hypmic #jakudo #jakudoppo

2 notes · View notes

alia-turin · 6 years

Text

This chapter is a bit darker, after all things happen after Noct had already disappeared and we all know how the world looks after that. The game doesn’t really touch (even Comrades) on a lot of the things I imagine happen in Lestallum, like provision shortages etc so I kind of tried to add that here. Hope y’all enjoy, Sorry for the angst.

Fic Title: Back to Life Chapter number: Act IV Previous Chapters: Act I, Act II, Act III Rating/Warnings: M (sex, swearing, drinking, Tredd) Pairing: Tredd x Reader Summary: Reader has nice a career and wants to grow it, relationships are not her thing so meeting Tredd at a bar turns out to be exactly what she needs after a long day at work. Notes: Story moves to Lestallum, Noct is already gone so the world is sinking into darkness. I always wanted more canon info on how Lestallum was operating, for the normal people, refugees etc. not just the game characters since I cannot imagine it was a fun place considering everything.

If you feel like supporting this writer consider buying me a coffee: Ko-Fi

Tagging: @birdsandivory @lazarustrashpit @jojopitcher @yourcoolfriendwithallthecandy @kairakara101 @ladychocoberry @demidemon09 @mysticrainpain @mp938368

It has been one of these long days that you wanted to end as soon as it started. Not that it really mattered, every single day in Lestallum for the past year or so has been the exact same thing. Ever since the darkness happened and people started barricading the city. Going out wasn’t safe and nobody did it unless they had to. Staying in was an absolutely nightmare. It was safe, but wherever you went it was the same faces and you can see the hope vanishing from their eyes with every single day. People had even stopped asking where the young king was.

You were sitting in one of the tents rolling bandages, it was the only thing you had the strength to do. That was your new profession, not rolling bandages but you had learned thing or two about nursing. As it turns out nobody needed an interior designer when the world was ending. Another reminder for you how unprepared you were for a life like that. You often wondered what the point of all that was, you haven’t seen the sun more than two months and it seemed like it would never come around again. At first Lestallum had been a shelter, a place where you hoped that eventually you might rebuild life, but what happens when all life was dying? Lestallum was safe, but you helped in the clinic, you knew what the hunters, crownsguard and leftovers of the glaive were saying. The world was falling into ruins.

At first when you moved to Lestallum you thought you would miss the luxuries in life. Having nice hot bath, gym, hairstylist and clothes that costed more than they should. It wasn’t that, these things are easy to live without after couple of months. The routine was killing you. Nothing was happening. Same people, tired of what life had served them. Sure, every day in the clinic was different. Today someone had broken an arm, the next day someone would come with the flu. But that wasn’t life. Loneliness. That was probably the worst part of it. You never managed to make friends in Lestallum, and everybody you knew from before that was dead. Including him, that bastard.

On days like that you often caught yourself thinking about him. Maybe he got the better deal at the end anyway. He wasn’t sitting here rolling bandages until it was dinner time because there was nothing better to do. Probably lambs at a slaughter house felt better than you since lambs didn’t know what was happening to them, you were aware that if nothing changed, sooner or later you all would be going to the slaughter house.

Your thoughts went to him again. He would call you a spoiled brat and tell you to get a hold of yourself. He has always been right you were a spoiled brat. The only reason you managed to get to Lestallum in the first place is because he told you to do so and you were just stuck here when the darkness came. In a sense he had saved your life and you hated him. Not for saving you but for even having the need to be saved. He was one of the many reasons you were where you were and if he hadn’t died you were going to kill him.

The bandage you were rolling had long been rolled and you left it in the box with the rest. You didn’t want to think about that anymore. You haven’t thought about him in days and now all your thoughts and feelings were rolling in your head like avalanche. Did you still love him? Maybe the thought of him, but you also hated what he did.

You were distracted by shouting coming from outside and decided to check. Maybe there was finally something happening in the monotone day of Lestallum.

You walked just in time to say that Libertus was one of the people shouting, there was a man in front of him that was obviously on the receiving end. Couple more glaives were around them. As you started coming closer, you saw Libertus punching the other man in the gut. The man made a step backwards, his body bending from the hit.

“You were always a stupid dick, Libertus.” The man said and you froze. You were probably going insane, that voice…no it couldn’t be. He was dead. Libertus had seen it, he told you he was dead.

Then the man straightened himself and jumped on Libertus, the other glaives grabbed him and you could finally see him…It was Tredd. Stubble was covering his face and he seemed like he had lost some weight but it was him. He tried to fight the glaives that were holding him, he tried to fight his way to Libertus but it didn’t work.

“Why don’t you tell them to let go of me, huh?” Tredd spat on the ground in front of Lib’s feet. “You are afraid I will rip your fuckin head off. Not so brave when Nyx is not around to save your ass, are you?”

“I don’t have time to deal with you.” Libertus eventually said and started walking away. “Stay around, I’m sure the Marshal would love to chat with you.”

“Yeah I’d gladly tell him as well where he can stick it.” Tredd shouted as the glaives let go of him.

You were standing there finding it hard to believe what was happening. Why was that happening? How was it happening? Tredd noticed you eventually and just stared at you as well.

“Fucking finally someone who is happy to see me.” He said and walked towards you but as soon as he reached you, you slapped him as hard as you could, tears running down your eyes. “What is your fucking problem, what is everyone’s fucking problem?”

“You were dead!” you shouted at him and tried to clean the wetness of your face. It wasn’t tears of grief or happiness, it was tears for everything that had happened so far. Him dying, your life being taken away, living one day for the next without knowing when a demon would just breach the city.

“So, I have been told, feel pretty alive.” he chuckled but there was something sad in his smile. “Come on, I need a rundown on what is happening. I feel like I have massive memory loss.”

You just stared at him wanting to slap him again for your broken heart. You mourned him. You cried for him, and now he was here acting as if he has no idea what was happening. He got you all in that!

You just walked toward the place that you were calling home and you heard his steps after you. He was fucking dead, how was he walking and talking. Sure, there were a lot of people who had vanished under Insomnia and appeared later but…weeks later, not almost two years. Not after someone had seen their dead body. Was Libertus lying? Why would he lie?

Your new home was in one of the older buildings of Lestallum, very small apartment, but it wasn’t like you owned anything to put in it. Just some clothes and that was it.

“You have certainly downgraded.” Tredd said as he walked in and you regretted not having a weapon to just kill him on the spot.

“And whose fault is that?” you kicked one of the two chairs as an invitation for him to sit, he didn’t but you did. “Welcome to my new life, you will be happy to hear I don’t have thirty pairs of overly expensive shoes or a whole drawer with make up. Oh also occasionally I don’t have a meal for couple of days because delivery trucks get attacked by demons and the city is not yet fully self sufficient.”

“How is any of that my fault?” Tredd said absolutely innocent even a bit hurt.

“Really, Tredd? You recall trying to kill the king or something of these lines?” you couldn’t believe it. He had always been stubborn ignorant asshole, but that was beyond him.

“First of all, it was the Captain who did the killing I was otherwise occupied. Second I have massive memory loss and I have no idea what happened between that night in Insomnia and literary three days ago when I just woke up on the side of a road.” He came closer to you grabbing your hands in his almost gently. “Third, if my calculations are correct, I have been out of things for months and judging by the feeling of my balls I haven’t fucked anything in that time so…”

“You should have stayed dead.” You said quietly and pulled your hands away from his. As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted them, but it was too late already.

“Stop being such a bitch? What have I done to you? I told you to leave town, you would be fucking dead if it wasn’t for me.” He got up obviously angry. “Why did I even think you’d be happy to see me? You are most likely riding every fucking cock in that city from the moment you arrived.”

“I mourned you!” you got up kicking the chair behind. “I waited for you, then I started hearing stories about what the Kingsglaive did. About what you did. Then one day I met Libertus and he told me that he saw you dead. Until that moment I was hoping you are alive and just hiding somewhere, but then I realized you were just dead. I mourned you, Tredd, I cried, my heart was broken. I hated you for what you did then I forgave you, then the sun was gone and I hated you again. I tried to forget you. To move on…” your voice broke. Tears were running down your face again and he was just standing there like a statue. “Get out of here!” you shouted at him not wanting to show weakness.

“You know what?” his voice was calm but you could feel the anger. “Fuck you. Go back to riding Libertus’ dick or whoever else you are fucking, I’m done with your ass.”

“I’m not fucking anybody, you ignorant piece of shit!” you shouted after him as he shut the door behind himself.

Time moved even slower and more painful in Lestallum. Somehow Tredd was always in front of your eyes and people were making sure to point that out to you. You wanted to avoid him, but was impossible. You knew about everything he was doing without actually wanting to find that out. Apparently Libertus brought him to the Marshal. There were several conflicting stories how that went down, and people made sure to tell you every single one of them despite you protesting it. Regardless of what happened in that room, at all ended with Tredd joining the Kingsglaive again. Good for him you thought and returned to your monotone duties in the clinic.

Then it was all the talk about the girls he was flirting on or sleeping with. People would tell you who was the girl they saw him with and then give you the ‘I’m so sorry look’. You weren’t sure if you hated him more or the people who somehow thought that was information you wanted to hear. Turns out you never managed to move on from him, it was just easier not to think about his sorry ass when he was presumed dead. But now he was here, doing what Tredd did and you wished more often than not for a demon to breach these walls and eat him alive. At least like that you can return to silent mourning.

One day as you were walking in the examination room in the clinic, if that tent could be called a room at all, you saw him sitting there, there was a long deep cut on his arm.

“I will call someone else.” You said as your eyes met.

“Why? Scared you will start crying?” he teased you and look for the closest pair of scissors that you can shove in his eye.

“How did that happen.” You were trying to keep your voice completely flat as you reached for bandages and something to clean the wound. It would need stitches as well which was great news since you were low painkillers.

“You know, saving the world.” He chuckled and you raised an eyebrow. It was his fucking fault the world needed saving to begin with. He flinched as you started cleaning the wound but didn’t say anything. Part of you expected that he would call you a bitch and accuse you of causing him pain on purpose, but he didn’t. Tredd just accepted it.

“Heard the Marshal pardoned you.” You said as you started stitching the wound. He was still holding well even if it was obvious he was feeling pain.

“No, he wanted to kill me. Libertus defended me and vouched for me, no idea why.” That was something you didn’t know. “He said I’m useful in a fight and should atone for what I have done. As if I care, ouch!” he shouted as you stuck the needle harder than before. “At first I thought he was really fucking you that’s why he is trying to save my ass.”

“How did you even reach to that conclusion? The only reason I ever talked to Libertus because I saw him in his uniform and wanted to ask what had happened to you. That’s how I met him, the only times he talks to me is when he needs something from the clinic.” You sighed and started bandaging his arm. You had no straight to fight him.

“I was pissed okay?” he raised his voice and you just gave him a tired look. “You said he told you I was dead, and I am obviously not dead. You were angry at me for no reason. I thought…”

“You thought what Tredd? That he seduced me while I was crying over you? Between trying to figure out my life and sobbing over your ass I haven’t had time to figure out who would be invited between my legs.” you checked the bandage and got off the chair you were sitting on. “You are done, you can go. It needs to be changed tomorrow, so make sure you stop by.” You turned around and you were about to leave as he grabbed you by the wrist and squeezed hard. “You are hurting me.” You turned around and looked at him, he wasn’t saying anything, just looking at you and holding your wrist firmly. “Tredd, let go of me.” You repeated trying to free your hand, but you couldn’t.

Eventually he did and started walking toward the exit but then stopped, turned around and pushed you against the examination table making you sit on it.

“Tredd, stop what are you doing…” you moaned as he kissed you and moved his hands on your ass pulling you closer to him.

“Fixing things by trying to fuck you.” He mumbled in your kiss as he started undoing his pants.

“Who said I want you to fuck me?” you said as you pulled your lips away from his, your hands were helping him pull his pants down. “That won’t fix…” you moaned.

“Stop me then.” You didn’t stop him. You are angry with him for everything he had done and messing up your life but you still wanted him and loved him. Funny how two years of living on the essentials makes you brave enough to admit your own feelings at least in front of yourself.

You help him pull his pants down, then you both managed to take yours off and without waiting any further he started fucking you there in the examination room. You moaned louder with each thrust, it has been such a long time and you missed him, feeling him close to you and inside you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulder pulling him closer and you had to dig your teeth in his t-shirt since you were getting too loud.

“Fuck, forgot how nice you feel.” He groaned as he picked up his pace pushing you into an orgasm. It has been too long, that made it too easy for to push you over the end. Took him a bit longer to follow you but once he came he didn’t move, you were both just standing there, his arms around your waist, yours around his shoulders.

As soon as some logical thought appeared in your head you knew that was a mistake. Your problems weren’t going to be fixed with sex, although you had to admit you did feel a bit better now. You had to say something, you had to talk to him because he wasn’t going to do it. You doubted that dead made him more aware of his own emotions.

Eventually he pulled out slowly and started buttoning his pants. You did the same in complete silence, words just didn’t come to your mind. You wanted him back, but you weren’t going to beg for it.

“I will see you around when I come for the bandage tomorrow.” He walked toward the entrance and stopped again. You saw his whole body move as he took a deep breath, held it and then his shoulders sank as if he wanted to say something else, but never did.

You stood there alone realizing that you just made a bigger mess than you had before. You should have either tried to patch things up or end them once and for all but not fuck him just for the sake of fucking him.

“Fuck!” you slammed the table in frustration, your hand hurt but you didn’t care. Apparently, you haven’t grown as much as you thought as a person. What was the purpose of admitting in front of yourself that you loved him, if you couldn’t tell him that. Of course there was the small detail that you were talking about Tredd after all, and saying stuff like I love you was going to force him to make ten offensive jokes and probably pretend to be dead again.

#tredd furia #tredd #tredd x reader #tredd/reader #kinsglaive #my writing

24 notes · View notes