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jetii · 5 months ago

Text

Promises Made (pt. 1/3)

Part Two | Part Three

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!Reader / Crosshair x Jedi!Reader

Words: 5,234 / 23,314

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, themes of grief/death/mourning, protective!Crosshair, everyone is bad at feelings, this part is at least 50% bickering, smut in part 3

Summary: Crosshair is back, and you're the only one who still can't seem to forgive him. When you finally have the lead you've been seeking since the extinction of the Jedi, you seize the opportunity to escape the constant turmoil his presence causes you. Of course, Crosshair has other plans.

A/N: This is my longest work yet, so I decided to split it up into parts. But if you’re just here for the smut, don’t worry, the emotional edging is worth it! It’s my first time writing Crosshair so please let me know how I’m doing.🤞 Part two will be posted same time next week.

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“I’ll be back before you know it.” You pat Omega’s head, smiling warmly down at the young girl as she clings to you. It hurt to leave her again, but you were going to be gone for a few days at most, not weeks.

Still, her grip doesn’t let up, and her gaze is turned downwards. Things had slowly gone back to normal since you all returned to Pabu from Barton IV, with the exception of Omega’s reluctance to let any of you out of her sight.

That, and how Crosshair had been acting, which was to say he was avoiding you at all costs.

That was fine with you. The others may have forgiven him, but you weren't so ready to let bygones be bygones. You could tolerate being in the same room as him, but that was as far as you were willing to go. At least until you could figure out why you were still so upset.

And it was frustrating, not being able to put your finger on the cause of your irritation. Crosshair hadn't apologized, but you expected as much. He wasn't the type. You had already forgiven him for betraying the team and refusing to come back, but something was still keeping you from completely letting go.

It was unbecoming of a Jedi, you knew that, but you couldn't shake off your resentment.

It didn't help that his behavior was confusing. The day you got back, the others had gone about their usual routine. But not Crosshair. He was more quiet and standoffish than ever, but it didn't seem directed at anyone. It was almost like he was uncomfortable, and not just in general, but with being around you.

You knew he was spending most of his time by the water, though you never saw him when you went out there yourself. Just his rifle, sitting on the rocks.

The others insisted it was a good sign that he was taking the time to process everything. You didn't have the heart to tell them that you could still sense him through the Force whenever you went out, and his unrest was clear. The tremble of his hand, his uneven breaths, his mind racing, all of it.

The only other time you felt him was when you were alone in your room. You were trying to meditate when he walked past. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel him hesitating at the door, before he ultimately chose to move on.

The thought of confronting him made you anxious. You didn't know what would happen, and you didn't know if you wanted to find out.

For now, you just wanted to keep your distance and get your anger under control. Leaving for a few days to take care of your own problems will give you the space you need, and hopefully, things will go back to normal once you get back.

"Omega?" you ask, trying to get her attention. She finally looks up at you, and you see the concern in her eyes. Your heart aches, and you kneel down, pulling her into a tight hug.

“I know,” she finally whispers.

She doesn't want you to leave. But you were.

The mission would only take a day or two, and then you'd be back. One of your old contacts had called in, saying that she had some intel you needed. You didn't have the full story, but that wasn't going to stop you from dropping everything to answer. You'd been waiting over a year for a call like this, and you needed to see it through on your own.

So you kneel, meeting Omega eye to eye. You hold out your little finger, and she sighs, unmoving. You wiggle it, drawing a soft laugh from the girl.

You’d taught her how to pinky swear not long after you rejoined the Batch. It was a sort of tradition between you and your Master, and him and his, and so on.

The promise was more sacred than a verbal one to you, even if it was more juvenile than others. It meant that the person who sealed the deal was obligated to fulfill their promise, or face a lifetime of bad luck.

Of course, you never believed that part, but you liked the sentiment behind the gesture.

"I promise I'll be back," you whisper, "don't finish Spaceworld without me, okay?"

"Okay," Omega mumbles, a weak smile on her lips. She takes your pinky with hers, and the two of you shake. "You promise you'll be safe?"

"Always," you tell her, low and serious.

Hunter watches the exchange, nodding his approval. He doesn't understand the point of the ritual, but he knows enough to know that Omega feels better. And that you'd keep your word.

Your eyes meet his and he nods, silently telling you to hurry and get going. You straighten and turn toward the Marauder, your bag slung over your shoulder, and start off.

Before you can step foot on the ramp, a voice stops you in your tracks, and your blood runs cold.

“You’re leaving?”

Crosshair steps out from under the shadow of the archway behind you, and you spin around. His eyes narrow when you face him, his hands clenched tightly around his rifle. He stands stiff, as though waiting for a fight.

You're surprised by his presence, surprised he's even talking to you, but your expression doesn't betray the shock. Your brow furrows as you regard him, trying to figure out his angle.

“I’m meeting up with a contact for a mission. I won't be gone long. Two days, maybe less, if everything goes according to plan."

You don't want to explain further, and your tone leaves no room for argument. But Crosshair has never been one to listen to what you want.

He takes a step forward, his eyes flitting over to Hunter for a brief moment, before looking at you again.

"Who's going with you?"

You frown. "What does it matter?"

"Who's going with you?" he repeats the question, slower, a hint of anger lacing his words.

You're silent for a moment, trying to figure out his ulterior motive. You didn't want to tell him, but if he wasn't going to give up, it might just be easier.

"No one," you answer, the words spilling out. "Just me."

The second the words leave your lips, you know you've said the wrong thing. Crosshair's expression morphs into one of fury, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed.

"You’re letting her go alone?” he asks, turning toward Hunter with an accusatory look. You bristle at the remark, the need to defend yourself growing stronger.

Hunter sighs, running a hand through his hair. He glances at you, and you stare back. You were determined to handle this alone, and while Hunter didn't like it, he understood. So you'd made a deal, the same one you made with Omega, that you'd return quickly and come back alive.

He gives a subtle nod, and you return it.

“I’m not ‘letting her’ do anything. She's an adult, she can do whatever she wants," he answers, crossing his arms. Crosshair's head snaps toward him, his mouth open, but Hunter cuts him off, "Besides, she said she could handle it, and I believe her."

Hunter's words should have made you happy, should have filled you with a sense of pride, but instead all you feel is dread.

If Crosshair had looked angry before, he was downright furious now. His expression morphs from shock to frustration, and his glare shifts from Hunter to you.

You're taken aback by the change. Crosshair had never looked at you like that, not even when he left the squad and you behind.

The look is gone before you can question it, replaced by a steely resolve. He stalks past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he climbs the ramp of the ship.

He doesn't say anything else, doesn't even spare a glance in your direction, and you stare after him, mouth agape, until you realize what he's doing.

"Absolutely not," you snarl, stomping up the ramp behind him. You move to grab his shoulder, but he shrugs you off. "You are not coming with me. I don't want or need your help."

Crosshair ignores your protests, dropping into the copilot's seat. He begins going over the controls, his brow furrowed.

"I don't remember inviting you," you snap. "Get out."

"Don't you mean thank you?" He doesn't turn to look at you, doesn't even spare a glance, as he answers.

"I will thank you when you leave," you seethe. You take a step forward, reaching for his shoulder again. You want him out, and if you have to drag him off the ship, you will.

But he's quicker than you, spinning around to catch your wrist. His hand trembles slightly as he holds it, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he releases you.

"You're welcome."

He turns away again, focusing on the control panel, and you growl, frustrated. You can feel your anger bubbling beneath the surface, and you know if you don't calm down, it'll spill over.

"Cross," you start, slowly, trying to keep the venom from your voice, "I don't want you to come with me."

"And I don't want you to leave, but here we are."

He doesn't sound angry anymore, doesn't sound anything, really, but his tone still sets you on edge.

"Look, I know you don't like it, but--"

"Then don't go," he interrupts, his fingers gripping the armrests.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. This was pointless. He isn’t listening to a word you’re saying, and the longer you argue, the longer it will take for you to get off world. If you don’t get going soon, you’ll be late.

"Fine," you hiss, moving to the pilot's seat. "Do whatever you want."

"Good," he replies, his tone sharp. He leans back in the chair, his arms crossed.

You buckle in and begin the startup sequence, ignoring him. You try to focus on the task at hand, but his presence is distracting, and it takes you a minute longer than usual to finish prepping the ship.

He's still tense, and so are you, but the tension is different. It's uncomfortable, the atmosphere too quiet and too loud all at once. Neither of you speak, and the only sounds are those of the Marauder starting up and the distant chatter of the others outside.

You focus on getting the ship into the air, and Crosshair stares at the ceiling. When you've cleared the planet, you set the coordinates and the ship jumps into hyperspace.

The silence continues. You hate it. You hate how tense things have been, how awkward, how strained.

You don't like him, not anymore, and he's made it clear he doesn't like you, but you were stuck with each other now. You were on a mission, and you didn't have time to sit and stew in your emotions.

"I have a job to do," you say, finally breaking the silence. "It's nothing major, just an exchange. Intel for credits. If you're going to come, then don't get in my way."

Crosshair says nothing, and you don't turn to look at him, but you hear him shift in his seat, the fabric rustling.

"Fine," he responds after some time, his voice quiet. "So what are they giving you?"

You glance over at him, startled by his sudden interest, and you're not sure how to respond. He stares back, his face blank, his expression carefully neutral. It's hard to read him, and while you can't sense any negative emotion from him, you don't trust it.

You fidget, wringing your hands in your lap. This was a bad idea. You shouldn't have told him. He was going to judge you for it, or worse, mock you.

You open your mouth to reply, but the words don't come out. What were you supposed to tell him? The truth?

No.

"Doesn't matter," you murmur, turning away from him.

You wish he'd let the conversation drop. You weren't ready for him to know. You weren't even sure if he'd understand.

"It obviously does, or you wouldn't be this worked up about it," he counters. His voice is quiet, but his tone is firm.

"I'm not worked up." You cross your arms, staring out the viewport.

"Sure you're not."

You can practically hear him roll his eyes, and it makes you angrier.

"I'm not!"

"Okay, okay. Just calm down."

"Stop telling me what to do," you growl, shooting a glare in his direction.

"Stop being so stubborn, and I will."

"Why do you even care, anyway?”

He flinches slightly, and you can see his expression soften as you hold his gaze, watching as he searches for a response. It takes him a second, and you observe in real time as the walls go back up, his face morphing into a neutral mask.

"I don't."

"Then stop acting like it," you say, rolling your eyes.

He tenses at your words, and he doesn't respond right away. You think he's finally dropped the subject, but he pushes further, his tone cold. "Why do you need it?"

"It's none of your business."

"You're my business,” he says, quick and sharp.

Then, his eyes widen, and his mouth snaps closed. He's clearly as surprised by his response as you are, and the two of you stare at each other in silence, your heart pounding.

"Oh."

You're not sure what else to say. The two of you aren't friends, aren't anything, but the weight of his statement doesn't go unnoticed.

You can't figure out if he means it.

You're not sure what to think.

"I mean..." he starts, but doesn't finish. He looks away, clearing his throat.

"It's fine," you interrupt, not wanting to make things more awkward. The tension is back, and you hate it, but at least you've reached an understanding.

There's nothing between you, not anymore.

Crosshair's quiet, and you're grateful for the silence. You take a deep breath, letting the air out slowly. You'd have time to unpack that later, but right now you had to focus on the mission. You could worry about him when this was over.

After a moment, he turns toward you, his gaze flitting over your face. He doesn't look mad, and his expression is almost pensive.

Finally, he sighs.

"You're not going to tell me what it is, are you?" he asks, watching you carefully.

You shake your head. "You’ll find out when I get it."

He stares at you for a long time, his eyes narrowed. Finally, he huffs, slumping back in his seat. His resignation is a relief, and you breathe a small sigh.

"I have to ask," you begin, eager to change the subject, "what was the point of that little display?"

He raises a brow, glancing over at you. "Display?"

"With Hunter," you elaborate, "back there. I assume it wasn't just to annoy me."

He smirks, the corner of his lips curling upward. He tilts his head, and you try not to think about how it's the first time he's looked at you that way since everything happened.

"I was mostly doing it to annoy you."

"Of course you were." You roll your eyes. You don't believe him, not entirely, but you didn't doubt that he wanted to get under your skin. It felt like that was all he'd done since the beginning, and it was getting tiresome.

"But," he begins, leaning back, "if I can't talk you out of doing this, the least I can do is make sure you have backup."

You stare at him, unsure of how to respond. Your mouth opens, then closes, and you blink several times. What were you supposed to say to that?

"That's... sweet, I guess?" You don't mean for it to come out as a question, but the surprise gets the best of you.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs, and you're reminded of the old Crosshair.

The Crosshair who used to tease you, to rile you up, just because he knew it would make you laugh. The Crosshair who would sit with you while you studied, who would make you food when you were too tired to do it yourself. The one who loved his brothers fiercely, even if he was a pain in the ass. The one that you, despite everything, missed.

You didn't think he was capable of being like that anymore, but here he was, proving you wrong.

"Well," he says, shifting uncomfortably, "It’s my job to keep an eye on you."

You can't help but chuckle at his reasoning, though there's a hint of bitterness to the sound, and his scowl returns.

"It's not funny."

"Oh, come on," you reply, crossing your arms, still laughing. "It's a little funny."

"Is not," he argues, but there's no heat to it.

You snicker, shaking your head. It's not funny, but it's nice. Normal, even. It's the most normal conversation you've had in a long time, and the most normal Crosshair has acted, and it's almost like things are the way they were before.

"Whatever you say, dear."

The pet name slips out without a thought, and you regret it the second it does. You wince, looking over at him. You hope he doesn't take it the wrong way, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just scoffs, a small smile playing on his lips.

You relax in your chair, letting the tension slip from your body. You'd almost forgotten what it was like, how easy things used to be. It felt good, and you wished you could keep that feeling.

"So," you begin, "are you going to be a good boy while we're there, or am I going to have to watch my back?"

"I'm always a good boy," he replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You can't help but laugh, and his lips twitch upward, a hint of smugness coloring his features. It's an old joke, and it's ridiculous, but it feels good. You didn't think he had it in him, and hearing his sarcasm again was a welcome surprise.

"We both know that's not true."

"You'd be surprised." He stands, stretching his arms over his head. When he lowers them, he looks at you again, a faint smirk on his lips. "I can be very good, when I want to be.”

He brushes his fingers across your shoulder as he walks past, and the simple touch sends a shiver down your spine. You can't help the heat that rises to your face, and you're thankful that he's turned away from you.

You're left in a daze, your mind racing. You didn't think he was capable of having a civil conversation with you, let alone flirting. And yet here you were, trying desperately not to think about the implications behind his words.

It reminded you of before, before everything had gone to shit. Back when he could make you laugh in just a few words and make you blush with even less. He’d tease and flirt and push all your buttons, and it drove you crazy.

And you loved it.

You thought maybe you loved him too, at some point.

But he had thrown all that away when he abandoned the team. He had tossed aside every moment of laughter and affection and friendship, and he'd never seemed to care. And maybe that's what hurt the most, knowing he'd so easily let go of whatever it was between the two of you.

You'd tried not to think about him, after he left. You'd thrown yourself into the missions, and you'd tried not to look back. The others had done the same, you thought, but when Crosshair came back into your lives, they had forgiven him.

So why was it so hard for you?

The answer was supposed to be easy. You’d been the one he’d tried to kill, after all. But you knew it wasn’t his fault, knew it was the chip. You wanted to forgive him, and in a way, you had, but it still hurt.

Maybe it was because he had hurt you, not physically, but in another way. A deeper way. He had left you. He had abandoned the team, and he had left you behind, and despite ample opportunities, he'd refused to come back.

Or maybe it was because, after all that, after he'd hurt you and the people you cared about, you still couldn't bring yourself to hate him.

Maybe, deep down, you were worried that part of you still loved him.

Your head was spinning. You needed a drink, or a nap, or a distraction.

"Where are you going?" you call after him.

"To make sure Omega didn't sneak aboard," he calls back.

You can’t help but smile, shaking your head. He'd never admit it, but he cared about her. He'd probably deny it to his dying breath, if asked, but you knew better. And as you watch him disappear down the hall, a strange feeling blooms in your chest.

It's warm, and light, and familiar.

And for a brief moment, things almost feel right again.

Crosshair is, for lack of a better word, insufferable. He doesn't listen to a word you say, doesn't follow your directions, and has a bad habit of doing the opposite of what you tell him to do.

He also has a knack for making you feel like an idiot. It was something you conveniently forgotten about during your time apart, and now, you were beginning to remember why you'd fought so much in the past.

And the worst part was, he wasn't even trying to piss you off.

He was just...himself.

"That's not how it's done," he sneers, leaning against the wall. His eyes are on your hands, watching you clean your blaster. You know this game, and you don't want to play. So you do the one thing that always seems to get under his skin.

You ignore him.

You pretend like you haven't heard him, and you continue with your task. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don't look up. He sighs and huffs as you wipe around the trigger mechanism, he crosses his arms as you check the power cell, and you know he's getting antsy.

It isn't until you wet a swatch with solvent and push it through the barrel from front to back, and Crosshair makes a noise of disgust, that you snap.

"What?" you bark, your grip on the weapon tightening. You're not angry, not yet, but you can feel it creeping up on you.

“You’re going to damage the rifling,” he says, pushing off the wall. He reaches for the weapon, but you pull it out of his reach.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Clearly." He rolls his eyes. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to to end up with a misfire or a malfunction, and I don’t think either of us want that. Do you?"

You know he's right, but you don't want to admit it. "No, but—"

"Then give me the damn blaster," he says, reaching out again.

You consider refusing, just to prove a point, but his tone has caught you off guard. He doesn't sound condescending, or mocking, or even annoyed.

He sounds worried.

So you hand it over, and he takes it, his fingers brushing against yours.

"Just let me do it, alright?" he asks, and the frustration in his voice is gone, replaced by something softer.

You nod, watching as he sits next to you, his attention on the weapon. His movements are confident, practiced, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers move as he cleans.

You watch as he sets the blaster aside, grabbing the canister of solvent and a rag. Crosshair's movements are quick and meticulous, and he doesn't miss a spot. What took you nearly twenty minutes to accomplish, he completes in five, and his technique is far more thorough than yours.

“It’s a miracle you haven’t blown your hand off yet," he says, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “If this is what the Jedi were teaching you, no wonder the Empire wiped them out."

Any good will you were feeling toward him disappears in an instant. You bristle, your anger returning, and you glare at him.

"Fuck you."

"Maybe later," he teases, his lips twitching upwards.

You can't decide if his comment was meant to piss you off or annoy you, and you settle for a combination of the two. You're not sure why you expected anything else from him, but the joke hits a sore spot. The fact that he doesn't realize what he's said, that he doesn't understand what he's done, only makes it worse.

Crosshair's smile falls when you continue glaring despite the flush in your cheeks, and you can sense his frustration. He huffs, looking back down at the weapon in his hands.

He's quiet for a long time, his brow furrowed. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice soft.

"Here," he says, holding the reassembled blaster out, its barrel glistening. It’s the cleanest it's been in months, though you won’t admit it out loud.

Crosshair had always taken great pride in the cleanliness and efficiency of his weapons, and seeing his handiwork in front of you reminds you of simpler times. You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d passed out from exhaustion after a mission or gotten too distracted, only to find your weapons cleaned and ready to go the next morning.

It had irritated you, at first. You hated having your things touched without permission, but eventually, you got used to it. It was nice, knowing he cared enough about you to do such a thing. Though Crosshair always denied it when you tried to thank him. As if it would be anyone other than him.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and it’s genuine.

He looks at you, and there's a flash of something in his eyes, something softer than the usual indifference. But it's gone before you can decipher its meaning.

“Why do you still use that thing, anyway?" he asks. “It's a piece of junk. Don’t you have a lightsaber?”

You suck in a breath, his words cutting deep. Of course he would bring up the one thing you didn't want to talk about. You should have expected it. You weren't sure why it had never come up, but you should have known it would happen eventually.

He's staring at the blaster, and you know he didn't mean to hurt you, not this time, but the ache is there, nonetheless. The grief sinks in your stomach like a stone, heavy and cold, and your hands shake. You clench them into fists, hoping to hide the movement.

You've gone quiet for too long, and Crosshair knows he's hit a nerve. He turns his attention to you, and his eyes widen when he sees the look on your face.

You're pale, your expression pained. Your mouth is a thin line, your jaw set, and your shoulders are stiff. “No,” you say, your voice quiet. “Not anymore.”

He frowns. He looks confused, and for a second, he almost looks worried. "What happened?"

“I lost it.”

“What?" His voice sounds incredulous, as if the concept is inconceivable. "When?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears. You'd promised yourself you'd never cry over this again, but it was proving to be more difficult than you'd thought. It hurts, talking about it, and a part of you wants to shut him out.

But another, bigger, part of you wants him to know. Maybe it's a test, of sorts. If he can't handle this, if he doesn't want to hear the truth, then there's no way he'd be able to handle the rest.

“On Kamino," you say, and your voice shakes, despite your best efforts. You pause, taking a deep breath. You close your eyes, and the memories come back, clear as day. "Around the same time I…”

You can’t continue, but the words are there, lingering in the air. The same time I lost you.

His mouth forms a silent 'oh', and the room falls silent. You look at the floor, avoiding his eyes, and he does the same. You're not sure how much time passes, but it feels like hours.

He clears his throat, and the sound breaks the spell. You look up, and his eyes are on you, intense and dark. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, and the apology surprises you.

"Don't be." You shrug, but you can't shake the melancholy that's settled over the room.

"You should get a new one," he suggests.

You shake your head. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

Crosshair hums, and he turns away from you. He picks up the cleaning kit and places it back on the shelf. You watch him, wondering if that's the end of the conversation, and a part of you hopes it is.

But when he turns to face you again, his expression is pensive, and his tone is somber.

He sighs, and the weight of his words hit you, his voice quiet.

“You’re not the same, either."

You swallow thickly, unsure how to respond. You’ve had the same thought rolling around in your head for months, but to hear it spoken out loud, to hear it from him, suddenly makes it seem real.

Because he's right.

You aren't the same, not anymore. You hadn't been since the fall of the Order, since Crosshair left, since you'd lost everything. And you couldn't deny the changes that had been wrought within you, no matter how hard you tried.

"Yeah," you say, and the word is heavy on your tongue. “I guess not.”

You stare at each other, and a moment passes. It's an unspoken understanding, an admission, and neither of you can find the right words.

It's then that you realize that maybe he's changed, too.

And that, for whatever reason, makes you sad.

The silence drags on, and you're not sure if he's waiting for you to speak, or if he's waiting for something else. His eyes are searching, his mouth slightly parted, and he looks almost nervous.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and there's a pressure behind your eyes. You want to say something, but you can't think of anything. You're not sure if the urge is to comfort him, or comfort yourself.

You're grateful when you can feel the the hair on the back of your next prickle, a sign of something shifting in the Force. It's a distraction, a welcome one, and you take the opportunity to break eye contact. You stand to make your way to the cockpit, holstering your blaster as you go.

When you reach the door, you pause, glancing back. Crosshair is still standing in the middle of the room, his head tilted in your direction. His eyes are fixed on you, and he looks almost sad.

You swallow thickly and force yourself to speak. “We should be there in a second."

“How do you—“

He’s interrupted by the subtle lurch of the ship dropping out of hyperspace, and his confused expression turns to one of exasperation.

You smile, just a little, and Crosshair scoffs.

"Show off," he mutters, following behind you.

#tbb crosshair #crosshair x reader #the bad batch #tbb crosshair x reader #the bad batch crosshair #clone x reader #the bad batch x reader #roy writes

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wildernessuntothemselves · 5 months ago

Text

Heaven is not fit to house a love (like you and I) | Part 4

Word Count: 6.1k

Genre: smut, angst, fluff

Summary: When you first met your boyfriend, it was love at first sight. No, more than that. It was love before you even met. It felt like you had known each other in another life and were meant to find each other again.

But that's not actually true, is it? You and Beomgyu don't actually know each other from another life, and the dreams you've been having aren't memories of your past life either. That's ridiculous.

But then why does Beomgyu get so defensive about them? And why does each dream feel more real than the one before?

A/N: this is the sequel to my series YAMQN but I'm trying to write it in a way that it would be comprehensible to people who have never read YAMQN. The parts in italic are the dreams.

Warnings: fem!reader, breast play, humping, slight somnophilia, switch!reader, switch!beomgyu, mentions of past rape, yandere!beomgyu, reader gaslighting herself

He is lying on his side with his arms wrapped around you, staring at you, while you lay on your back, one hand on his arm draped over your chest and your eyes staring up at the ceiling. You’ve been lying like this since your alarm went off, waking you so you can start getting ready for work, though you think Beomgyu may have been awake even earlier.

Your middle finger traces a small line over a vein on the back of his arm, feeling the warmth there as if you can feel his life’s blood. His grip on you is steady, confident, and he never takes his eyes off you.

“Don’t you get tired of it?” You ask softly, voice heavy with sleep. You don’t elaborate on what you mean, and Beomgyu doesn’t ask for it.

“No.” Comes his quick reply. ”Because just being here with you like this… It makes it all worth it.”

You finally turn to look at him, and your heart swells up in your chest. You love him so much. Despite everything, you love him.

“Call in sick for me.” You tell him and he jumps at the opportunity, not hesitating for a second. He grabs your phone and dials your work, making up some bullshit story about you being sick and needing to stay home. You’re usually a dedicated worker despite the grief Beomgyu brings you–because of the grief Beomgyu brings you. The harder he makes it for you, the more you want to hold onto your job because it gives you independence from him and prevents you from being completely codependent on each other the way you know he desires and the way you find yourself secretly wishing you were when things get very tough and all you can think about is being wrapped up by him, protected and cared for and safe from the horrible, cruel world that causes you so much pain and suffering. Because why go out there to fight every day when you can be with him and let him take care of everything?

But then you force yourself to push these thoughts away and act like a grown-up because despite your immense love for Beomgyu, you're not stupid enough to hang your entire future on a man in this day and age. Yes, he loves you but you’re sure all the women who made that mistake before you were also in love. Or at least you like to think you're not that stupid…But for today you’ll let him win. For today you’ll see what the alternative is.

Beomgyu ends the call with your boss with a toothy smile on his face. He looks excited, like you’ve given him the best present ever and he jumps back in to take you in his arms, kissing the side of your face.

“What do you want to do today?” He asks and you shrug, throwing the question back to him. “What do you want to do?”

“I just want to be with you.” He admits and your heart clenches.

“Let’s eat first. I’m starving” You tell him and he’s so excited he doesn’t even whine at your lack of reply to his loving proclamation.

________________________________

Beomgyu makes sure to make the food for you. He keeps apologizing for not having a lot of materials to work with and lamenting the fact that he can’t make this dish or that dish as if you were expecting some extravagant feast.

“Beomgyu, it’s just breakfast.” You reassure him but he shakes his head. “I want to give you the best. Do you want to go eat out? There is this really good restaurant 20 minutes away.”

When he tells you the name of the restaurant, you frown. “Isn’t that place really expensive?”

He shrugs. “Only the best for my princess.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need something fancy, Beomgyu. Pancakes are fine.”

He frowns at that, seemingly upset that you don’t want the expensive restaurant. What’s the deal with him? Sometimes you think he dislikes that you don’t want him to spend his money on you.

Still, in order to make him stop fretting, you say, “Being with you is enough.”

That makes him light up, and he is suddenly content with pancakes too.

“It looks nice outside. Maybe we can pack up some lunch and go for a picnic?” You suggest and he perks up even more. “Yeah. We've got some cold cuts I can make into sandwiches and we can grab some cupcakes or muffins on the way.”

He sounds very excited about getting to spend the day like this with you and it makes you both happy that you've made him so excited by such a small thing but also sad that he has probably been feeling a bit neglected by you recently as you pulled away from him due to everything that’s going on with the dreams and Taehyun.

Well, today you'll make it up to him. Today, you'll set all your worries aside and just enjoy the day with your loving boyfriend.

“Sounds good.”

___________________________________

Beomgyu made way too much food for the picnic and he insisted on preparing everything all by himself, wanting to pamper you. Maybe he himself also feels guilt over not stopping when you asked him to but in a way that makes you feel even worse. He didn’t know that you were serious and you’re no stranger to playfully whining for the other to stop when you’re messing around–even you have done it to him before–so you understand why he didn’t immediately stop. He must feel awful about it. You may be having issues with Beomgyu but that doesn’t mean that he would ever hurt you in that way. You’re his entire life and it's unfair to him to be having these disturbing thoughts, even if you can't control them.

Maybe you just need to agree on a safe word so this doesn’t happen again… if you can even get yourself to get over your irrational trepidation every time you think about having sex with him now that is.

“Beomgyu, I can feed myself.” You roll your eyes when he tries to put a sandwich to your mouth and push his hand away, feeling an uneasy sense of deja vu at the action. For some reason, the most random actions you or Beomgyu do feel like something you’ve done before. Every moment feels like you’ve lived it before and it’s freaking you out. You secretly worry that you’re losing your mind.

He pouts, looking deflated at the small rejection. “I know. I just want to take care of you.”

“I don't need you to take care of me.” You say again and he puts the food down, looking even more dejected at that.

You sigh and open your arms. “Come here, Gyu.”

He eagerly gets into your embrace, laying his head down on your chest and letting you wrap your arms around him.

You kiss the side of his head, breathing in his scent and feeling it soothe your anxiety like a healing balm. “I don't need all of this. I just need you. The you that I love, and not this crazy possessive guy that scares me.”

“And I only ever want you.” He looks up at you, his eyes sad. “If I can be sure that you'll only ever be mine, I wouldn't act so crazy.”

You want to argue with him, get angry that he's asking you to prove your loyalty to him as if you had cheated on him, but you also know that what you feel for Taehyun isn't completely innocent and it would be hypocritical of you to act like his worries are completely irrational.

You sigh, looking at the park around you. You were at one of your favorite parts by the lake. Though it is a little hard to enjoy with so many people around, kids screaming and guys jokingly cussing each other out. You wish it would just be you and Beomgyu here.

“You know these grounds once belonged to the royal family.” You tell Beomgyu, “Imagine having all this beauty to yourself. Wouldn't that have been wonderful?”

“I suppose so.” He mumbles unenthusiastically but you keep going. “Their lives must've been so easy. Eating good food, dressing in fancy clothes, sipping tea in their huge ass gardens…”

“I'm sure they had their struggles.” Beomgyu interjects and you snort. “Yeah right. Their struggles of where to spend all that money.”

“They didn't control their own decisions. They were trapped in what everyone else expected of them. They didn't choose what to wear, who to hangout with, what they want to do with their lives or even who to marry.”

Beomgyu's sudden speech gives you pause. “Damn I didn't know you were so passionate about royal life.”

Is he saying that because he wants to discourage you from talking about the prince dreams again? Well, you weren’t planning to mention them to him anymore, not after how twisted and ugly they’re become.

He falters, seeming to realize how odd it was for him to get worked up over your silly complaints. “It's just… things aren't always what they seem.”

“I suppose. I mean I hear that their lives were filled with deceit and betrayal, like killing each other for power and shit. I'd rather be poor and alive, thanks.” You finally say to lighten up the mood and he smiles, thankfully playing along. “I want you alive too.”

“How romantic.” You roll your eyes and he laughs. “I admit it's not one of my best lines.”

“Well, good thing I got you some love poems to learn from.” You declare, pulling out the book you brought along to the picnic.

“You just want to hear my sexy ass voice narrating your favorite poems.” He calls you out and you don’t even try to deny it. “Guilty. What, I can't take advantage of my sexy boyfriend?”

“You can take advantage of me all you want, baby.” He says greasily and you pretend to gag. “Stick to the poems, loverboy. Don't waste your voice on these corny lines.”

“Yes, princess.” He grins, grabbing the book from your hand and flopping his head on your lap so you can play with his hair while he reads your favorite poems.

Sitting there, with the love of your life in your arms, his deep voice reading out words of love and longing from the most gifted poets and writers of the world, you feel lucky. How could you not when those words that have moved millions over decades and centuries, driving them to long for a love just like that, feel like your reality.

The love you have with Beomgyu is what those poems are written about. Yes, it can be dark and scary, but it can also be so, so beautiful. Just like now, with him sneaking glances at you in between every proclamation of love and adoration he reads off, as if his eyes can’t help but jump to you at every reminder, seeking the sight of the exact love they’re reading about.

Yes, doing this was the right choice. You feel so happy and content right now, the sunshine beaming down at the both of you and warming up your skin can’t even compete with the internal warmth and love you feel holding Beomgyu at this moment. This is perfect. This is where you belong. And this is just what he’s trying to make sure lasts right? He acts crazy sometimes because he knows this love is too rare and special to lose, right?

But the feeling of peace and happiness doesn’t last forever, and an unexpected gloom arrives in the form of one of your favorite poems–Annabelle Lee. Sure, it’s a sad and deeply moving poem but you didn’t anticipate the way it was going to affect Beomgyu.

It all starts off normally, his rich voice setting the perfect tone for the beautiful poem as you play with his soft locks, running them through the fingers of one hand while the other gently massages his scalp.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

You smile to yourself as you look down at Beomgyu. It’s funny how that’s just what you were thinking–that all that matters is the love you share between the two of you. You bend down to press a kiss to his forehead, and giggle at the way he unconsciously lifts his head up to get closer to your lips.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Laughed loud at her and me.

Then he hesitates, pausing as he reaches the last line, and you have to nudge him gently to get him to keep going. You see his eyebrows knit together in a perturbed frown but he continues for you.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went laughing at her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

You try to smoothen the lines that formed between Beomgyu’s thick eyebrows but even another kiss to the troubled lines are of no use as his focus was now entirely on the book in front of him. His anxiety was palpable and infectious, and a strange sense of doom creeps up on your protective bubble.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the laughter in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

Beomgyu's voice turned hoarse and patchy as he carried on, and you feel a prickling at the back of your throat as a profound and all consuming grief that you've never felt before and don’t think you have the capacity to contain threatens to engulf you. You hold onto him tighter, suddenly terrified. It’s silly. You’ve read this poem more times than you can remember, and sure it always moved you and made you sad, but it never caused you such gut-wrenching pain as it was doing right now. Whatever misery the poem was triggering in Beomgyu was transferring directly to you through your skin and suddenly the poet was Beomgyu and you were Anabelle Lee–he’d lost you and you can only sit there and watch him suffer and waste away as he cries over you.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Beomgyu's voice breaks completely as he utters ‘my life and my bride’ and by the time he finishes the poem, he is openly crying. You’re crying too, and hugging him tightly to you. You’re sure you’re both making quite the spectacle of yourselves but you don’t care. You hold him so tightly your fingers turn white and numb, and he does the same. The sense of loss that is filling you up is so intense and vivid, it's as if you've lived it. You’re scared that if you let him go, you’ll be taken away from him just like in the poem.

“Why–” He sobs into your chest, his cries rattling your already injured heart. “Why did they have to be ripped apart?”

“I don't know, baby.” You bend down to kiss his sweet lips, not really knowing what to say but wishing to calm him down–calm yourself down and try to shake off the irrational fear that something like this is going to happen to you. “Sometimes life is just cruel.”

“No. I can't accept that.” He says resolutely, sitting up to face you and reaching out to hold your face in his hands. “Promise you'll never let anyone or anything take you away from me.”

“Beomgyu–”

“Please…” His voice shudders as he tries to speak through his tears. “I can't lose you.”

“Oh, baby.” You sigh, reaching out to wipe the sparkling tears off his face. Oh, how you'll say and do anything for this beautiful boy.

“I promise.”

_______________________________

When you get back to work the following day, Taehyun corners you in the back room as soon as he gets the chance.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks with concern in his voice and you look at him in confusion. “Yeah, why?”

“You called in sick yesterday.” His eyes narrow, already suspicious.

“Oh, right.” You remember Beomgyu calling in sick for you, and you try to brush off his concern. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But Taehyun doesn’t let your small slip up pass, now probably convinced there was some malicious reason behind your absence. “Are you sure? Beomgyu didn’t do anything weird, did he?”

His question pisses you off, perhaps because you already feel so guilty towards Beomgyu for your unjustifiable aversion to being physical to him because of your dreams, but you certainly don’t want Taehyun to think Beomgyu is abusing you or something. “No, he didn’t. He took care of me all day yesterday.” You say sharply and Taehyun winces, realizing he has gotten off on the wrong foot with you and that you’re no longer tolerant of him denigrating your boyfriend’s image to you.

“I’m sorry.” He quickly backs down, which is unusual for him, and you feel a twinge of sorrow for going off on him like that. He was just worried about you, but still, he was inadvertently part of the reason you and Beomgyu are having issues and you can’t help but feel frustrated and resentful about that.

“Whatever.” You try to brush him off and get back to the main work area but he is not done talking.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.” He goes on, stopping you in your tracks and you sigh. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

"Can we start over?"

You stare at him, seeing the hope in his eyes and it brings you nothing but pain. “I’m not sure we can.”

Maybe in another world you and Taehyun may have been something–in a world where you met him before you met Beomgyu, maybe. But you would be acting wilfully ignorant if you went back to your budding friendship with Taehyun. Because you know it upsets Beomgyu. Because you know it wouldn’t be just an innocent friendship and that there is more at play here. You need to nip it all in the bud before it grows out of control and suffocates your actual, real relationship with Beomgyu.

You’re loyal to your boyfriend. Whatever strange and inexplicable feelings you hold for Taehyun should be abandoned and forgotten, and they can’t be if you keep being such buddies-buddies with him.

His face falls at your response and you think you can detect an edge of anger to his voice. Why the hell is he angry? He has no right to be upset with you for setting boundaries in order to protect your relationship. “I was out of line. I get it. I swear it won’t happen again.”

“It can't.” You affirm, getting angry yourself. “I'm dating Beomgyu. I love Beomgyu.”

Though Taehyun is usually good at managing his facial expressions, you can clearly see the way his face twists in pain at your proclamation. This is exactly why you have to stay away from each other.

“I know that.” He says through gritted teeth. “Believe me I don’t want to be having these feelings as much as you do, but I can’t control it. There is something drawing us together and I know you can feel it too.”

“Oh, come on, Taehyun, now you sound delusional like me.” You scoff, berating yourself as much as him. You’ve let this delusion get too far. “Next thing you’ll be saying you’re having dreams of us in a past life too.”

“Don’t mock me.” He scowls, the hurt still plainly clear on his face no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it with his unjustifiable temper.

You sigh again. This is not a fight you want to get into. It’s over. You have to end this. “I am not mocking you. But I can’t let whatever this is ruin what I have with the man I love.”

At that, Taehyun turns and walks away wordlessly, and a deep wound opens up in your chest as you watch him leave. You do your best to ignore it. Just as suddenly and inexplicably these feelings developed for Taehyun, you’re sure they will pass away and everything will return back to normal. This is all just a result of the doubts that have been plaguing you about Beomgyu. It’s just your mind coming up with weird feelings and scenarios that mean nothing. Soon enough, you and Beomgyu will be living in mutual bliss like before and you’ll forget about this whole nightmare.

_______________________________

Beomgyu is holding back. You can see it. He tries to keep his desires in check so he doesn't hurt you again without meaning to. He doesn’t want to rush you but you can tell he is suffering.

You can feel the way he reluctantly pulls away when his kisses get heated. You can see the way he averts his eyes when you wear something too revealing around the house. You can hear him when he sneaks to the bathroom in the middle of the night to relieve himself.

And you can definitely feel it now in the way his unconscious body ruts against yours in his sleep.

“Beomgyu…” You call out, mouth dry as you feel his cock grinding against your ass.

“Princess…” He moans at the sound of you calling his name, his hips driving into your ass harder, still asleep. “Need you…”

And you'd be lying if you said you weren't affected too. You need him too. Your body naturally reacts to his, panties already getting wet as his bulge grinds between your legs. But you still haven’t been able to shake those disturbing images and feelings out of your head completely, especially not when he calls you princess. The word now carries an unexpected negative association for you.

“Princess, please…” He cries in your ear, his fingers digging into your stomach. “Oh god, please.”

It makes you feel so fucking guilty to hear how desperate and needy he sounds, unconscious and unable to hold himself back like has been doing so many times recently. You want so bad to help. You want to push him on his back and ride his cock until he’s satiated and happy like he always gets when you fuck him, but you’re not sure you can.

“Wake up.” You urge him, torn between the heat gathering in your belly and the suffocating feeling of being trapped in his hold. You want to help him–you want to help yourself–but you’re fucking scared that it would trigger those horrific images once again.

But Beomgyu only whines and drives his hips into your harder. “My princess…”

“Beomgyu, wake up.” You call out once again, much more firmly this time, and he finally jolts awake, sitting up so he’s now hovering over you and checking you over.

“Wha–what?” His first instinct is to make sure you’re safe and unharmed, looking over your body and touching you slightly all over to confirm you’re not injured. Then the confusion comes in–why do you have that look on your face?--but that only lasts a few seconds before the realization finally kicks in and his face crumbles in dismay. “Fuck, sorry. I’m so sorry. I've just been–”

“Needy? Yeah, I can feel that.” You push your thigh between his legs, trying to push away your unwanted feelings. He was so panicked about you being hurt that it all just makes you feel that much more guilty. Beomgyu would never hurt you. It was all in your head, and you want to get rid of it. You want to allow yourself to feel the love of your boyfriend again.

“Oh, princess, I missed you so much.” He falls right into it, humping your leg just like you expected. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so weak.”

“Aw, puppy…” You coo, brushing his hair out of his face so you can take a good look at the pathetic look on his face that you love so much. It sends a fucking jolt of electricity down to your already heated core.

“It has barely been a couple of weeks.” You reprimand as if your panties weren’t rapidly getting wet right now. But Shame isn’t in Beomgyu’s vocabulary anyway. “A couple of weeks of having you right next to me and not being able to touch you. It was torture.”

He pushes your nightshirt up and buries his face in your tits. You almost laugh, of course this would be the first thing the pervert does. Except what comes out of your mouth are not laughs but moans as his mouth quickly finds one of your nipples to wrap around.

“Fuck, I missed these tits.” He mumbles, voice muffled as he continues to kiss and suck all over your breasts, making your back arch up into his touch and small whines escape your lips.

“Good boy, gyu.” You whine, fingers pulling ruthlessly at his hair that you’re usually so careful and gentle with as he pulls your other nipple in his mouth and sucks harshly. Your hips thrust up against his body as you seek some relief from the liquid heat dripping out of you.

He quickly notices and one of his hands sneaks between your legs to cup your soaked panties. He pulls off your nipples with an obscene pop, smirking cockily. “Looks like I'm not the only needy one here.”

You can't do anything but bite your lip as his palm kneads your sensitive pussy, your teeth tearing into the soft skin as you try to hold in your own needy moans. But Beomgyu doesn’t like that. He uses his other hand to pull your lip away from your teeth and push his thumb in so he has your mouth open and nothing in the way of the salacious noises he craves.

“Beomgyu…” You slur, struggling to talk with his thumb pushing down on your tongue but it's clear from the way you push your pussy further against his hand what you want.

“Are you gonna cum, princess?” He asks, his eyes raking up and down from your flushed face to your exposed tits as you arch your body up, seeking your high against his hand.

“Uh-huh.” Drool dribbles down the corner of your mouth that is still held open by Beomgyu before he finally removes his thumb from your mouth and uses it to flick and pull at your perked nipple.

That extra bit of stimulation makes you cry and jolt as your orgasm comes crashing down like a wave onto your poor deprived body. If your panties were wet before, you're sure that now they've drenched and staining the sheets under you.

But Beomgyu doesn’t care. He focuses on your face as the embarrassingly wet sounds of him continuing to palm your pussy through it all fill the room.

He doesn't stop until after your body is no longer convulsing and just settling into a sluggish tremble as your slack open mouth lets out small, hoarse moans.

Finally he stops, bending down to kiss you, his tongue easily slipping into open mouth and his hand wrapping around your jaw to get you to wrap your lips around it. You sluggishly respond, your mind still blank from the intense pleasure you just experienced. You didn’t even realize how much you'd missed his touch until now.

But it's not over yet. You may have gotten what you needed but he is still as needy as he was before–even more so after the little show you put on for him, and you can feel exactly how much when pulls your soaked panties to the side to press his bare cock against your pussy.

But as soon as you feel the head of his cock at your entrance, your body seizes up in terror and your mind goes into overdrive with image after image of that horrible nightmare.

“No!” You shriek, trying to close your legs and push him away but you can't because he's lying between your legs and you only succeed in pulling him closer to you which freaks you out even more and you start sobbing. “No. Please, no.”

“What? What happened? What did I do?” He freaks out too. It must be such a whiplash for him. Everything was going so well and he probably doesn't understand what caused your sudden breakdown, but it's not like you can explain it to him when you don't even understand it yourself.

All you know is that you don’t want him to stop so you just cry and shake your head. “Don't. Please, don't.”

The blood drains from his face as he helplessly watches you descend further and further into this unprovoked mental break. “Baby, what's wrong? Just tell me what happened.”

He tries to reach out to calm you down but you finally manage to push him off you and scramble off the bed. “Stay away.”

You pull your night shirt down to cover yourself. You feel disgusted, tainted, used. Why is this happening to you? What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Princess, please. Talk to me.” He pleads, and you can see his fists clutching tightly onto the bedsheets in order to hold himself back from leaping off the bed and taking you in his arms like you know he is dying to. That's his natural response. It's what his body and heart compel him to do. When you're hurt and in pain, that's what he does–he holds you, kisses you, comforts you, reassures you until you forget everything that has hurt you because nothing in heaven or on earth can get through him. He would never let anything hurt you. But how can he do that when he's the one who is hurting you? How can he protect you from himself?

“You're killing me, baby.” He weeps, distraught and not knowing what to do with himself when he doesn’t even know how he's hurt you. “Please, please, tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

How can you say it? It's too cruel. If he's upset and miserable now, you don't want to think about what he'd be like if you revealed to him that the reason you have been withdrawing from him and reacting so negatively to his touch was because of the terrible disgusting images your fucked up brain decided to randomly conjure up and that he had no control over. It wasn't his fault and you were basically treating him like a rapist.

But Beomgyu will not let it go. How can he when he can't even touch you without you reacting like he had burned you? He has to know. He deserves to know it's not his fault.

“It's… the dreams.” You start, finding it difficult to talk through your parched throat. Your eyes flutter all over his face, searching for the smallest reaction to your words. You know he won't take it well–and you can't blame him. This is why he was so wary of the dreams. He didn't want them to infect your real life and now they have completely infested your brain.

“I had an awful dream that you… that you..” You break down crying again. You don't want to say it. You don't want to break him twice. The worst thing is that they weren’t even just dreams anymore. It was like you were recalling actual memories. They come to you while you’re fully awake now. There is no escape and you don’t know what to do.

“That I what?” He asks, voice so shallow with fear that it's barely a whisper.

“That you… forced yourself on me.” You finally say it and the color drains completely from Beomgyu's face. “I tried so hard to push those images away. I know you would never do that to me but every time we touch–”

“I got it.” He cuts you off, not wanting to hear anymore. Beomgyu never shuts you up. He always wants to hear you talk–to hear every thought that crosses your mind. He soaks them all up whether good or bad. This is the first time he's ever had enough and that scares you more than anything. Is this how you ruin your relationship? Is this the final straw?

“Oh god, Beomgyu, I'm sorry.” You can hardly see through your tears so you walk closer to him, your need to be comforted by him, to know he still loves you, finally overpowering the heinous images in your brain.

But your heart rips in half when Beomgyu flinches away from your touch. “Don't.”

“I'm sorry.” You repeat, holding your arms out slightly from your body, waiting for Beomgyu to slot his own between them where they belong, selfishly needing him to make you feel better about everything when you’re the one who hurt him. “I'll do better. I will force myself to get through this. Just please…”

“Okay.” Beomgyu replies emotionlessly and gets off the bed and away from you.

“Where are you going?” You ask him, terrified. “Are you leaving? I'm sorry, I swear. Forget about everything I said. I'll do whatever you want, just please–”

You walk towards him, reaching out to grab the top of his pants, intent on doing anything to make him stay but he pushes you off, disgust etched on his face. “No. Don't touch me.”

You knew those words hurt him when you said them to him before but you couldn't have imagined just how much, but as you stand now with those same words directed at you, it takes every fiber of you being not to hunch over from the agony they inflict on you. You never thought those wretched words would ever come out of Beomgyu's mouth–no, not your Beomgyu. And it's all your fault.

“Please, don't leave me.” You cry, and Beomgyu looks at you in shock. “Leave? I told you I would never leave you.”

That brings you some comfort, but it's not complete as he continues to stand far away from you, and you make sure to tell him as much.

“Then come hold me.” You ask petulantly. Is it hypocritical of you to demand physical closeness from him when you had before pushed him away when he was in your shoes? Yes, but you don't care. You just want him to stay and put your heart back together before you bleed out.

“I need space. I need to think.” He says and you shake your head resolutely. “There is nothing to think about. I want you to stay.”

He gives you a smile so ingenuine it looked more like a grimace. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Don't walk out on me, Beomgyu.” You tell him, a threatening edge to your voice. Threatening what? You don't know. What are you going to do, sulk until he comes back?

And he knows it too because he just shakes his head and tells you to get some sleep before he walks out. You scream after him, probably waking up all the neighbors but you don't care.

“Beomgyu! Come back! You're just gonna leave me here like this, you fucking asshole?” You scream and scream until your throat raw but he doesn’t come back, and with the last bit of your energy spent on your screams, you crumble to the ground and curl up into a ball–your knees pressed up to your chest and your arms wrapped tightly around them–trying to staunch off your hemorrhaging heart as your world falls away around you.

_________________________________________

A/N: this will always remain my comfort fic despite how dark it can be. i will never get over this. anyway let me know your thoughts and depending on the result of this poll, the next chapter may be the last one or there will be one more chapter.

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #tomorrow x together smut #yandere #take care that i said who do you want her to choose #not who will she end up with lmao #there is a difference

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nolita-fairytale · 1 year ago

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don't you worry, there's still time | chef luca x fem!reader, feat. marcus brooks

summary: after losing his mother, marcus searches for joy and stillness in copenhagen. you and luca, who are more than happy to host, decide to take a big next step in your relationship. a oneshot from the world of 'burn your life down.'

warnings: fluff, light angst, grief, death, light smut, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, off-canon connection to the storyline of the bear.

word count: 5.8k

listen to: the playlist

a/n: wow, i missed this world! who is ready for the reveal of chef's restaurant name?! while i don't think i have the bandwidth to write another full series (nor a linear story to tell) i'm thinking of creating a second part to 'burn your life down' where we just get to drop in and see what they're up to. thoughts??

chef luca masterlist | full masterlist

After a tumultuous holiday season, it doesn’t take long for Sydney to realize that her friend is in need of a little help. A reprieve, she so kindly explained to both Marcus and Carmy when she’d proposed the idea.

It was Sydney this time, who called Luca, knowing that she and Carmy would have to find something to do with Marcus. It wasn’t fair – that he’d lost his mom just before Thanksgiving – and they both agreed that Marcus needed to get out of dodge. Quick to act, Carmy set up a few stages in NYC for a week or so, which, while seemed to inspire Marcus, seemed to only plunge him further into a slump come Christmas. “I don’t know. I think we gotta send him on some kinda… eat, pray, love trip. The guy can only sulk on my couch for so long before I consider jumping out of the window,” Sydney says, her attempt to lighten the mood with humor still genuine. “It’s getting sad, Carm. Like… real fuckin’ sad.”

“You’re right. Uh… what about Copenhagen?” Carmy pitches with a shrug, because he knows what all consuming grief feels like.

“Again?” she asks, uncertain of whether it’s the best choice that they could make.

“Yeah,” Carmy shrugs in response. “Think he got a lot of it last time. Could be good for him to go back to somewhere familiar… work with Luca again. You don’t think it’s a-?”

“No I do! I just-,” Sydney hesitates, though she knows her business partner makes a good point. “Familiarity will be good for him. To be around people he can trust.”

“You want me to uh-,” Carmy begins to offer, figuring he’ll make the call.

“Probably best if I explain the situation. Just ‘cause, you know, I know more of what’s going on… just send me his info and I’ll call later,” Sydney interjects.

Carmy agrees with a curt nod before adding in:

“Uh… okay yeah. Yeah.”

You get plenty of time to prepare for Marcus’ visit, performing all kinds of fancy footwork to arrange a proper visit – a week’s worth of time spent staging and living in Copenhagen. When Luca finds out that the prolific houseboat, a chef retreat of sorts that’s always been an option for lodging, is booked for the week and a half that Marcus plans on visiting, you offer up your place without hesitation.

The arrangement goes as follows: while Marcus stays at yours at no cost, you’ll stay with Luca for the duration of the time.

This is how you find yourself at the massive Ikea on Dybbølsbro on a Saturday morning with Luca, in search of a set of fresh bed linens intended for guests.

“I really should host more. And Astrid said she and Lina were planning a trip out here so… why not kill two birds with one stone?” you’d reasoned to your boyfriend, making a strong case for why you and Luca should make this little shopping trip.

“What do you think of the blue?” Luca asks you, as you run your hand over a set of the display sheets, checking for softness.

“Don’t know if the blue is what I’m going for. I was thinking of something warmer. Maybe a yellow or… I don’t know. I’ve kind of been into that trendy rust color as of late,” you reply with a shrug, moving onto the warmer colors.

Luca chuckles and with a small shake of his head, he clarifies his previous questions with:

“No, I meant for me.”

“What do you mean?” you ask him curiously, his comment pulling all of your focus as you search his face for answers. “You just got new bedding.”

And expensive ones too.

But as your eyes follow his gaze, you realize that he’s not talking about sheets, focused on the XL Twin-sized duvets just above where the sheets messily fall along the shelf.

“I was thinking…” Luca trails off, checking in with you before he continues, with “... maybe it’s time I get two duvets… you know… for us.” He takes a beat, and a step towards you, and you know you’ll never stand a chance against his boyish charm as one side of his mouth turns up into a smile.

You’re no stranger to the Scandinavian duvet method – two twin duvets for one king sized bed – but it sounds like Luca’s suggestion is about way more than buying an extra duvet on this trip.

“I want you to feel at home… at my place."

“I do,” you reply, almost instantly, a warmth spreading through your belly as you take a step towards him.

“But I mean really… feel like it’s your home. Because it is. It could be. You know… if you want it to be,” Luca continues, this time with more insistence, a look of hopefulness in his deep blue eyes.

“Are you… are you asking me to move in with you?” you manage to get out, your heart skipping a beat.

“Why not? We could use this week to try it out,” he suggests so casually that you practically have to do a double take. “See how it goes while Marcus stays at your place?”

“Yeah I-... that sounds like a good plan, yeah,” you stammer out, the grin on your face undeniable as you nod enthusiastically in the middle of a goddamn furniture store.

“Besides,” Luca says, clearing his throat as his tone changes to one that’s much more playful. “You’re an absolute blanket hog and a repeat offender at that.” Luca winks your way as you roll your eyes with a laugh in response. “This could prevent some of our silly little quarrels, don’t you think, love?”

“Uh huh,” you sound, your face skeptical as you look his way again. “Preventative measures. Sure, babe.”

Luca chuckles before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, right then and there, in the Ikea bed linen section, the place you’ll now forever think of as the place your boyfriend asked you to move in with him.

Connection

When Marcus arrives in Copenhagen, you’ve arranged your home with the most comfort in mind, having already packed a week’s worth of things and left for Luca’s. You can only imagine what he must be going through, deciding that something like that – losing your mother – though inevitable, is your goddamn worst nightmare.

“Marcus,

Enjoy your stay and please reach out if you need anything. I can’t wait to meet you!”

…is the note that you leave him, along with a few morning pastries you picked up from your favorite baggeri across the street, and your number scribbled down at the bottom of the notepad.

As Marcus arrives, his eyes drawn immediately to your note and gift, Marcus smiles to himself, noticing that you left a very nice looking bottle of wine on the counter as well. He’s moved by your generosity, considering you’ve never met, and the fact that you’re willing to take so much care, extend this much kindness to a stranger, causes a wave of softness to wash over him.

Maybe, just maybe, he can find softness again – the last few months riddled with pain, grief, and numbness to get through the days.

While he came here to work, encouraged by his friends that a change of scenery may do his broken heart some good, it’s the first time Marcus has had a chance to be still. His feelings of grief sit heavier here and it catches him off guard, uncertain that he’s quite ready to sit with them yet. He pushes aside the thought, focusing on exploring your home and unpacking his bags. Marcus knows how to stay busy – he’s become an expert at it by now – reminding himself that he’s got work at 5 am sharp tomorrow.

“A little too much, chef. Take it down by about 15 grams,” Luca directs, his voice even and sure as he inspects the balls of dough that Marcus currently shapes.

“Yes, chef,” Marcus nods in understanding, plopping the ball of dough back on the scale to adjust the measurement.

The two of them work like this for the rest of the morning, Luca treading carefully while keeping things professional, while Marcus buries himself in the work – something that feels good, safe, right.

He’s missed this. While Marcus has one chef he works with directly at the restaurant, he’s the expert – the head patissier. He misses being surrounded by excellence, getting to be a student of someone who is just as driven, if not more, and inspired. It’s good, quiet, calm, yet there’s a focus and intensity in Luca’s kitchen that feels like a breath of fresh air.

His stage trip to New York has been more of a mess than beneficial. Maybe it had been the chaos of the city, or the chaos of the chefs he was working with. Maybe it was the fact that Marcus, though hungry for a distraction, hadn’t quite been ready to walk directly into the line of fire yet.

As Marcus’ practiced hands move with the dough, there’s a newfound confidence in the way that he works that's not lost on Luca. Luca watches his friend carefully, pride swelling in his chest as his mentee makes the adjustment with ease and diligence.

“Can I join you?” Luca asks, gesturing towards Marcus' workstation.

“‘Course, chef,” Marcus replies, his response short yet reverent.

As Luca joins him, finding a space to the right of Marcus, he busies his hands with rolling each perfectly measured ball of dough into mini boules, ready to proof. The two of them work quietly, side by side, the air between them heavy with words unsaid. He can feel it – the weight that lays so heavily on Marcus' heart – but Luca doesn’t want to bring it up, uninterested in forcing the conversation. Especially about something so painful, something he knows that Marcus has barely begun working through.

“Thanks, again. For uh… you know… letting me come work,” Marcus begins, momentarily checking in with Luca to gauge a reaction.

“‘Course,” Luca replies, his answer instantaneous. “You’re welcome here any time, mate.”

“Yeah?” Marcus asks, stealing a glance in Luca’s direction.

“Yeah,” Luca responds with a certain nod.

“And uh… shit. I can’t thank your girlfriend enough for letting me crash at her place,” Marcus adds, as he works through his discomfort and overwhelm from the wave of feelings that begin to bubble up in his chest.

“You can thank her yourself on Saturday,” Luca brings up, excited over the fact that Marcus will not only be meeting his girlfriend, but staging at her restaurant too. “She’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

Marcus nods slowly, his hands the only steady thing about him as he continues to focus on his work.

“I just mean-, well, she didn’t have to-. ‘S not like either of you owed it to me or anything and I-. You guys just really came through…” Marcus trails off, wanting to make his gratitude clear. It means more to him that he can articulate so instead he settles for, “So thank you. Again.”

Luca shrugs with an aplomb about him as he returns with, “We got you, mate.” He pauses before continuing, fully aware that Marcus isn’t quite comfortable with the feelings that have presented themself in this moment. “And the way I see it, I wouldn’t have met her if it weren’t for you – for our conversation the last time you were here – so we really do owe you for it.”

This time Luca makes an effort to check in with Marcus, gauging his emotional capacity as he concludes with:

“But that’s not what any of this is about: debts, who owes who what. We were both more than happy to host you. That’s what mates are for.”

It’s not till the end of the next shift that it hits him, and Marcus finds himself sitting outside of the restaurant on a bench across the street. He’s not sure whether it’s the jet lag or the exhaustion of the 5 am start time in another time zone, but it hits him all at once, like a ton of bricks. Suddenly consumed with the feelings that he’s been trying his best to avoid, all he can do is pause, completely caught off guard by the strength of them.

Quietly, Luca joins him, having spotted him on his way home, rerouting himself in Marcus’ direction instead.

All he can think of are the words you’ve asked him, and he you, time and time again – the ones that cut right to the core of you each and every time – that show you how much he cares.

“How’s your heart?” Luca asks Marcus, after a few minutes of sitting on the bench together in silence.

And how is his heart?

He’s not sure how to answer, considering it’s been a while since he’s really had a chance to check in, the crippling reality of this great loss is too much to bear alone.

His heart is broken, shattered into an infinite amount of pieces.

He, and his heart will never be the same again and he doesn’t know where or how he’ll ever put it back together.

His heart is… lost, in desperate need of finding a soft place to land.

Marcus takes a while to answer, racking his brain for any semblance of a cohesive answer.

He waits. And then he waits.

Until finally, he can answer.

“I uh… don’t know. But I’m hoping this trip will help me figure that out.”

Creativity

“do you remember the 21st night of september? love was changin' the minds of pretenders while chasin' the clouds away.” (earth, wind, and fire.)

Everything about the way you run your kitchen feels different than what he’s used to.

It’s sure as hell different from his last stage trip to New York, Marcus thinks to himself.

With Carmy and Syd, working with them, there’s a buzz of chaos that runs underneath even the most organized and efficient service. It’s something integral to what they have, gives an edge to The Bear that seems to make it hum in all the right ways. Even with Luca, who comes from fine dining and Michelin-starred restaurants, there’s a quiet and determined focus – an intensity to his work – even without the undercurrent of chaos.

But this. But you.

Your kitchen somehow teeters the line of organized chaos and reckless play so well that Marcus understands why this works – why it’s efficient.

Still, he watches as you and your staff dance – no, literally dance – around each other to the highly recognizable Earth, Wind, and Fire tune. Mathilde sings along while chopping chives for the brothy mushroom grain bowl, while, mid-phrase, manages to yell out a short command to a line cook in Danish. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus catches Jesper working the dining room, while you finish plating two more dishes, ready to be walked out.

It’s as if you find focus in the center of all the noise, somewhere between the electric energy between you, Mathilde, and your staff, and the feel-good vibes and homeyness of the restaurant that you’ve created.

You had been more than welcoming when Marcus had walked through the doors of your restaurant, Kokuore, mere hours ago. You’d given him the tour, shown him which station he’d be working this evening, then warmly introduced him to your entire team before family meal started. Marcus can’t stop moving, too afraid to be still in fear of falling apart in the presence of how comforting you’ve been.

And this? Your kitchen. It’s all joy, connection, and artistry.

It’s not hard for him to see why Luca fell in love with you.

“Marcus, feel free to take a break,” he hears you say, as you nod towards the dining room through the open kitchen.

As Marcus follows your gesture, he notices that Luca’s arrived, remembering something about a standing Saturday date.

“You sure, chef?” Marcus asks, looking to you for approval.

“Positive,” you nod, reassuringly.

Marcus nods in return to confirm, before taking his apron off and making his way over to the dining room where Luca is exchanging a few words with Jesper.

“Wassup, chef,” he greets his mentor.

“You know, you can call me Luca,” Luca reminds him with a crooked smile. “At least when we’re off the clock.”

Marcus chuckles, “Uh… yeah alright. That’s gonna take some getting used to.”

Luca chuckles in return, before Jesper shows them to his table, mentioning something about Americans being so afraid of fluidity.

“She’s brilliant isn’t she?” Luca asks, in reference to you as his eyes catch yours from across the room.

“Nah for real. Like… mad scientist vibes,” Marcus concurs with a smile. “She can throw down for sure.” He pauses as they sit down at Luca’s table. “So you come every Saturday night, huh?”

“When I can, yeah, which is… most Saturdays,” Luca replies honestly, before beginning to list why he’s kept up this routine. “But it’s nice. Keeps me inspired. I get to see my girl, walk her home at night which makes me feel better.” Luca leans back in his chair this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I never mind helping close down at the end of the night.”

Marcus hums in response before one of the waitstaff comes to their table, with a glass of wine in hand, on the house. They chat for a little longer before Marcus returns to the kitchen, his excitement for what you’re doing here filling him to the brim.

As dinner service comes to an end, Marcus can’t help but notice the chemistry and how unique it is as you all work together in perfect harmony. There’s a warmth to it, something different, and he begins to understand why the name of the restaurant comes from the word, heart.

Luca is quick to get up from his table, quickly finishing his glass of wine as he offers to help close down. The music volume goes from underscoring the buzz of a busy night of service, to the main attraction, as a motown throwbacks playlist begins to blare from the speakers. You all work quickly and efficiently, eager to close down, get home, and begin your weekends, but it’s when an old Otis Redding track that Luca decides to put a pause on the progress.

“Dance with me, my love,” he says, offering his hand out to you as a huge gesture that earns a few looks and giggles from some of your staff.

“Luca,” you begin to protest, looking around.

“You can take three minutes,” he offers, exchanging a look with you this time.

You nod, taking his hand as you agree with, “Okay.”

And as Luca wraps you up in his arms, engaging you in a slow dance to Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong my Love is,” you chuckle, relaxing into him.

“Oh, get a room, you two!” Jesper calls out after you, teasingly.

“She pretends – always puts up a fight – as if they don’t do this every single week,” Mathilde adds, as an explanation to Marcus.

“Every week?” Marcus asks, a little surprised by both you and Luca’s willingness to pause and revel in a moment with each other, instead of just pushing through.

“Yeah. Romantics, they are,” Jesper chimes in.

Marcus smiles to himself. It’s a reminder of slowness – something he hasn’t let himself experience in a long time – and for just a moment, he lets himself settle into the feeling.

You don’t even mind that you woke up an hour before your alarm the moment you feel Luca’s arms wrapped around you, and his lips against your soft skin. The low rumble of his voice resonates across your shoulders, sending chills down your spine as you arch into his hands, his arms wrapped around you.

“I know we’re only a few days in… of our little trial,” Luca begins, the bass of his voice reverberating through your shoulder blade.

“Our living together trial?” you clarify with your ask, letting out a gasp as he nibbles on your shoulder gently.

“Yeah. Just wonderin’ where your mind’s at,” Luca murmurs, his eager hands beginning to explore underneath the oversized shirt you put on before bed last night.

“Well… I really like this,” you reply, the sound that comes out of your mouth somewhere between a giggle and a moan.

“Hmmmm?” Luca sounds, innocently.

“This… Waking up to you thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Luca’s name escapes your lips as his fingers gently begin to play with your nipples, his erection hard against your back as you begin to grind your hips back against.

“And the access to round the clock sex is really a bonus,” you sigh, blissfully.

“Oh yeah?” he asks you again, a large tatted hand slipping between your legs.

“Yeah… I’d even be… interested in leaning into that part… right now,” you hiss in reply to his touch. “Considering you’re distracting me with sex.”

“Hmmmmm. ‘S not just it, love. Have I told you how grateful I am for what you’ve done for Marcus?” Luca asks, his mouth back on your neck. He presses your body against him, your back to his chest as he rocks his hips against yours.

“Luca!” you protest, unable to focus on the conversation.

“It’s your kindness. Your heart… I’m in awe of it,” he continues to praise you as the two of you begin to set a rhythm between your bodies.

It’s all heat, and soft sighs of pleasure, and foreplay.

“Well, I know a little something about what he’s going through,” you answer breathlessly. You begin to impatiently push the hem of your shirt higher so that you can give Luca more access to your body.

“That’s why I love you,” Luca murmurs into your skin, his hands all over you, his focus unbroken and your mind beginning to go blank. His hands are tearing your shirt over your head as he continues to praise you. “Your heart, the way you share it.”

“You helped me get there, baby,” you gasp, turning your head so that you can kiss your boyfriend.

Instead of answering, Luca nods knowingly, before crashing his lips into yours. His mouth on yours feels like heaven, and you can’t believe that you ever fought your feelings for him.

“Ah fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s move in together,” you surrender to him, lost in the moment.

“Yeah?” Luca pauses, pulling away, as if almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Yeah. I mean it, baby,” you nod, catching his gaze, certain in the way you answer. “I wanna wake up to you every morning.”

“Me too, my love,” Luca grins, before pressing his lips to yours again. “Now will you please let me fuck you, darling?”

“Fuck yes.”

Luca spends the next hour showing you just how grateful he is for you, while you in return, spend the next hour showing him just how sure you are about this decision.

And you are sure. If mornings like this are a constant for the rest of your life, you think you’ll die a happy woman.

You’ve found a home in him, and he, you. He’s the person you want to come home to at the end of the day. He’s the man that puts a smile on your face every single time he gets on his soapbox about how Beyonce is the performer of your lifetimes, and he is unequivocally the best, most unexpected thing in your life.

Luca Davies, in almost a year of knowing him, and eight months of getting to love him, has somehow become your favorite person.

By the time you and Luca are both showered and decent-for-company, you’ve begun your mise en place for brunch, completely content with the fact that you’re running a little behind schedule (and in all fairness, the sex was worth it – it’s always worth it). The smell of bacon sizzling away on your carbon steel fry pan fills the entire apartment, and you’re glad that Luca opened a window earlier. It’s not exactly window weather yet, but the air ventilation is a must when it comes to smoked meats.

While you play catch up with your brunch plan, Luca’s busy welcoming Marcus in, pouring him a cup of coffee using the extensive ten-step pour over he’s been fixated on ever since he purchased it, while they chat here and there about what else he’s explored in Denmark.

“Been too busy working, to be honest but… I don’t know. I might wander around today… see what kind of stuff I can get into,” Marcus answers frankly with a shrug.

“Ah, mate. We just had a walk at the Frederiksberg Gardens. Definitely something I’d recommend checking out,” Luca suggests, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he mentions it.

Luca continues moving through his list of recommendations, Marcus chiming in with places and things he did the last time he was here, excited to spend a few days exploring the city instead of just working.

“Wanderin’ around. I dunno. There’s something about it. ‘S good for the spirit, you know?” Luca concludes.

“Yeah,” Marcus nods in agreement, before turning his attention over to the French toast you’re working on. “Okay, I see you. What is that? Mascarpone?”

“Yeah, good eye. It’s just something new I’m working on: a mascarpone stuffed french toast. We’re actually talking about extending our hours… maybe doing weekend brunch,” you answer thoroughly, as you dip the stuffed pieces of bread into their egg batter, pre-cook.

“For real? That’s sick,” Marcus compliments, watching you carefully. “I mean… shit. You could have a whole brunch spot.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, looking up from your cutting board.

“A Brunch spot,” Marcus repeats, simply, the excitement in his eyes at the new idea, evident. “Yeah, you know. Luca could do the morning pastries. You work your magic on the rest of the menu.”

“That’s a novel idea! What do you think, my love?” Luca asks, intrigue in his voice as he searches your face for a reaction.

“I-,” you begin, looking from Luca to Marcus, then back to Luca again. “I… never thought about it like that.” You take a beat, eyeing Luca carefully. “We’ve never talked about going into business together.”

Marcus shrugs, before picking up his coffee mug, “Yo, it’s just a thought. I think you two would be unstoppable together.”

“Unstoppable, eh?” Luca asks, his eyes locked with yours.

You only hum in response, raising a quirked eyebrow in Luca’s direction before adding:

“It’s certainly one hell of an idea, Marcus.”

Kokuore

Monday afternoon, you find yourself at your restaurant with Marcus Brooks, on a day off.

“I might need a little extra help with something tomorrow. We’re closed tomorrow, but I want to get ahead on this special I’m working on. Could use the help of a pastry chef. What do you say?” you’d proposed to him, over one more espresso before he left.

To Luca’s dismay, (“ you silly Americans just can’t enjoy a day of doing nothing,” he’d teased the two of you) Marcus had given you an unwavering yes, reassuring you that he was down to learn everything he possibly could from you, especially while he was here.

And it’s true. You do need the help. But should he want someone to talk to – someone who gets it, even just a little bit – you want to offer him the space and the opportunity to do so.

“As a patissier, do you get tasked with pasta? At The Bear?” you ask Marcus, as you pleat a dumpling in hand with a speed that only comes with practice.

“Nah,” Marcus sounds, his focus on the dumpling he’s pleating too. His concentration on getting the pleats right is reverent and unbroken, even as he answers your question. “Our head chef, Carmy, he uh… he comes from an Italian American family so when we’ve done a stuffed pasta… he usually takes the lead on that.”

You nod in understanding, placing the dumpling you’ve just finished down on the full-sized sheet pan. The two of you sit across from each other, having pushed a few dining tables together as a makeshift workstation.

“Think Luca’ll take over this kinda stuff when you guys open a restaurant together?” Marcus asks, lightheartedly pushing his agenda from yesterday.

You laugh in response, your hands working quickly on yet another dumpling.

“For someone with no skin in the game, you’re really insistent on this idea,” you tease him in return.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Marcus pushes right back, his tone still light.

“I…” you sigh, trailing off as you pause your work for a moment. “You know, we just said we’d move in together. That and a restaurant? Feels fast.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… a few hours before you came over for brunch,” you elaborate, earning a whistle from Marcus. The two of you exchange a look, and a laugh, as you pick up another dumpling wrapper that you and Marcus rolled out together earlier.

“It’s a good idea though,” you add, stealing a glance his way so that he knows that you’re serious.

“Well, when you two inevitably do open a restaurant… I want ten percent,” Marcus jokes, earning another laugh from you.

“Deal,” you agree with him.

You and Marcus work like this, exchanging a few words, the conversation light, underscored by a softer acoustic soundtrack from one of your Spotify radio stations.

“So how’d you learn to cook like this?” Marcus asks you curiously.

“Uh…” you hesitate, treading carefully as you realize this conversation could open a can of worms.

“I don’t know how much Luca’s told you about me… but I was married… before him,” you begin, cautiously. “And… well, I learned a lot of this… a lot of traditional Japanese cooking from my mother-in-law.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These are her dumplings actually – her recipe. She passed away last Fall and… well, it was important to me to celebrate her – to celebrate her life – by creating a few dishes for her,” you continue, and it’s as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “We’re bringing this one back as a special this month but um… yeah. I’m… still very much grieving and… it helps me remember her. Cooking her food helps me feel close to her, you know?”

“Yeah,” Marcus sighs, his heart heavy as he exhales.

He waits a beat.

And then another, having paused his work as he watches you pleat, head down, with expert hands.

The silence between you and Marcus is full, heavy, connected by shared experience. You wait for Marcus to say something, and when he doesn’t, you decide to continue.

“This restaurant… has so much of my heart in it: it’s got my love for Italian food from growing up in my best friend’s family’s restaurant, and it’s got my love for her – for Aiko – and everything she taught me,” you begin to explain. “And lately… it’s got a fresh perspective… inspired by the love I have with Luca, I think. Well, I know. Inspired by him… how this place brought us together.”

“The name itself is… totally made up, but means a lot to me. The Japanese word for heart is, kokoro, and the Italian word for heart is, cuore. Somehow an homage to my past… and was… Prophetic in so many ways too.”

As Marcus listens, Luca’s previous question lingers in his head:

How’s your heart?

At the time he didn’t know how to answer, and after five days in Copenhagen – after five days of doing what he loves in a place that he loves – his heart is somehow so full, yet so broken all at once. He’s filled with deep sorrow and with the spark of creativity all at the same time, and he’s just not sure how to hold all of this feeling inside of him.

Marcus waits a beat, opens his mouth, then lets the words fall out.

“It’s evident. In your food,” is all he manages to say. “It’s got soul. It’s got heart. I-, it’s inspiring. That’s for sure.”

“I made a dish. For Michael,” Marcus adds, his eyes on the dumpling he works on, but the guard on his heart beginning to fall away. “He was uh… well, he was the old owner of the restaurant, called The Beef back then. Carmy took over after he died. Felt right to honor him and his life, you know? When we reopened as The Bear.”

“Food is… it’s our art, you know?” you agree. “Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to express myself and… sometimes it’s just the thing that makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Maybe one day I can make one for my mom,” Marcus says, his voice stuck in his throat as he admits, “I don’t know if I’m ready yet. But I think… I think I’d like to eventually.”

“Of course,” you reassure him gently. “You don’t have to be ready now. You don’t have to be ready ever. But when you are, your art will always be there.”

“Thanks,” Marcus nods solemnly.

You get up this time, realizing the sheet pan is full, and ready to be placed on the baker’s rack. As you return to the table with a new empty sheet pan, lined with parchment paper, Marcus finally asks you, his eyes soft, the heartbreak in them present.

“How’d you get through? You know. Losing her? Your mother-in-law?”

You return to your chair with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll let you know when I do,” you answer, letting up a soft chuckle. “It helps to have good people and… from what Luca’s told me, you do. But… I had to let ‘em in, let ‘em help me. Let ‘em love me. And in all honesty, most days I’m still just… taking it day by day.”

“Yeah, I-. I do. I got some really good people. Back home,” Marcus drags out slowly.

“Then that’s all that matters. Your people and your heart. The rest… you just-,” you start.

“Take day by day?” Marcus interjects, pausing to catch your eyes.

You and Marcus exchange a knowing look, the recognition of each others’ pain is met with empathy.

“Yeah. I think that's all we can do.”

By the end of your work session with Marcus, you’re ready to head home so that you can spend the rest of the day with Luca.

“What’re you gonna do with the rest of your day?” you ask Marcus, curiously.

With a sigh, and then a shrug, and a heart that feels just a little lighter, he answers with:

“Think I might wander around a bit. Someone once told me it’s good for the spirit.”

#chef luca #will poulter #luca the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear headcanon #luca x reader #the bear hulu #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #chef luca x reader #pastry chef luca #burn your life down

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identityflawed · 14 days ago

Text

to every single arcane fan on the planet who is pissed at caitlyn for her actions in s2 act 1, please listen to me:

you are right to be pissed, that’s kind of the point, but hating her means you have to hate… like every other character. grief is a powerful factor in almost all of arcane and the motives of every character are based in something they’ve lost: whether it’s family, ideals, reputation, land, etc, they’re all dealing with loss and that causes them to act in morally-challenging ways. because that’s what grief does. a loss unthinkable causes actions unthinkable.

caitlyn joins the grief club a bit later than your other main characters, jinx and vi. but unlike jinx and vi, we actually see cait’s actions fresh off the block. the time cuts in act 1 only showed the clean-cut effects of losing their parents on the bridge, and then the new jinx and vi that occurred after the five (?) year time-skip after the explosion in the warehouse. you don’t see them when they’re full of raw grief and terror and illogical actions. you don’t see how severely vi was beaten in prison, how she must’ve lashed out in response to being taken away from her sister, how she continuously made the situation worse for herself because she felt like she deserved it, that she should’ve fought harder, been a better leader and a better sister. we don’t see jinx’s mental breakdowns afterwards, we don’t see how silco grooms her, how he uses her for his literal and emotional goals, how she’s shattered and how she pushes people away because of her own mistakes… but we’re seeing it with caitlyn, we’re seeing the rawness that comes with all of it, and we’re seeing how that impacts the narrative and other characters. people who haven’t grieved don’t seem to understand that it is like containing a storm, and you cannot do it by yourself, all of the time, and sometimes it gets out to other people if they press hard enough.

arcane is very cyclical in the way that all characters follow the same path, over and over again. caitlyn and jinx are following narrative paths, especially when you compare ambessa to silco. i do wonder if jinx knows that silco stabbed vander, that he was the one who ruined everything, hired the goons to jump them and scared her into dropping their haul from jayce’s workshop, etc. i wonder if the reason she continues to spiral is because she doesn’t know, and if caitlyn will get the same treatment with ambessa’s betrayals and her hand in the attack on the memorial.

whatever the case, you cannot defend jinx and hate caitlyn. they are not the same, i understand, but they are both products of massive grief that they blame themselves heavily for.

back to the idea of grief being a storm, because the most common gripe i see with caitlyn is how she promised vi she wouldn’t change, and then changed within a day. this isn’t… this is not an unreasonable course of action from caitlyn, given the situation and how she’s feeling. she is like… at most, a couple weeks out after her mother’s death. it is still an incredibly fresh wound, and she is sort of hinging her entire self-worth and identity on her ability to make the shot that resolves this feeling inside of her. she doesn’t get to make that shot, and fresh off of that miss, that realization that the fight is going to be prolonged and that vi is not as unattached to jinx as she says she is…

both of them made strange promises in that tunnel that they didn’t quite keep. how can you blame vi or caitlyn for picking their family over the girl they met less than a month ago? isha was a wildcard in that fight, but they both knew that caitlyn wouldn’t actually miss the shot. vi didn’t flinch when caitlyn shot 2 inches behind her, vi didn’t flinch when cait shot the gun out of isha’s hand, or the finger from jinx’s, etc, etc. it wasn’t about missing, it was the realization for vi that she can’t just cut herself off from her sister (especially when there’s signs that powder is still in there), that it is much easier said than done. and for cait, it was the realization that vi is not with her. that vi never changed.

that’s kind of the issue. vi didn’t want caitlyn to change, but caitlyn wanted vi to change, and they’re both in situations that demand change and stagnancy, respectively. see what i’m saying? does any of this make sense?

#arcane #caitvi #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #i am sick as a dog and tired as shit writing this so i might be way off based #eeeueuuughhh

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featherandferns · 4 months ago

Text

daylight - seven

jj maybank x fem!reader | part 7 of the daylight series | read part 6 here

content warnings: none

word count: 2.7k.

blurb: with JJ gone the next morning, you distract yourself with work and reunite with Barry at the garage. The next day, following a surf day at the beach, you find yourself worried that this thing with JJ may do more damage than it's worth.

Just as he had when the two of you fell asleep at the Chateau; JJ is gone in the morning. You’re groggy as you turn over in bed. Picking up your phone, you find a text from Mimsy. It’s a winking emoji accompanying a picture of her in a guy’s bed, with Darren’s sleeping back facing the camera. Laughing quietly, you text a reply requesting a debrief later. You open the Pogue group chat next and scroll through the typical banter-like chatter. Kiara mentions a surfing day soon and you reply, telling her tomorrow would be better than today.

You had a photography gig lined up today. A photoshoot of a new, hippie-style smoothie bar that had opened near Figure Eight by some trust-fund college graduate. They were willing to pay you a hundred for the pictures alone and another twenty-five if you edited them on their behalf. After that, you needed to edit the pictures from the Country Club gala since you got side-tracked last night.

With the mundanity of your morning routine, it’s hard to believe JJ had been around the night before. If it weren’t for the polaroid pictures which have your face light on fire (and are promptly stuffed at the bottom of your sock drawer), you’d think you might have hallucinated the whole thing. You’d be lying to say that you weren’t a little crestfallen to not find a text from JJ.

It feels strange to drive your car after hitching so many lifts with JJ in the Twinkie. It’s when you’re halfway to the smoothie bar that your car makes a concerning, clunking noise. After the incident a couple months back, you’re ready for the thing to start steaming again. Thankfully, it doesn’t, but it prompts you to visit Barry’s garage after your photoshoot.

Wandering into the garage, the smell of cigarettes hits you hard and strong. There’s old sixties rock playing through the speakers, the quality crackly, and you venture the isles looking for a worker. You end up poking your head into the main body-works section, rapping politely on the open door.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

A man grunts and appears from behind a car. It’s Barry. He’s got an oil streak on his cheek and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his fading tattoos. He eyes you up from across the room.

“Do I know you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m JJ’s friend? We came by here a few weeks back now,” you say, semi-awkward. Barry wags a finger at you as his memory jogs.

“You’re the one with the busted radiator, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” you smile. “Listen, uh, it’s making a weird noise again and I don’t know squat about cars. I was wondering if you could give it a look? I’d be more than willing to pay, even for a glance over.”

Barry shoves his hands in his overall pockets and shrugs. “Course. JJ’s friend, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, anything for that kid,” Barry’s gruff voice says. He wanders over to you and follows you out to your car. Cracking open the bonnet, he talks as he inspects the engine. “You know, that kid’s pretty smart with these things, too. He’d make a hell of mechanic. You could’ve just asked him to check it over for you.”

“Oh. I mean, he checked it out when I broke down but I didn’t know he was that savvy with it,” you reply.

“Hell yeah. Shame his dad’s such a bastard cause he’s got a hell of a mind for mechanics, too,” Barry chuckles, sounding almost sad as he does. “Poor kid got dealt a rough hand.”

“Yeah, uh, I get the sense he has a tricky relationship with his dad,” you tentatively say.

Barry spares you a glance. His eyes hold years of grief. “Don’t think his old man knows how lucky he is to have that kid around.”

Your mind darts back to the photo on the pinboard of his child. Smiling sympathetically, you nod. “He’s pretty special.”

“Damn straight,” Barry grunts in agreement. Then he continues inspecting your car in silence.

You liked Kildare. The people were genuine and real. They looked out for each other on the Cut; offered a helping hand, generous with loans and handiwork. Sometimes it seemed quality of character was more important than money. You liked that way of thinking. Maybe if everyone took that line of thought onboard, the world could be a brighter place.

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong,” Barry concludes, closing the bonnet. “Might’ve just been a screw or something shifting, or the brakes after going over a pothole. I wouldn’t stress.”

“Thanks,” you say. “I just thought it best to check it out.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out your wallet, fishing around for some dollar bills. Barry frowns at you and shakes his head.

“You ain’t gotta do all that,” he says.

“I insist,” you reply. “I mean, you’ve already helped me out for free before.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Barry returns. “Just leave us a good review or something. Could do with some more customers these days.”

You glance at the garage with that. It looks old and rickety, with dust stained windows and a tin roof. The font of the sign that lines the store is reminiscent of the seventies. You wouldn’t be surprised if it hadn’t been updated since then.

“You know,” you say, looking back to him, “I do some photography. I’d be happy to pay you back by taking a few shots for some promo.”

He quirks a brow. “You any good?”

You dig out your camera from your bag and open the gallery, holding it out to him. Flicking through the shots of the smoothie bar, you let him take his time. His lips purse and brows raise, seemingly impressed.

“These are pretty good. You sure you wouldn't mind?” he asks, handing it back. You smile and shake your head.

“It’s the least I can do,” you reply.

“Alright. You got yourself a deal. Come by whenever and we’ll get it sorted,” Barry returns, sticking out his hand for you to shake. You do so gladly. “What’s your name by the way?”

You tell him. A sombre smile softens Barry’s wrinkled features. “That’s what we were gonna name my little girl.”

You’re not sure what to say and so you smile kindly at him. As you drive back home, you can’t help but feel as though you’ve made a friend. There’s the nagging feeling to tell JJ about it all but you don’t. Besides, he still hasn’t texted you since last night.

The next day you go surfing. Walking up through the dunes, you find the Pogues on the beach dressed in swimsuits. Kiara is sitting on a towel, rubbing sunscreen into her leg, whilst the guys stand around talking. Their boards are scattered around them. Pope spots you first and waves. You wave back with your free hand, the other holding a White Claw. You’ve barely reached them before JJ’s hooking an arm over John B’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey! Take a picture of us!”

“She literally just got here,” Kiara scolds.

Rolling your eyes, you entertain JJ. Fishing your camera out of your tote bag, you click it on, hold it up and take a mediocre shot. “Happy?”

“Yep,” JJ grins, letting John B free.

Kiara stands up and grabs her board, dressed in leopard-print bikini bottoms and a plum-shaded bikini top. Before she can move, you blurt out for her to hold still and snap a sideways photo of her.

“We didn’t just invite you here to be our personal photographer,” Pope assures you.

Laughing, you ditch your tote bag on the towel. “I don’t mind. You guys take good photos.”

JJ wanders over to you, pinches your can of seltzer to have a swig, and looks out to the sea. “Waves look pretty decent today, right?”

“Hell yeah,” Kiara grins. Looking at you, she asks, “you joining?”

“I’m gonna take some shots first,” you smile. JJ passes you back your drink; you down it and place the can in the methodical ‘trashbag’ Kie brought. Ditching your shirt and shorts, you join the others to wander down to the waterfront, everyone talking over each other. John B and Pope wade out into the water with Kie, and then they start paddling deeper into the depths. JJ lingers beside you for a moment.

“You sure you don’t wanna join?”

“I will in a minute,” you say. Lifting your camera, you add, “the lighting’s just really good today.”

“Alright,” he shrugs, walking into the waves. Looking back to you, he loudly adds, “you look hot in that bikini, by the way!”

You hide your fluster with an eye roll, waving him off into the water. A cheeky, knowing grin turns away from you as he paddles out, calling out to the others. As the sun beats down on the beach, you adjust the camera settings and focus on one friend at a time. Kiara dips in and out of the waves, curly hair flowing behind her, face set in focus. John B and Pope bend and lean, tightening their cores, the shadows of the rolling water enhancing the beauty to their form. Naturally, JJ is your favourite. Maybe it’s the smile on his face, brimming and bright, like he was born in the sea and destined to surf its waves. He makes it look easy. Rakes a hand through his hair from time to time, like he’s taking a leisurely stroll down the street. When he catches your camera on him, he points to you with a holler. You manage to snap a shot before he bails. The next one you get is of him, sinking into the aquamarine waves. You take that as your cue to ditch your camera with the rest of the belongings, snatch up your board and join them in the waves. JJ cheers you on as you pass him by, a little rusty in your technique. They were right: it was perfect weather for it. The water was tamer today than it had been in other sessions. Not as brutal in its churning of you when you bail off.

Somehow, the five of you find yourself sat atop of your boards in a circle, chatting away as the sun dries your water-speckled bodies.

“I think that’s it’s completely unjust,” Kie complains in her environmentalist spiel. She looks to you, “I mean, it’s–”

Her brows knit as she looks at something on your neck.

“Is that a hickey?”

You glance down, lifting a finger to your skin, and realise that the shabby concealer work you’d done that morning had rubbed off on your t-shirt and washed away with the sea water. The picture of abashed, your eyes dart down to the water.

“Uh…No.”

“Yes it is!” Kie grins.

Pope paddles over and investigates it like a doctor might.

“Definitely not a rash or a burn.”

“I will push you off your board, Pope, I swear to God,” you grumble. He takes a wary paddle backwards.

“Who the hell did that to you?” John B sniggers.

Your eyes glance fleetingly to JJ, hopefully without the other’s notice. He’s sat watching it all unfold with a proud, shit-eating grin. Asshole.

“Nobody.”

“So you’re saying it’s a phantom hickey?” Pope jokes in his bizarre Pope way. You push him off his board with that. He crashes into the water as the others laugh. Through their laughter, you overhear Kie talking to JJ.

“Why do you look so smug?”

“We should probably head back to shore,” you announce, “me and JJ gotta start heading to work soon.”

Turning away, you start paddling back to shore before anybody can argue. Never much to dwell, the group happily abandons their line of questioning and follow. On land, you dry off and dress. John B and Pope start battling over a bag of chips and Kiara has taken off collecting stray pieces of litter along the beach. JJ wanders up to you and pinches your butt. Spinning around, you glare at him.

“Thanks for your help back there,” you say lowly.

JJ shrugs, grinning, “fun watching you squirm.”

You swat his leg with your towel and he cusses with a laugh, hopping away from you. “Dry off. We got work in fifteen.”

JJ mimics you in a high-pitched echo but does as you say, rubbing himself dry of salt water. The five of you share the load as you walk back to the Twinkie. JJ drives, dropping the others at the Chateau before taking the both of you to the Country Club.

“Our deal still on?” JJ asks you.

“Hell yeah. Get ready to pay up,” you grin.

The two of you had made a bet the other day, about who would hear the phrase “excuse me” more. You debate bringing up the other night, as the two of you ride to work, but you pull up to the country club before you have a chance to muster-up the courage.

Venturing into the staff room, you and JJ open your respective lockers and begin to change into your uniforms.

“Listen, I hear it way more than you do,” you say to JJ, referring back to the ‘excuse me’ battle, as you pull on your blouse. “‘Excuse me, miss, can you take a picture of me and my family?’ ‘Excuse me miss, can you get one of me and my wife?’”

“Oh, come off it,” JJ sniggers. “ ‘Excuse me sir, get me one of those shrimp cocktails.’ ‘Excuse me sir, I need a refill.’”

“Your customers sound a lot less polite than mine,” you snort.

“Tell me about it,” he grumbles. He tugs his shirt off and you watch the muscles of his back ripple. As JJ buttons up his work shirt, he turns to you and smirks. “You might wanna cover that up.”

You glance down to once more find your hickey poking out. Buttoning up your blouse, you shoot him a half-amused glare. “Next time can you put it in an easier to hide place?”

“Nah,” JJ leers, clearing the distance between you. His fingers reach out to brush at your collarbone. “You have a spot right here that makes you squirm.”

The intensity of his unwavering stare traps you in place like you’re under Medusa’s watch. Someone walks into the staff changing room - Larry, from the kitchen - and JJ takes a step away from you, turning back to his bag.

“Hey man,” he nods to Larry.

“Yo.”

And just like that he goes about getting ready as if he hardly knows you. Sends you a cordial smile and nod as he departs, with a fleeting “see you later”.

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. And maybe it wouldn’t, if it weren’t for Tyler. If it weren’t for how screamingly familiar it felt to how you spent six months of your life in Vancouver.

That softness in JJ’s eyes, hidden behind laughter and rambunctious shenanigans and even anger, at times, reminds you of Tyler. Brings back that girlish thought: that all girls want a guy to look at them like that, and only them. Have that gentleness saved just for you. It reminds you of how you felt with your ex. How he used to be different around you in an inexplicable way. Soft, kind, vulnerable. Real. He’d hold you and spin you around, and make you feel safe and special, until you realise that it only happened when he was with just you. That around everyone else, even your friends, he was distant and distracted. He wouldn’t hold your hand. Wouldn’t kiss your lips, let alone your cheek. Leave you to fend for yourself in conversations, like treading water in the sea, whilst he and his family sat, relaxing on a yacht only feet away. Relied on the excuse ‘I was going to…’ and became a master at apologising. Slowly, with time, it stopped feeling like a privilege to know only that side of him when nobody was looking. Instead, it began to feel like a curse. And JJ, with his smug silence at the beach and passivity in the changing room, you were worried that you might be retracing your steps.

That thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth from the moment you leave the changing rooms, and it lingers like stale coffee on your tongue long after the end of your shift.

read part eight here!

taglist:

#jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj #obx #outer banks #outerbanks #jj x fem!reader #fem!reader #obx fics #outerbanks jj #outer banks jj x reader #outerbanks series

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thetarotwitch111 · 3 months ago

Text

This message was meant to find you! - Pick a card crystal

✨Enjoyed the reading? A tip would be a sweet way to help me keep these free insights coming. Thanks so much for your support!

✨This was a channeled messages from my guides.

✨I hope this reading brings you some clarity and guidance. If it resonated with you, I’d love to hear about it!

✨And if you’re looking for something more personal, I also do individual readings—just DM me anytime.

✨TIPS✨

1. Citrine

Why don’t you go out and live a little? I’m not talking about parties or commitments. I’m talking about feeling the wind in your hair, the sun on your skin, and the air through your lungs. This automatic life you’re living is making you miss the present moment and embrace an anxiety that’s not even yours.

Connect with yourself again, do things for yourself and no one else. Helping others is great, spiritual work is great, and making money too, but when you leave this earth, the only thing that remains is you. And don’t be afraid to try and fail. Just go for it and see where this leads you. Make your life worth the flashback.

playlist:

pocketfull of sunshine - natasha bendingfield

step out - josé gonzales

how far i’ll go - moana

sleep on the floor - the lumineers

heroes - david bowie

alright- supergrass

movie:

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Specific message for a small percentage: Call your grandparents. They’re waiting for that call you promised.

—————————————

2. Ametyst

Please be calm right now. It’s not an easy phase, and some news and situations came out of the blue. But you’re going to get through this. You’re being prepared for better moments, but some changes needed to happen for you to step out of your comfort zone. Take your time to process all that, but don’t lose yourself in grief and isolation. You’ve got what it takes to overcome this situation, so ask your guides for the support you need and keep swimming! Also, the people you worry so much about need to learn how to swim by themselves too. Everything is in the right place, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

playlist:

the show must go on - queen

you got it - vedo

breathin - ariana grande

the climb - miley cyrus

who you are - jessie j

wolves and the ravens - rogue valley

movie:

Finding nemo

Specific message for a small percentage: If you’re planning on getting a pet or two, this is your sign to just do it. It will be so good for you in this process.

————————————-

3. Rose quartz

When did you convince yourself that you’re not loved, don’t matter, or don’t deserve the best?

We have the power to make things we focus and believe in reality, but this can be a trap if your thoughts are so full of self-sabotage. Stop nurturing this bs, cause people care about you, and you should care more about yourself too. Your guides are desperate for you to ask for help and put your head up. Therapy will be super beneficial right now, but with that, try to remember the kid you were, what you really liked, who you are besides people’s opinions, and ask yourself how you really want to live your life. You are reproducing toxic traits to yourself that aren’t even yours.

You deserve love, you will find your people, but first, find and love yourself.

playlist

the middle - jimmy eat world

queen - jessie j

rise up - andra day

help is round the corner - coldplay

young folks - peter bjorn and john

come and get your love - redbone

movies:

The Greatest Showman

Eat Pray Love

Specific message for a small percentage: That idea of business of yours (for some specific group a coffee or beverage business) could go well, but in a different way. Maybe you could start by creating online content to see where this goes. A bookstore is also something you should think about, but in a fresher and edgier way.

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uchihaharlot · 7 months ago

Note

Heyooo, how are you, bro?

I hope your health is better now!

I have one innocent request.

"How would all Uchiha act if they finds out that you are self-harming?" (Mostly Madara pls😏)

I don't know if it's allowed topic... but yeah.

NSFW; TW self harm; minor mentions of injury; small prologue;

Before I go into this hc, I want to expressly tell anyone who reads this; whether we are mutuals or not. Whether you like my writing, like me or don’t or whatever.

My blog is a safe haven. You can openly message me, befriend me on discord (ask for my handle) or interact in the comments. If you feel like there are people who don’t care enough as they should. I just want to say that, I do. I don’t know who you are, what you’re doing. But I love you. Do not think for a single iota that your existence is merely coincidence, I’m not by any means a holier than thou individual and I’ve had my fair share of this isn’t worth living for: but trust me; it is and then some.

Madara:

Madara comes from an era where you put your best fist forward when things aren’t right. His level of resolve is steel cut and unwavering…but seeing you hurt yourself as an outlet, doesn’t sit well with Madara. And he’s into good old fashioned methods of healing…sorta. Expect to be tied up to his bed; not in the way you’d like either. For days he will keep you there, turning your body so you won’t get bed sores. Feeding you and letting you up to the toilet fa few times a day, and once at night if needed. All of this until you finally talk it out with him, and agree to find a better solution to figuring out how to express your feelings/pain. Insists on being around you every second of the day.

Obito:

I won’t lie, seeing you hurt yourself this way; it makes him cry. Do you want Obito to cry!? He’s inconsolable when you won’t even consider him as a vent source. And, while he won’t selfishly make it about him. He will openly admit most (ok all) of his faults in the hopes you would share your own. Whatever it is, Obito is sure that there are far better way to convey the message you want to share. Suffering in silence is only so fool proof.

Shisui:

No. No, no. No. Shisui one hundred percent won’t stand for it, and despite your protests of him almost catapulting himself off a cliff, he will tell you the error of his ways. Undoubtedly will make sure that you understand that even his own potential sacrifice would have been fruitless, and that you shouldn’t compare apples to oranges. And from there, Shisui will spend countless hours, days and nights proving to you just how sacred human life is. He inadvertently blames himself for some of this, you mentioning his almost demise opens old wounds and Shisui takes the opportunity for you both to grow and evolve. He wants to be a role model; not the reason you justify it.

Itachi:

In a way; he’s bereaved. This is highly unusual for you, and Itachi’s keen eyes (and new prescription glasses) catch a glimpse of your fresh wounds as he lightly snatches your arm. ‘Why would you do this?’ and ‘that’s not a logical reason to purposely harm yourself.’ Are a few of his stern words to you. Itachi is a no nonsense man, and he won’t tolerate you hurt yourself. If he was a true jerk, like he tricked many to believe for the longest time; he’d put you in Tsukuyomi and really give you something to think about. But instead, he inundated you day in and day out with his concern. Hoping that if you see one person who cares; you will eventually open up.

Sasuke:

Sasuke, traumatized by his older brother—not once but twice and more, lived in excruciating detail his own parents death, several times over. In the matter of three seconds; he understands your grief. Whatever you might be going through, I think when it comes to seeing other people suffering—especially as adult Sasuke, he can’t cope with it, and rarely did for himself. Which is sort of mkes him the besy person for this. He also doesn’t mince words and tells you straight out that you’re only causing yourself more harm in the long run. His method of cut and dry reality checks come in waves, when you think he’s not watching you, he’s right there. Don’t under estimate his capabilities. You’re on his radar and Sasuke won’t hesitate to use his techniques to get you talking; the sooner you find the root cause of your problems. The better, take it from someone who let their pain fester until it boiled over, it’s not worth it.

#tw #self harm mentions #Uchiha men take your mental health seriously #I love you #they love you #please talk before you act #uchiha clan #uchiha headcanons #madara headcanons #obito headcanons #shisui headcanons #itachi headcanons #sasuke headcanons #madara uchiha #obito uchiha #shisui uchiha #itachi uchiha #sasuke uchiha

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garlic-and-vanilla · 3 months ago

Note

This ask is in your inbox because my brain has apparently chosen to title you as The Illithid Understander and I feel like you might have interesting thoughts to contribute to this topic (please don’t feel obligated to respond tho!)

When I played through bg3 for the first time, what really stood out to me about the Emperor as a character was that he is full of ambiguity. Many of the questions about him, on both a personal level and on a broader level as an illithid, simply do not have concrete answers in canon. I thought that it was so neat how the writers enshrined a vessel for open dialogue regarding some of the biggest themes and questions of the game/story in a character. I thought the whole point of the Emperor’s character is that there’s no One Right Answer about: its intentions, its morality, how much it still is or isn’t Balduran, how much it is or isn’t a monster, why it cares so much about the PC, if it made the right choices, etc.

Which is why I was utterly shocked to find out that SO many people played the game and just… unquestioningly seemed to think that many of those aspects had concrete answers. That this character that, to me, was defined by ambiguity, had been determined by so many to simply be Evil.

I have my own theories about each of the questions/ambiguities listed above, of course, based on my interpretation of canon. But I see them as just that, theories and interpretation. Maybe my perception of the Emperor as a bunch of unanswered questions is just an interpretation, too, but then what was the writers’ intent? (Did my success in high school English classes make me overly confident in narrative comprehension? Lol)

I’ve read many an interesting take on the Emperor on tumblr and ao3 that seem to vibe generally with the whole It’s Supposed to Be Ambiguous thing, and I’d love to hear your take.

First of all this is so funny and I am so honored to be The Illithid Understander lmao.

Second I am very sorry I haven’t answered this sooner. Alas I am not used to ever receiving asks and just now realized I even have one. And what a wonderful message!!!

Honestly I think you fuckin nailed it my man. In a game that spends so much time and energy asking the player to think about questions like “what does it take to be a monster,” “what aspects cause a person to become monstrous,” and “when does it become worth it to become a monster” the Emperor is the ultimate answer. The non-answer. His character embodies all the questions the game wants to ask, and then doesn’t answer any of them for you.

The game shows you characters and says “this is a monster.” Ketheric Thorm is a monster, and Orin and Gortash, despite how sympathetic their backstories and motivations might be. It shows you cycles of abuse, manipulation, cult mentality, and indoctrination. The power of grief, love, fear, and ambition to lead people down monstrous paths even as they think they’re doing the right thing, or the only thing.

You as the player character directly help your companions navigate these themes. You see how they’re affected, how they struggle, what they might become if they choose to give in, and what they become if they don’t.

Do they become monsters? Do you let them? Do you encourage them?

The game shows you clearly what monsters are, and waits to see if you’ll become one yourself.

Withers asks you, “Do illithids have souls?”

He claims they don’t, initially, but that story is contradicted the moment he meets the Emperor in the High Hall, and when you meet him after undergoing ceremorphosis yourself. There’s also lore out there that says illithids do have souls— non-apostolic ones.

So far as the game is concerned, I’m not sure there’s supposed to be a solid answer to that question. I think— like you do— that it’s supposed to be ambiguous. He is not a character the game points to and says “here is a monster.”

I agree with you wholeheartedly that the Emperor is made of ambiguity. The lack of answers are my favorite thing about him. He’s a mass of unanswered questions that you look at and see the themes of the story inside.

Is the Emperor a monster just for being a mind flayer?

Is he a monster because he came to embrace the power his illithid nature brought him?

Because a friend turned on him, claimed he was lost, and he killed them in self-defense?

Because he dominated Stelmane, a situation we have no context for?

How much of his behavior is genuine? How much of Balduran remains, and how much is illithid? Does he even know himself? Does it matter?

He’s a big mystery. We simply do not know everything about his past. We don’t know how much of his behavior is real, or an act. We have to make the deliberate decision to take him at his word, or not. To trust him, or not. To love him, or not. All of this complicated by the reality that his mind and experience are alien to us (a whole other post by itself).

Ultimately, there are no answers except what we come to decide about him for ourselves.

Some people have decided that he’s evil, for various reasons, and sure, that’s certainly a way to answer the question. To end the ambiguity by deciding the Emperor is, after all, a simple monster.

But isn’t it so, so much more interesting if he isn’t?

#the emperor #the emperor bg3 #legitimately thank you so much for the ask I love rambling about my beautiful wife #still laughing at being The Illithid Understander sjdhshhsjsksks #i love my horrible children very much #and Emps is a mess of an illithid #half baked weirdo #i have my own headcanon of course wrt all the Questions about Emps #but rolling around in the ambiguity of it all is my favorite thing #pls feel free to yell about illithids and Emps with me

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hiraethwa · 9 months ago

Text

one summer day

06 saturn ii. where ushijima’s words take you by surprise.

<< 05 saturn i. | >> 07 sun and moon.

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x reader a/n: i am back from my trip now, i will be posting more regularly again, thank you for staying! i loved reading the tags on your reblogs of one summer day, they make my heart go WAHHH! my inbox is always open if you want to chat <3 - ave word count: 1.5k warnings: angst, childhood trauma, parental neglect/verbal abuse, past death of a family member

april, second year

“you don’t have to be the person in your house with me.”

since he stayed with you that night, there has been a medley of conflicting feelings swirling in you. you had felt embarrassed in the morning, but also relieved for his presence. and this burning shame in your chest whenever you see him and his eyes seem to ask, are you alright?

you could tell he wants to ask so many questions, but he is holding himself back, waiting for you to tell him yourself. worst of all, you wanted to tell him, consequences be damned. but you were afraid he would see you differently. you don’t think you could bear the person who’s seen you at your worst decide you were not worth his time. but if you wait any longer, perhaps he would decide that anyway.

“what i mean is, you can be yourself around me, always.” you know that. deep down, you feel it.

“ushijima–” you start, staring down at your shoes, thinking about how to explain that day to him without trauma dumping on him.

he corrects you, “wakatoshi”

your cheeks color, testing the way his name rolls off your tongue, “wakatoshi… i owe you an explanation…”

you decide it is easier to start from the day everything changed. so you tell him what you haven’t been able to tell any of your friends since that day eight years ago. about your sister, akiko’s death anniversary. that she passed away in an accident, and that it was your fault for leaving her outside the house when your mother tasked you to look after her. that even though eight year old you went in to get some water for the both of you playing outside, it was still your fault. that she had ran out after a stray cat and did not see the car coming. that it was your fault.

“am i a terrible person?”

and then you hold your breath, knowing there is a possibility that he would have that accusing look in his warm brown eyes. beautiful with tiny flecks of greens and golds. you think those are your favorite features of him. and fuck, it would hurt like hell if that is the way he looks at you from now on. but you had taken a leap of faith, all you can do is hope for the best. hope that the feeling in your gut is not wrong.

“and your parents, why weren’t they around?” for their daughter’s death anniversary goes unspoken. of all the questions he could have asked, he sure did pick the most difficult one, you thought.

“let’s just say we all cope in our own ways. akiko’s death… it changed our family for the worse. my father threw himself into work to forget about it… my mother… her grief made her meaner, colder, it changed her.”

he gives you a concerned look, causing you to hurriedly explain that your mother is not abusive. “she’s just different than the mother i had when akiko was still here. she cared less about us, her words became sharp, like knives designed to hurt, especially when it comes to me, but she never laid a hand on us. i think her grief morphed into anger, and she never stopped blaming me for that day.”

“it isn’t your fault, you know that, right?” he grabs your wrist, turning you around to look at him.

your next words comes out in a whisper. “i know, but if i hadn’t left her, akiko would still be here. if i had done what i was supposed to, my parents wouldn’t have lost their daughter, and we could have been happy,” your voice cracks.

“you were a child. it wasn’t your fault. do you understand?” his strong grip on your shoulders forces you to look into his eyes. there was no judgement in them. no accusing look, no blame, only resolution. and they made you feel safe. “you cannot be blamed for your parent’s decisions, and it was their responsibility to look after their children’s well-being, not an eight year old child. your only duty was to grow up.”

an unidentifiable feeling overwhelms you, welling up tears in your eyes. what is it about me and crying in front of ushijima? you had been fine, just fine before he came along and messed up your coping system. every year before this on that day, you wouldn’t even cry, believing that all your tears had been spent when you were eight. that all you could do is feel empty and sad and self-destructive on that day while lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

oh gods, you were eight, and you had believed that it was your fault your family lost a sister, a daughter, and your mother let you believe it. she never let you forget it. all the hurtful words hurled at you. all the pain you swallowed and carefully locked away in a box.

your home stopped being a home that day.

home should feel safe. home should be a place you long to be after a long day, not somewhere you dreaded. home should feel like a warm blanket on cold winter days, not a house that is a place to eat and sleep. home should feel safe. but it doesn’t.

you had known it for a long time. but you had been running away, refusing to face the fact. that maybe if you pretended hard enough, it would all go away. all this heartbreak that you had hidden away would vanish.

“i don’t think my mother fully forgave me for it. i don’t think she forgave herself either.” but you were only a child. and all you wanted was her love, and approval, and support, and presence in your life.

you look up at the stars shining in the dark sky, wondering if your sister is one of the millions smiling down at you from a far away distance. “she would have been in junior high if she was still here.” you smile sadly at the stars, thinking of the life that she could have had ahead of her. all taken away in one unfortunate moment.

“your sister would want you to be happy, to live for yourself. i think she would find solace in that.”

you turn sharply to look at ushijima. “i–i have been doing my best to survive.”

his voice turns gentle, “but not truly living.”

“have you spoken to anyone about this?” he inquires, though you think he knows the answer.

you clench your fists, looking away, a rising feeling in your chest that you identify as discomfort. oh, he is safe, but he is not afraid to tell you the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “you’re the first.”

no one would understand anyway. not your parents, if they even cared enough to listen to you. not your brother, who had pushed you to open up, he lost his sister that night too.

“then you no longer carry the burden by your lonesome. live, y/n, for you and your sister.”

live. he says it like it is so easy. as if living in that house doesn’t make you gasp for breath. if only your house did not also feel like your prison. if only being alive when your sister no longer breathes does not feel like a sin. as if everyday does not feel like being trapped in the past.

and then with excruciating realization, you admit it. “i don’t know how.”

the recognition leaves your head spinning, and you seek the comfort that you had felt in his arms. looping your arms around his torso, you bury your head into his chest. how do i do this how do i do this how do–

“you take it day by day. one foot in front of you at a time. and you keep looking forward.” he tilts your chin up, searching your eyes. “i will be right next to you.” he promises.

“don’t say things you don’t mean.” please don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“y/n, i only say things i mean.” you hope he sees the gratitude in your eyes. you really hope he means it. because you think you can make it, with him by your side. when you’re with ushijima, you can truly breathe. with him by your side, you can see a glimpse of your future tonight. maybe not tomorrow, not a month from now, but one day, you could be happy.

akiko, did you send him to me? thank you. i love you. i miss you. i miss you so much. but i think i need to learn to let you go now.

reblogs and comments are appreciated!

looking for more? browse the collection

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razrbladekiss · 1 year ago

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Thirty-seven minutes | Tig Trager

A/N: this is just a shitty little angsty one shot, which i put together in like fifteen minutes. it's supposed to be helping me get back into the swing of things with writing, but it isn't! but anyway, here 'ya go!

WORD COUNT: 900 smth

PAIRING: tig trager x fem!reader

WARNINGS: angst, strong language. you're in your cunt era

Thirty-seven minutes ago, malevolence was rippling through your veins, surging through each and every artery like hot, molten lava drifting toward that village at the volcano’s edge.

You were mere seconds from an outburst, almost spattering your last morsel of equanimity when Clay’s pompous snarl reached the drums of your ears and all you saw was red.

Ripping the man limb from fucking limb would’ve been so gratifying, you thought. Causing him that same abundance of grief that he had inflicted upon you, making him hurt, was the one thing you could only wish to happen.

But slivering so deeply into Clay Morrow seemed borderline inconceivable. Because he was formidable, and tough, and you were yet to see him crumble under the wayward burdens bestowed upon him by his club.

Frankly, getting to him was simply impossible. And, if you could strike a chord within that phlegmatic prick, Tig wouldn’t even let you try.

It wasn’t worth it, he guaranteed that seeking revenge for the shit the SAMCRO President did to you—to the man that you love—wasn’t worth thinking about.

Because he might’ve made Tig dive head first into yet another ire-fueled, gun-wielding battle that could’ve ended a hell of a lot more bloody than what it did, but that was a part of this life.

You understood that. You understood what Tig’s life—his line of work—entailed, but it was tough. Coming to terms with it all—every last thing—was painful, and sometimes you wished that Clay didn’t depend on him so much.

But he did. And there was nothing that you could’ve done to change that, or put a stop to it. So you got along with it.

You got along with it until you couldn’t.

Ten minutes ago your face was reddening, rage dripping from every pore as you became privy to the events of the day. Eagerly—desperately—you awaited an explanation.

An explanation that never came.

An explanation that you needed, but one that you never got. And, for that, you were irrationally angry.

“I just hate that he’s got you wrapped around his little finger, Tig! It’s gonna get you seriously hurt one day!” You expressed your repugnance, stamping into the clubhouse.

Tig was hot on your heels.

“I’m sick of finding out through Jax, or Juice, that Clay has put you into yet another situation that you might not find your way out of—“

“Baby—“

“No! Don’t baby me, Alexander.” Pissed, you threw back at him as you stopped dead at the front door. “You’re not getting out of this by sweet-talking, or fucking me, like you always do.”

Being an authoritative figure suited you, he thought. Being put in his place by you was so sexy, he thought.

But you had also yelled at him—“humiliated” him—right in front of his club, and he was irked at your boldness.

The boldness that he lauded, of course, but the boldness that no old lady should’ve conveyed before the Sons Of Anarchy.

Because old ladies were supposed to be submissive. They were supposed to take orders, know their place, and abide by the rules set in place by the club.

That wasn’t your thing, however.

“I—I can’t take this anymore.” Frustrated, you retorted. “This fucking club—“

“Hey!” Tig yelled, pointing at you.

This unbending—frightening—look washed over his face, and for the first time ever, you felt yourself tremble underneath his gaze.

“Don’t talk shit about this fucking club!”

Your heart was pounding.

“I’m serious!” He barked, cornering you.

Tig was intimidating, everybody and their fucking dog knew that. Everybody knew what he did, or what he had the capability of doing.

But you weren’t scared of him.

Not anymore.

You puffed out your chest a little, refusing to be backed up against the wall. You walked a little closer to him. Two noses almost brushed against one another.

“And so am I.” You said, biting back tears. “I am so fucking serious about this—“

“About what?!” Tig was yelling again now.

He was so short tempered. But never with you.

Sucking in a deep breath, you began by saying “about how this club—more like fucking cult—is ruining our relationship that we have been trying so hard to rebuild!”

It was like a weight lifted, but it maimed him.

Because you hadn’t known Tig before the Sons, nor would you ever know that version of him. But he thought that you enjoyed him being part of such a tight brotherhood, a ready made family that supported the pair of you, not just him.

And there were benefits to Samcrow, there always were. But Tara had told you what it was like getting involved with them, and you chose to ignore the warning.

Until now.

“It’s like everything you do revolves around the club.” You say, as if it’s not the most obvious thing in the world. You take a step toward Tig, making him take a step backwards.

Fists clenched.

“We had something good, Tig. We really had a beautiful thing. But the Sons Of Anarchy have brainwashed you into thinking that, if you’re not here twenty four hours a fucking day, that some shit will happen and the club will crumble.”

He rolled his jaw.

“I promise you, nothing bad will happen if you take a day to spend time with your old lady—y’know, the woman you married.”

“You spend too much time with Tara—“

“And that’s such a bad thing?!” You hurled his way. “I spend my days in this shithole! I have no other fucking friends aside from the club and their wives, and it sucks! And now you’re mad at me for spending time with the only female in this gang that I can tolerate?!”

“Not a gang!”

“Oh, fuck off!” You stomp toward the front door, leaving a bitter taste in the mouth of your husband.

Tig couldn’t wrangle his composure. He couldn’t bring himself to go after you as your heels clicked along the uneven concrete, and you mithered to yourself about how worthless he was.

He didn’t care.

He couldn’t find a reason to care.

You disrespected his club, so he threw away the vows that he made to you.

Only temporarily, of course.

Because in thirty-seven minutes, he’ll be at your knees begging for forgiveness.

#tig trager #tig trager x reader #tig trager x you #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy fic #sons of anarchy fandom #tig trager fanfiction #tig trager fic #sons of anarchy imagines

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bookworm551 · 1 year ago

Text

Take the Edge Off | Part 5 | Comfort

After a devastating loss, Miguel seeks comfort in you

Sorry this took so long!! Life hit and I had to put this on the back burner. The next chapter might take a while too but I promise, it will definitely be worth the wait ;) Also, I’m slowly adding more fluff to these chapters, so if you don’t like it, too bad. Anyways, enjoy <3

Warnings: p in v, oral (m-receiving), fingering

Word count: 6k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

"That anomaly is going to wreak havoc on the multiverse."

Nobody could have guessed just how right Miguel was. The anomaly that had escaped before had eluded the Spider-Society better than any of you had expected, setting off several chain reactions throughout various universes, little fires that you all had to scramble to put out. All of it was manageable until Earth-2319.

The anomaly had caused a canon-event disruption so large that nobody could stabilize the dimension, and it all collapsed on itself, destroying everything and everyone in it. You hadn't been on the mission since you were forced to adhere to Miguel's rule of not going on missions with him. In hind sight, you were grateful that you had stayed back. Watching a universe collapse wasn't something you wished to experience.

The loss of Earth-2319 shook everyone. Since Miguel had established the Spider-Society, there had only been a handful of losses like this. The compound on Earth-928 was unusually empty since everyone had gone back to their own dimensions just for the sake of appreciating that it was still there.

That's what you were doing, too. You sat next to your apartment window staring out at the city beyond it. It was all so mundane, so normal, and yet, the beauty of it made your throat tighten with emotion. You couldn't imagine the horror of losing an entire dimension, and the thought of losing your own made tears well in your eyes.

Suddenly, there was a knock at your door to pull you out of your melancholy. You whipped your head around in surprise. You hardly ever had visitors, but you pushed yourself away from your window and cracked the door open.

To your great surprise, Miguel's tall figure was there standing in the doorway. What was even more surprising was the fact that he wasn't in his spider suit. You stared dumbfounded for a second as you processed the sight of Miguel in a tight black t-shirt under a dark jacket and a pair of jeans.

"Hey," you said as you opened the door wider, surprise evident in your voice. His dark eyes lifted from the floor to meet yours. His lips parted like he was going to say something but then closed again with an uncomfortable sigh.

He didn't need to say anything. You could see the emotion in his eyes from the loss of Earth-2319–grief, anger, defeat. You looked up at him sympathetically and leaned your head against your door. "I know," you told him softly. "I heard." He sighed again, his eyes glancing away your face with a subtle nod.

"Are you alone?" He asked finally. Lifting your head off the door, you answered, "Yeah. Do you want to come in?" He hesitated before giving you a barely-perceptible nod of his head.

Moving aside, you opened the door wider so that he could enter your apartment. Closing the door, you turned back to face him and noticed how out of place he seemed in your home. He was so tall and muscular that it made your already small space feel even more cramped, not to mention how uncomfortable he seemed by being there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked. He looked back at you for a moment before replying quietly, "No." You studied him for a quiet second without reply. His jaw clenched as he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. "I want to forget about it," he said finally.

You knew what that meant. While you didn't mind in the slightest helping him take his mind off of things and providing him with some physical comfort, you hesitated and wondered if it was the best thing for him at the moment.

Miguel was waiting for a response, and he looked down at you expectantly. You placed a hand on his chest and looked up at him sympathetically. He wasn't good at being vulnerable, but for the first time since you met him, you could see he was trying.

You pushed him back gently with your hand on his chest, and he took several steps backwards until his the back of his legs hit your bed. He slowly sat down at the edge of your bed, his eyes fixed on your face. You moved your hands under his jacket and helped him remove it from his shoulders. With it being tossed on the floor, you crawled forward onto his lap, his hands tracing up the sides of your legs as his eyes fixed on your lips.

However, instead of kissing him like he was expecting, your arms slid around his neck, and you pulled him into a tight embrace. Miguel tensed for just a second before he hesitatingly wrapped his arms around your torso, and after a moment, he was fully hugging you back with his face buried in your neck.

You stayed there like that for quite a while. You could feel his heart beating steadily against his chest, and his hot breath fanned against your neck. The weight of his grief was reflected in the strength of his grip around your body. He seemed tired, completely and truly tired. It made your chest ache rather unexpectedly.

"This won't make it go away," you whispered finally. "You know that, right?" He didn't reply for a heartbeat, but then he sighed deeply. "I know," he whispered back.

You rubbed a hand down his back slowly for a little while until you turned your face into the crook of his neck. You pressed your lips to his skin, making him sigh again. Miguel tilted his head to give you better access to his neck, and your kisses slowly trailed up to his jaw.

As you kissed him, you started rocking your hips against his. A very quiet moan escaped from his lips, and his fingers gripped at your torso reactively. You increased your movements against him, and it made Miguel's breathing grow louder and deeper.

You placed another kiss on his jaw before pressing your lips against his. His hands wandered under your shirt as he kissed you before slowly lifting it up your body. You raised your arms to allow him to pull your shirt over your head, and you reached behind your back to unclasp your bra. As it fell away, Miguel pressed his kisses slowly across your collarbones.

The silence between you was unusual. Typically, you were shooting witticisms back and forth as you explored each other's bodies, but not this time. This time, it was quiet and slow with only the sounds of heavy breathing to fill the silence.

You sighed at his touch before pulling at his shirt from behind his back. He lifted his arms to help you pull the material over his head. As you tossed his shirt on the floor, you ran your hands over the tight muscles of his body. You still couldn't get over just how good he looked, and you stared at his chiseled abdomen before pressing kisses to his tanned skin.

Your lips leisurely moved down his torso, and Miguel leaned back on his hands as he sighed loudly at the trail of kisses you left on his body. You had never quite taken the time to properly shower him with physical affection like this, and Miguel closed his eyes at the sensation of your lips scattering kisses across his body.

When you reached the top of his jeans, you had slid off his lap and were now kneeling on the floor in front of him. You glanced up at him and could see the restless look on his face. You didn't look away as your hands undid the button and zipper of his jeans, the bulge in his pants becoming more evident.

"I like undressing you," you said with a smirk, breaking the silence around you. Miguel let out a little huff before replying, "It's easier with my suit." You hummed as you hooked your fingers under the waistline of his jeans. "Maybe so," you conceded, "but this is more fun."

He didn't say anything in response, he just lifted his hips to allow you to pull his jeans over his ass. He had already kicked off his shoes, and with his pants discarded, he was left in only a pair of black briefs with the print of his cock pressing through. With one hand, you rubbed his length over his briefs, causing him to clench his jaw and grunt at the sensation.

"I won't make you say please this time," you told him with a smirk. "But you have to promise me something." His chest was already heaving in anticipation, and his dark eyes were staring down at you attentively.

"Promise me you won't hold back all those sounds I like to hear," you said, looking up at him through your lashes. "I want to hear just how good I make you feel." You could see Miguel's face turn a little red at your demand. You had long noticed that the extent of noises he made when fucking were limited to sighs, grunts, and the occasional groan. You knew he was withholding the sounds that you enjoyed so much for the sake of his own ego, but if he wanted you to make him feel good, he'd better let you know he was feeling good.

You waited expectantly for his answer, still rubbing him slowly over the material of his briefs. His abs tightened, and you could feel him twitching under your palm. You looked up at his face as you waited patiently for his response.

Miguel seemed hesitant to answer you, but with how badly he wanted you to touch him, he eventually nodded and mumbled, "Okay." You smirked up at him and pressed your hand down on him with more pressure, causing him to grunt softly. "That's what I like to hear," you whispered as you tugged his briefs down his hips.

You grabbed his length firmly in your hand, and Miguel closed his eyes with a sharp breath. Tilting your head, you ran your tongue up one side of his dick and then the other, earning a soft sigh from him. There was precum already leaking from the end of his cock, and Miguel brought a hand up to grip at your head as your tongue continued teasing him.

"Fuck," he muttered quietly, his body tensing as you traced your tongue along the underside of his dick. His breathing was growing louder and less steady, and you could tell he was aching for you to do more to him.

Your lips twisted into a smirk while your hands began moving up and down lazily. You lowered your mouth down onto him slowly, taking as much of him as possible. As his cock hit the back of your throat, Miguel let out a quiet moan. It sounded like music to your ears, and you started moving your head up and down to encourage more sounds from him.

Miguel's head fell backward with another groan. He continued making quiet sounds as you moved your head and hands in tandem with each other. His fingers gripped the sheets of your bed, and his chest was heaving with every loud breath he took.

"Mierda," he gasped. "Don't stop, babygirl, don't stop."

His words drove you crazy. You could feel the hot throbbing between your legs, and the pace and eagerness with which you moved your mouth and hands increased, causing more groans to spill from his lips.

Glancing up at him, you wanted to memorize this image of him forever. The muscles of his torso were flexing with pleasure as he leaned back on one hand, the other one still holding your head though not pushing you down further than you could go. His eyes were closed, and his lips were parted with soft grunts emerging from them. The anger and dismay from earlier had disappeared from his expression, and you knew he was absorbed in the feeling of your mouth around him.

You trained your focus on taking as much of his dick in your mouth as possible. He hissed sharply as your tongue continued moving smoothly around him. His grunts and groans grew louder and more frequent until there was no silence. Your name was falling from his lips between his ragged breaths, and eventually, he was hardly able to talk at all.

When his thighs started to flex, you knew he was growing closer to finishing. His panting breaths were becoming shakier, and his groans were growing louder. You raised your mouth off of him but still kept your hands moving at the same steady pace.

"On me or in me?" You asked.

Miguel struggled to reply as your hands continued sliding up and down his cock fervently. "What?" He managed grunt out, opening his eyes to look down at you.

"Do you want to cum on me or in me?" You asked sweetly, your lips turned upwards in a devious smile. Miguel cursed under his breath and sat up to grab your wrists. Moving your hands away from his dick, he yanked you up from your kneeling position, his hands grasping desperately at your body as he pulled you up to his face.

"In you," he answered breathlessly. "In you every time."

You smirked at his response and began pulling your shorts and underwear down and kicked them off. Being completely exposed, you crawled up into his lap. His eyes were glossed over with lust, and his whole body moved restlessly in search of yours. You kissed him, and he shoved his tongue eagerly in your mouth and moaned at the sensation. Reaching a hand down, you aligned yourself to him before lowering yourself slowly onto his cock.

Feeling him stretch you out so perfectly caused a satisfied groan to emerge from your throat. Miguel sucked in a sharp breath as you moved down his length until your hips were resting in his lap. He released the breath in a long sigh as you moved your hips upwards again.

Miguel's hands didn't know how to stay still. They roamed your body eagerly, sliding across your back, grabbing at your ass, moving down your thighs. As you continued rising and falling on his dick, he settled them onto your hips and held your waist. His head was tilted back as he stared at your face through half-lidded eyes while soft grunts sounded from his parted lips.

Your body moved at a steady pace as he gripped your torso and held you tightly against his body. The feeling of his massive size moving in you sent ripples of pleasure throughout your body with every rise and fall of your hips. You would never get used to how good he could make you feel, and with the sounds of your heavy breathing and his quiet sounds between you, you found that every little moan and sigh fueled your passion.

He had been on the cusp of his release before, and now, he was chasing after it again. His arms snaked around your waist, and he rested his head against your collarbone while raising your body up and slamming it back down on his cock faster and harder. Your hands pulled his head closer while your fingers threaded through his hair, loud groans tearing from your throat as he pounded into you.

Miguel was keeping his promise as well. He let go of any apprehension he may have had about moaning and was now so engulfed in his pleasure he was receiving from you that the neighbors could undoubtedly hear him through the walls. His grunts and gasps filled the air around you as he lifted you up and down with fervor. His own lust-crazed desperation had rendered you speechless, and you held onto him while letting out soft whines and and groans.

Words were pouring from his lips, mumbled and slurred in a drunken-like stupor. They were mostly in Spanish, but he spoke so quietly and moaned so often that it was difficult to hear him. You caught the occasional word or phrase that he murmured against your hot skin— tan bonita, preciosa, qué rica. He seemed to be saying them more for himself that for you, but hearing him whisper in your ear like that made you press sloppy kisses all over his neck and shoulder.

With a long, gasping moan, his movements stopped suddenly as his arms squeezed around you tightly, and he came inside you. You held him tightly while he released every bit of tension from his body into you. After a quiet moment, his whole body seemed to sag with relief, and his tight embrace of your body loosened. With only your heavy breathing to fill the silence, his posture made it seem like he was hugging you, his arms still wrapped around your torso while his face rested in the crook of your neck.

Finally, he raised his head up and placed a gentle kiss to your throat. "I fucking love the way you feel around me," he murmured softly against your skin. You hummed with a smirked. "That's why you always come back," you replied smugly. He raised his head up to look at your face through half-lidded eyes, your noses touching and lips brushing softly against each other.

"I don't think I can stay away from you," he admitted under his breath, sounding almost perplexed at his confession. You studied his face for a second, taking in the sight of his sharp angles and dark features that made him so handsome. There was a glimmer of sweat that covered his skin, and his hair was messy from your fingers running through it. He looked so good, it hurt.

"Then don't," you whispered softly, pressing a kiss to his lips. You slipped your tongue into his mouth, and he moaned quietly as you moved it lazily against his own. Breaking away from his lips, you lifted yourself off of him, and Miguel closed his eyes with a soft sigh. You rolled off his lap and lay down on the bed.

He was still sitting up on the edge of your bed with his eyes closed, his breathing starting to slow finally. When he opened them again, his gaze began searching the floor for his discarded clothes. Your heart dropped a little when you realized he was getting ready to leave, and you couldn't stop yourself from whispering, "Stay."

His eyes shifted over to your face, and he didn't say anything. "You should stay," you repeated before adding softly, "if you want to, of course." He waited a moment as he stared down at your naked body lying next to him, and he ran a hand slowly up your leg. On his face, you could see him debating your plea, and for a disappointing second, you thought he was going to turn you down.

"Okay."

Your eyebrows quirked up in pleasant surprise, and you couldn't resist the soft smile that grew on your face. You shifted to allow him space next to you on your bed. With a grunt, he lay down next to you. His weight caused the bed sag, and you chuckled at how your body was pulled in toward his.

As Miguel adjusted next to you, he turned his head toward you, eyes raking across your form in contemplation. "Hmm?" You hummed questioningly, noting his unabashed stare. His eyes moved back up to your face after a second, and he replied, "I was selfish."

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What do you mean?" You asked softly.

He ran a hand up the tender inside of your thigh, sending chills across your skin. "I didn't take care of you first," he said in a low voice. The corner of your lip pulled upward. You hadn't been planning on saying anything to him about not finishing. You knew he was in need of a distraction, and you didn't mind setting aside your own pleasure to give it to him.

"This was for you," you told him. "And it doesn't mean I didn't have fun." He hummed as his fingers traced up your leg ever so slowly, and your breath hitched at his feather-light touch. "Perhaps," he conceded, "but it's more fun when I get to see the pretty faces you make when you cum."

As he spoke, Miguel rolled onto his side, propping himself up by his elbow, and ran his fingers through the wet folds of your pussy. Your eyes closed as you took in a sharp breath, and your head pressed back into the mattress with a soft whimper. "There's one," he noted in a satisfied tone. "I want to see you make more."

The bass of his voice reverberated in your ear as he pushed two fingers into you. You gasped softly and parted your legs for him. You were already so wet both from your arousal as well as his cum, so his fingers were immediately slick as he pushed into you, and it wasn't difficult for him to pick up where he had left off.

"Did you think I wouldn't take care of you?" He whispered, his lips pressed close to your ear. You groaned as his thumb traced over your clit with intentional slowness. "I want to make you cum as much as I want it myself," he continued in his low voice. "I get high off of it."

You groaned again as he kissed you under your jaw and pushed a third finger into you. His fingers moved expertly inside you, curling exactly right against your G-spot while his thumb move against your clit faster. Obscene noises were falling from your mouth as you raised one hand to grip the back of his head by his hair while the other clawed at the bedding under you.

Miguel was able to read every moan and every twitch of your thigh to navigate his way to your climax. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to one of your breasts, his tongue tracing over your nipple. "Fuck, Miguel," you whispered under your breath at all of the powerful sensations you were feeling.

He pulled his lips away for a moment with a smirk. "You know I love it when you say my name like that," he murmured and increased the pace of his fingers. You wanted to say his name again, but when he took your breast back in his mouth, all that came out was, "Mmmm."

He continued sucking at you while fucking you with his fingers. His tongue teased at your nipple before his teeth grazed across it, forcing a stuttering gasp from your mouth. Miguel seemed to like that reaction because he did it one more time before taking your nipple between his teeth. Your body jerked as you whimpered at the sensation of his teeth around you, and you tugged roughly at his hair.

Your thighs started twitching and your breathing grew ragged as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of you. Every inch of your body was burning with passion, and you were entirely engulfed in the pleasure that his fingers and mouth were bringing you. Your eyes were squeezed shut while long whines fell from your mouth from his thumb's rhythmic circles around your clit, and your stomach started tensing.

Miguel knew the signs of your impending orgasm, and he raised his mouth off of your body. "I know you're close," he whispered, interrupting the wet sounds of his fingers inside you. "Open your eyes for me." It was hard to listen to him, but with effort, you blinked your eyes open to look at him. His lips were curled in a subtle smirk as he admired your face.

"There you are," he purred. You struggled hard not to close your eyes again, but his fingers were fucking you so well that it took every ounce of your concentration to keep looking at him. He brought his face close to yours, and with a smug look, he whispered, "Now, cum for me."

That's all it took for you to fall over the edge, and your whole body began shaking with your orgasm. You squeezed tightly onto his hair and the sheets as your back arched off the mattress, and loud cries of pleasure tore from your throat. All thoughts of keeping your eyes open were swept away, and you squeezed them shut as your body was set ablaze with bliss.

When it became too much for you, your thighs clenched around his hand, forcing him to stop. Your body was still twitching and trembling as you recovered, but after a couple of seconds, you relaxed enough for Miguel to pull his fingers out of you, earning a soft whimper from you. When you opened your eyes again, his face was alight with triumph.

"Such a pretty face," he said, running his wet fingers over your body. "You always listen so well." Your chest still heaved in unsettled gasps as his hand trailed up you body. "Holy shit," you breathed quietly when you were able to speak. Miguel wore a smug expression as he watched you recover from his touch.

"I told you," he muttered. "I get high off of seeing you like this." You closed your eyes with a few deep breaths and replied in a wry tone, "Well, by all means, take as many hits as you'd like."

You were amazed to hear a deep chuckle in response to your comment. You opened your eyes and looked at him in surprise. He was gazing down at you with an amused smile that adorned his whole face, making him appear almost...happy.

"Was that a laugh I just heard, O'Hara?" You asked with only slightly exaggerated astonishment. He raised an eyebrow while still smiling at you and said, "Maybe. I guess you finally said something funny." You sat up on your elbows and scoffed playfully at his words. "I've always been funny," you maintained. "I just think you're finally learning what humor is."

He hummed in response as he gazed softly at you. "I told you before that I can be funny," he told you, making you roll your eyes dramatically. "Well, I have yet to see it," you shot back with a smile. He didn't say anything back, but he seemed amused by your banter. You could see that his eyes were studying your features intently, and the warm look on his face as he stared at you quietly made your stomach flutter.

To escape his tender gaze that was beginning to fluster you, you closed your eyes with a deep sigh and stretched before rolling off the bed to go to the bathroom. "Are you still gonna be here when I come back?" You asked, trying to sound indifferent.

His eyes wandered over your body as you stood before glancing up at your face again. "We'll have to see," he responded. You huffed in reply before bending down to scoop his shirt off the floor and walking to your bathroom. "That's mine," he stated flatly as he watched you go.

"Oh, really?" You called over your shoulder. "That's too bad."

Without looking back at him, you closed the door of the bathroom with a smirk. You took a quick shower just to clean the sweat and cum off your body, not wanting to take too long in case Miguel decided to leave while you were gone. After drying yourself off, you took his shirt and threw it on. The black material that hugged his body so nicely hung like a dress on your form. It still smelled like him, and you decided he wasn't getting this back without a fight.

Coming out of the bathroom, you saw that Miguel was still in bed and had now slipped under the covers. His muscular body was still mostly exposed for you to admire, and he had one arm resting beneath his head as he looked around. His eyes were studying your apartment, and you suddenly felt conscious of how small your home was.

"It's not much, but it's mine," you told him as you walked to the kitchen to grab some water. He turned his attention to you, and a smile tugged at his lips at the sight of you in his shirt. "It's nice," he replied, looking back at your decorations adorning the walls.

You snorted. "Well, you don't have to lie," you said, walking back over to him with a water bottle in hand. "I'm not lying," he asserted as he sat up. "It's very... you."

You raised an eyebrow at him with a skeptical smile. "What does that mean?" You asked playfully, handing him the water bottle and sitting next to him on the mattress.

"It means," he said deliberately, "it's nice.”

There was a pause as he took a drink, and you smiled softly at him. You could almost be convinced he was complimenting you. Almost.

"I can't stay the whole night," he said after taking a drink. You rolled your eyes with a small smile. "I know," you responded. "You're married to your work, and I'm just the mistress who offers a little distraction."

Miguel didn't seem to find that as funny as you did because his eyebrows furrowed just a little bit. "I told you before that I don't have time for relationships," he muttered quietly. You sighed with a shake of your head. "I know, Miguel. It was a joke," you told him.

He gave a quick hum before twisting to lay on his stomach and shut his eyes. You lay down next him and slipped your legs under the covers. With his eyes closed, you took time to study his face unabashedly. It was nice seeing him like this, calm and relaxed, not tense and angered by whatever mishap screwed up his day at work. It gave you satisfaction knowing he could be like this with you.

His relaxed expression disappeared when his gently resting eyes squeezed tightly, and his eyebrows drew together in agitation. Before, it used to be nearly impossible to read his thoughts on his face, but this time, you were sure you knew what was bothering him.

"It wasn't your fault what happened today," you whispered. "None of it was."

He said nothing in reply, but you knew he didn't believe your statement. After a moment, Miguel heaved a large sigh. "I thought we weren't supposed to talk about work in bed?" He reminded quietly. A corner of your lips quirked upwards before quickly melting away again. "Today was bad," you told him. "I don't mind if you want to talk about it."

There was a short pause before he shook his head, still not opening his eyes. "Okay," you agreed softly. His expression was still drawn in agitation. You scooched in closer to him and ran your hand down his back.

Miguel's muscles jumped at your touch, causing your hand to freeze reactively. "Sorry," you said quietly. Miguel's eyebrows furrowed, his eyes still closed, and he shook his head. "No, it's...it's okay," he muttered softly. After studying his face for a quiet second, you asked, "Do you want me to keep going?" He didn't reply for a few heartbeats before faintly nodding his head.

You slowly rubbed your hand up his back again, and he breathed in a large sigh. His muscles flexed at your touch, and he seemed to press into your palm almost like a cat. You continued slowly moving your hand up and down his toned muscles, occasionally curling your fingers to scratch his skin lightly. When you did, he pushed into your hand even more.

You stared at the sight before you in amazement. Miguel was someone who was so guarded. His cold demeanor always set people on edge. He never joked or laughed with anyone, never opened up or offered support, and yet, here he was with you, falling asleep in your bed under the slow movements of your hand.

As his muscles started relaxing, his breathing slowed until you were sure he was asleep. His face looked so peaceful, so beautiful, that for a moment, you wished he would spend every night with you. You had made a joke about being the mistress, but deep down, you realized that it wasn't entirely false. You were his release, but in the end, he'd always return to the multiverse.

You hadn't even realized you were falling asleep until you woke up again. A dim memory echoed through your mind of a hand brushing across your face and words whispered softly in your ear in Spanish. It had been a very realistic dream, or had it been a dream-like reality? You reached a hand out across the bed and found it was empty. You had expected it to be, but that didn't stop you from hoping you'd be wrong.

Opening your eyes, you found that it was still dark out, and the clock on your nightstand read 4:43. You sat up slowly and turned on your lamp. Miguel's clothes were gone as well, though you realized your were still wearing his large black shirt.

Even in your sleepiness, you huffed out a quiet laugh at the thought of Miguel returning to his dimension shirtless. In truth, he probably just zipped his jacket up over his torso, but you still enjoyed the mental picture of him trying not to be seen shirtless in the compound.

You sluggishly pulled yourself out of bed to use the bathroom, but something caught your eye that made you pause. There on the nightstand was a little black box that certainly hadn't been there before. There was a note on top that you lifted close to your face to read.

Miguel had the handwriting of a doctor, and you had to study his messy scrawl for a moment before you could make out what it said.

It's called unstable molecule fabric.

And I want my shirt back.

The second line made you smile, but the first one confused you. You had never heard of unstable molecule fabric, and it made you curious to see what was in the box.

Opening the lid, you were surprised and confused to find a set of two web shooters that looked almost identical to your own. You lifted them out of the box to inspect them, and without finding anything unusual about them, you placed them on your wrists.

For a couple of seconds, nothing happened. You were about to take them off when you gasped in alarm as something started crawling up your arms. Your body was being enveloped by something, but you didn't know what it was until it covered every inch of you.

Looking down at yourself, you gaped in awe at the sight of your body in a suit—your suit. It dawned on you that you were wearing the same type of technology that Miguel wore, his 'cooler-than-nanotech' suit. It almost felt alive with its intuitive ability, and though it covered your body, you could barely feel it, almost like a holographic projection, but still a tangible material. It really was cooler than nanotech.

The material withdrew from around your face with just a thought, and you stared at yourself in your floor length mirror. You never took Miguel for the gift-giving type. This was beyond what you would have expected from him, it almost felt like too much.

With another thought, the material receded all the way back into your web shooters, leaving you standing in just an oversized black shirt and a shocked expression. You removed the web shooters from your wrists before glancing at the spot that you hid your old suit. You had made it yourself, and you had a sentimental attachment to it. Still, it would certainly be nice not to have to sew up every tear, and being able to wear a retractable suit definitely had several advantages.

Looking back down at the note Miguel had written, you smirked, figuring that these new web shooters were a fair enough trade for his shirt.

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jetii · 23 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Sixteen: Wishful Thinking

Chapter WC: 10,811

Chapter Tags/Warnings: minor blood/wound care, major grief/mourning themes

A/N: A lot going on in this one, but I couldn’t stand to break it into two chapters. This is one of the heaviest chapters so far, but also one of the sweetest. Hopefully that makes up for it somewhat!

And just getting it out now that I don’t plan on talking about Satine much in this fic, so please don’t set your hopes too high lol.

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

You’ve never met Duchess Satine Kryze, but she must be a beautiful and formidable woman to have such a hold on Obi-Wan after all these years.

He's always spoken of her with the utmost respect and detachment, but you can sense the truth that lies beneath. It doesn’t surprise you that he's the one who has been sent to Mandalore in the wake of the attack on a Republic cruiser by a Mandalorian saboteur, leaving you in command of the 212th.

It does, however, annoy you.

Though, not in the way you expect. In your youth, you were jealous of her, the thought of Obi-Wan being with another woman had caused an ugly, green-eyed monster to rear its head within you. As time has passed, and especially since your conversation in the gardens, that feeling has faded. Replaced by something else entirely.

Concern.

You've had a bad feeling about the situation on Mandalore ever since Obi-Wan told you about his assignment, and it's one that's been difficult to let go of. Obi-Wan is a good man, an excellent General, a brilliant tactician and negotiator. But as his history with the Duchess, and yourself, has proven, his ability to remain objective when it comes to the safety and welfare of those close to him is sorely lacking.

Your worry is compounded by the fact that the 212th is being called into action. A force of Separatist droids has sprouted up like weeds on Null, a short jump from Mandalore, and the Third Army is being sent to deal with them. As a Jedi, you can't ignore the call to arms, but as a friend, you're hesitant to leave Obi-Wan without the support of the 212th. You can only hope that he will have the clarity of mind to focus on the bigger picture, rather than the smaller, more personal details.

Not that you were unfamiliar with such distractions.

Null is a lush planet, filled with dense tropical forests and dramatic mountain ranges. It's also the home of one of Dooku's many retreats, an extravagant manor built into the side of a mountain, with a sprawling view of the valley and city below. A city that's now crawling with battle droids. An orbital bombardment is out of the question, and the Separatist defenses are proving difficult to penetrate.

So, instead of a quick, clean victory, it's going to be a messy, bloody slog.

You sigh and look down at the tactical display, your brow furrowed. You'd woken early this morning, arriving to the strategy room long before everyone else, and you've spent the past few hours pouring over the reports, trying to come up with a plan of attack. And a plan for how you can get inside the castle and deal with Dooku once and for all.

Yaddle's message is still fresh in your mind, her voice still ringing in your ears. Her words are still etched into your heart. You know what you have to do, and the temptation to do so is growing with each passing day. With each new casualty. With each loss.

But there's still the war to contend with, as well as the possibility of failure. If you attempt to go after Dooku and fail, if he gets the upper hand and kills you, the galaxy will lose a Jedi Master. And if you manage to kill him and survive, you will lose the moral high ground. The Order could brand you a murderer, and that would spell the end for your career, your life, and your friendships. There would be no going back.

No, it's not worth the risk.

At least, not yet.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the door slide open behind you, nor do you hear the footsteps approaching. It isn't until Rex clears his throat that you realize he's standing behind you.

You don’t startle, and it should surprise you, but it doesn’t. You're too used to Rex's presence by now, the warmth of his energy in the Force as familiar as the sun rising over Coruscant each morning, and the normal tension that comes with someone stepping into your space is absent. Instead, a sense of calm washes over you.

Your shoulders relax, your heartbeat slows, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You don't turn around, not yet. You continue staring at the hologram of the valley, letting the feeling settle in.

It's strange. You'd expected this closeness between the two of you to fade once you'd returned to Coruscant. But it hasn't. If anything, it's grown stronger, and it's no longer something that only occurs in the safety of an empty meadow or a darkened hallway, away from the prying eyes of the Jedi Council and the GAR. Now, it's everywhere. In every moment. No matter what the two of you are doing.

You've tried not to read too much into it, tried not to dwell on the implications. But deep down, you know the truth. Rex isn't just a distraction. He's something else, something more.

But you're not ready to admit that. Not yet.

But that doesn't mean that you're not happy to see him.

"Good morning, Rex," you greet him, a hint of amusement in your tone, and you move your fingers across the display, changing the angle of the hologram. "Come to save me from myself?"

"How did you know it was me?" he asks. His voice is low, his tone teasing. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

"Don't tell me you were trying to sneak up on me," you tease, glancing over your shoulder and giving him a wry smile.

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "I haven't forgotten what happened the last time I tried."

You smirk, remembering the incident on Felucia. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were holding him at the end of your blade, your eyes locked on his. There's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes now, but the memory still stings. You can still see mark on his pauldron under the layers of blue paint, a reminder of your recklessness, your paranoia.

"Neither have I," you mutter, and then you turn back to the hologram, tilting your head and studying the display. "What brings you here so early?"

"I could ask you the same thing. I’m always the first one here," Rex says. He steps around to the side of the holotable, leaning against the edge. His head tilts as he regards you, his hands behind his back, and his eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I've had a lot on my mind," you admit with a sigh.

A slight frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, his gaze flickering to the table between the two of you, before returning to yours.

"Anything I can help with?" he offers. "Or, are you just trying to show the rest of us up by coming up with the perfect plan before anyone else arrives?"

You chuckle and shake your head, the corner of your mouth turning upwards. "Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid."

"I see," he replies, and a hint of disappointment flashes across his face, before vanishing. He nods at the holotable, and then, hesitates. "Do you...do you want to talk about it? Maybe it'll help. Clear your head."

You pause, considering his offer, and then, decide against it. You can't bring yourself to tell him about Yaddle, about what she said, not yet. Not when the wound is still so raw, so fresh. And while Rex is an exceptional listener, and you know he would offer his full support, you're not ready. Not for the conversation that will inevitably follow.

So, instead, you give him a grateful smile and shake your head. "Thanks, but I'm okay."

"Alright," he concedes, though he looks unconvinced.

You're grateful for it. You appreciate his understanding, his willingness to respect your boundaries. It's a relief, really. There's no awkwardness or discomfort. It's natural. Easy. And that's something you've rarely found outside the Jedi Order. Or inside it.

"Well, hopefully this helps, then."

Rex moves his hand from behind his back and reveals a paper cup with a lid. Steam wafts from the opening, and you immediately recognize the scent of fresh caf. You perk up, your eyes widening.

"Is that...?"

"Freshly brewed?" he finishes as he sets it on the holotable in front of you. "Yep."

“For me?” you ask, even as you reach for it, wrapping your hands around the cup and reveling in the heat. You lift the cup to your nose and inhale deeply, the smell sending a shiver down your spine. “Really?”

Rex chuckles and shrugs, lifting up his own cup to his mouth. “Oh, well I was going to give it to Cody, but…”

Your jaw drops and your eyes widen, and he smirks before taking a sip, the teasing glint in his eyes telling you he's enjoying your reaction. You roll your eyes, and a soft laugh escapes your lips, your cheeks warming.

“But you like me more?” you challenge, and Rex snorts, nearly spilling his caf. He covers his mouth and swallows hard, shaking his head at you as you raise an eyebrow at him. "That's what you're going to say, right?"

"Yeah," he rasps, clearing his throat. He sets his cup on the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure. That."

"Good," you say, smiling sweetly at him. You raise your cup to him in a salute. "Because I like you more than Cody, too."

“I heard that.”

You both straighten and turn as Cody strides into the room, a datapad in his hand, and the two of you exchange a sheepish look. You feel a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, and Rex lets out a breath, his shoulders slumping.

Cody raises his eyebrow as he walks around the holotable, glancing between the two of you. He looks like he's about to say something, but then shakes his head, his expression softening, and he turns to the display.

"What are we looking at?" he asks.

"A nest," Rex replies, his voice gruff, and he crosses his arms over his chest, any trace of amusement gone.

You're surprised at his sudden change in demeanor, and a part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the other part, the one that's still slightly worried about being caught fraternizing, even if it's Cody, stops you. Instead, you nudge Rex with your elbow, giving him one last smile before you go over to stand beside the commander.

As you move, you take the first sip of your caf. You brace yourself for the bitter taste, but it doesn’t come. In fact, it tastes almost exactly like how you prefer to prepare it for yourself. You can’t help the noise of surprise that escapes you, and you eagerly take another sip.

Rex watches you from the corner of his eye, his mouth quirking into a half-smile, before turning back to the display.

Cody doesn't miss the exchange. His eyebrows raise, a curious look on his face, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he points to the map on the holotable.

"So, a nest, huh?" he asks. "And what kind of bird are we hunting?"

"A Krayt dragon," Rex says, and you snort, earning a glare from the captain. He huffs and continues, "A squadron of vulture droids, most likely from Count Dooku's estate, launched an attack on the nearby city and decimated the local forces. They're holed up in the surrounding mountains, and they're not giving up easily."

"Dooku's estate, you said," Cody repeats, and a thoughtful look crosses his face. "We'll have to deal with that later."

"Yes, we will," you mutter. He hums in return, and the three of you stand in silence, studying the display. The battle droids are well fortified, their numbers impressive, and you have a feeling that it's going to be a difficult fight.

You take another sip of your caf, savoring the rich flavor, and the caffeine courses through your veins, sending a jolt of energy through your body. It's enough to wake you up and sharpen your focus, and you can't help but smile. You look over at Rex and nod, mouthing a silent 'thank you'.

He ducks his head and turns away, but you can see the color rising in his cheeks, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He lifts his hand to his face, scratching the back of his head, and you have to stifle a laugh.

The doors slide open, and Anakin and the rest of the battalion's commanding officers file in, filling the room with a low murmur of voices. As they take their places around the holotable, Rex ends up next to you again.

"You're welcome," he murmurs, his mouth barely moving. He doesn't look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on the map, but his arm brushes against yours, sending a shiver down your spine.

You hide your smile behind your cup, warmth blooming in your chest, and you take a moment to bask in the sensation before you shift, putting some distance between the two of you. The last thing you need is for someone else to notice the tension between the two of you, especially now that the room is full.

You're not ready to explain this...whatever it is, to anyone.

"Alright, everyone," Anakin calls, clapping his hands together. He steps forward and leans over the holotable, examining the map. "Let's get started."

The meeting passes quickly, and before long, the two of you are walking side by side through the corridors toward the hangar bay. The troops have already begun boarding the transport ships, and the hum of engines fills the air. Rex is at ease, his stride relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back. You, on the other hand, are anything but.

Your feet are dragging, a heaviness weighing on your shoulders that grows with every step. You're exhausted, and the thought of another battle, another confrontation, makes you want to curl up and sleep for days. The stress is beginning to wear on you, and the lack of a good night's sleep isn't helping.

Still, there's a nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you that this is your chance. That this is the opportunity you've been waiting for. To finally confront Dooku.

"So," Rex begins slowly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "Is there any way I can convince you not to go on this mission?"

You huff a laugh, and you shake your head. "I wish."

"I had a feeling," he sighs, and his gaze returns to the corridor ahead. "You have that look on your face. Like you're ready to jump out of an airlock."

"Is it that obvious?"

"To me, yes," he tells you. He stops, turning to face you, and he rests his hand on your shoulder. He squeezes gently, and you find yourself leaning into it, savoring the contact. His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he leans forward, his gaze softening. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'll be fine," you assure him, and a half-smile tugs at your lips. "Don't worry about me."

"You say that," he chuckles, his tone rueful, and his grip on your shoulder tightens. His eyes search yours, and the humor fades. "But I do. And I know something's wrong."

"I..." You start, but stop, biting your lip. You take a deep breath and look away, your heart hammering in your chest. "I don't know what to tell you."

"You can tell me the truth," he says gently. He tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze. "What's going on? Are you...is it the nightmares?"

"It's not that," you sigh, and you rub the back of your neck, your eyes drifting towards the floor.

You don't want to lie to him, not anymore, but you're not sure what to say. The truth is, it's more than just the nightmares. It's everything. The war, the Order, your past, your future. You've been struggling with it all, and it's getting harder and harder to keep it together. To maintain control. To hide your emotions. To ignore the growing desire for justice, vengeance, satisfaction.

You let out a shaky breath and shake your head. "It's just...a lot."

"Yeah," he nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and then clears his throat. "Can I...is there anything I can do?"

"Not this time," you answer, a sad smile on your face. "But thank you."

"Alright," he sighs, resigned. Rex drops his hand and looks around, taking in the bustle of the hangar bay. His eyes linger on the transport ships, a distant look on his face. "You think we have a chance?"

"At taking out the vulture droids or taking out Dooku?" you ask, and his gaze returns to you. He offers you a wry grin.

"Either. Both."

You shrug. "I think we'll be fine. As long as we stick to the plan and work together, we should have no problem destroying the droids. As for Dooku..."

"Yeah, that's the hard part, isn't it?" he chuckles, and you nod, the corner of your mouth pulling into a small smile.

"It is," you agree. "But with a little luck, we might be able to capture him."

"Right," he says, rolling his eyes. "Luck."

"Well, we have to stay positive, don't we?" you tease, nudging his shoulder. He chuckles and shakes his head, and the two of you share a smile. It fades quickly, however, replaced by a somber expression.

He glances around, making sure no one's paying attention, before stepping closer. His gaze meets yours, and there's a seriousness in his eyes that wasn't there before. He opens his mouth, then closes it, hesitating, before trying again.

"What would you do if we did?" he asks quietly. "If we had him."

"I..." you start, but then trail off, considering the question. You don't have an answer. Not one you can speak aloud. There are so many conflicting emotions, so many feelings, swirling inside you, and it's hard to separate them. To pick out the right ones. The good ones. The ones that matter.

But underneath all of that, buried beneath the surface, is something else. A burning desire for revenge. For justice. And it's a desire that you're struggling to contain, to control. Every day, it grows stronger, demanding release, demanding action And every day, you deny it. Ignore it. Push it down. But it never goes away. Never disappears.

And it's becoming harder and harder to keep it in check.

Now, you're afraid that if you do catch Dooku, you won't be able to hold back. That you'll lash out and do something terrible, something unforgivable.

You've never admitted that to anyone, not even Obi-Wan. You know he's under the impression that you've released most of the darkest parts of yourself into the Force, but that's far from the truth. You can't help it. You're only human, after all.

And like any other human, you're capable of horrible, terrible, things. You know that better than most.

But Rex...he might understand. He's seen first-hand what Dooku is capable of, the pain he's caused. If anyone could understand, it would be him.

You look up at him, your eyes searching his, and he stares back, his expression solemn, his brow furrowed. He doesn't pressure you, doesn't push, just waits patiently, giving you time.

"I don't know," you finally answer, and the lie burns your tongue, the words coming out thick and heavy. You swallow hard and look away, unable to meet his gaze.

"You can tell me," he says softly. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," you nod, forcing yourself to smile.

"Good," he murmurs. "That's good."

There's an awkward silence between the two of you, and you stare at the ground, unsure of what to say. You can sense his eyes on you, and the intensity makes your stomach twist. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and a chill runs down your spine. You cross your arms, rubbing your palms up and down your sleeves.

"Just..."

You take a shaky breath and raise your head, meeting his gaze. His expression is gentle, kind, and it helps. It gives you the courage to continue.

"Just stay close to me, okay?" you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. You clear your throat and force a smile, and it hurts. Everything hurts. Your chest is tight, your throat dry. "Please."

Rex's frown deepens, and he opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off by a voice echoing down the hallway.

"Rex! Where are you? We're ready to launch!"

He sighs and looks away, running a hand over his head. "I gotta go."

"I know," you tell him, swallowing past the lump your throat. You take a step forward and reach for him, resting your hand on his arm. "Be careful out there, okay? Don't do anything stupid."

He scoffs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and he looks down at you. "Who, me?"

"Yes, you," you tease.

"I'm always careful," he retorts, and the two of you exchange a knowing look. You squeeze his arm and let go, stepping back, and his eyes linger on yours.

"Rex!" the voice calls again, more insistent.

"Go," you say. "Before Fives comes looking for you."

Rex smirks, and then gives you a nod. He turns and strides down the hall, and you watch him go, your heart aching, a strange feeling twisting in your gut.

You can't name it, can't put a word to it. It's not quite worry, not quite fear, not quite sadness. But it's all of those things, and more. A feeling of loss, maybe. Or regret. Or guilt.

Rex reaches the end of the corridor, and he turns, glancing back at you. You give him a small wave, forcing a smile, and his gaze lingers, his eyes searching yours. Then, he turns, and he's gone.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, staring after him.

Dread.

The feeling is dread.

Null, 21 BBY

An explosion rattles the ground beneath your feet, and you dive for cover, the deafening sound of blaster fire echoing around you. You roll behind a pile of rubble and lean against the stone, catching your breath. Across the dust-filled courtyard, Rex is hunkered down behind a broken statue, his blasters in his hands.

You lock eyes with him and he nods, holding up his hand, the signal to wait. You nod back and turn, peering around the edge of the stones, looking for an opening. The courtyard is crawling with battle droids, their laser fire tearing through the air, and it's impossible to tell where the droids end and the Republic troops begin.

A clone runs past, his armor streaked with blood, and a battle droid lunges out of the smoke, grabbing him. You reach out, calling upon the Force, and the droid flies through the air, slamming into a wall. The clone stares at you, and then nods, rushing back into the fray.

Another explosion rocks the courtyard, and the ground trembles, chunks of stone and dirt falling from the sky. You grit your teeth and push off the ground, leaping to the top of the rubble, your lightsabers igniting. A storm of bolts comes flying at you, and you deflect them, sending them back at the droids.

"General!"

You glance over your shoulder, and a squad of clones come running towards you, their weapons raised. They're led by Waxer, and they're covered in dust and dirt, but otherwise unharmed.

"Waxer, nice of you to finally join us," you shout, and the clones laugh, ducking behind the debris.

"Well, we couldn't leave our General hanging, now could we?" he retorts. He peers around the stones, scanning the courtyard, and then looks back at you. "Commander said you were having a rough time, thought we could give you a hand."

"How kind of him," you deadpan. You jump off the rocks, landing next to the clones, and you take a deep breath, letting the Force flow through you. Your skin tingles, and your muscles tense. The world around you slows to a standstill as your heart beats faster, pounding against your chest. You can see every detail, every movement, every particle.

"Any sign of Dooku?" Waxer asks.

You grit your teeth. The Force ripples around you, telling you what you already suspected from the moment you landed on Null. Dooku is gone, if he ever was here. Another lie. Another dead end. Another wasted opportunity.

"He's not here."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," you grunt, and everything comes rushing back. The sound, the smell, the taste of smoke and blood and sweat. It's overwhelming, but it's familiar, and your senses adjust quickly, settling back into their normal rhythm. "Looks like this is a vacation home, not a military base."

"Great," he sighs. He raises his blaster and fires, taking out a pair of battle droids before ducking back behind cover. "Well, at least the vultures are taken care of."

"That's one good thing, I guess." You crouch beside him, your brow furrowed, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. "Now, we just have to clean up this mess."

Rex darts across the courtyard, his blasters firing, and a stream of red light follows his movements. He slides to a stop beside you, and he leans against the rubble, his chest heaving. His helmet tilts towards you, looking at you over his shoulder.

"Good to see you, General," he pants.

"You, too," you reply, giving him a tired smile.

"Did we miss anything?"

"Not really," Waxer tells him. "We were just about to start mopping up."

The three of you look over at the troopers now pouring into the courtyard in a sea of blue and orange, their numbers quickly overwhelming the droids. It's a chaotic scene, with blaster bolts flying through the air and smoke filling the space, but the tide has clearly turned in the Republic's favor.

"Come on, then," you say, and you rise, stretching. Your muscles ache, and your knees protest, but you ignore them. "Let's get this done."

You turn and lead the way, jumping into the fray. Within minutes, the last of the battle droids fall, their smoking corpses littering the ground. You stand in the middle of the carnage, surveying the damage. There are scorch marks everywhere, bodies strewn across the stones, pieces of broken droids scattered about.

It's a mess, but it could have been worse.

Much worse.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, centering yourself. You deactivate your lightsabers and tuck them into your belt, a weary smile on your face. It's over. Finally. You'd been fighting for hours, and you're ready to rest.

"Good work, everyone," you call out, raising your voice so it can be heard above the din. "I think we're done here."

There's a loud cheer, and the troops start gathering their gear, cleaning up the battlefield. Rex approaches you, and the two of you stand together, watching the men work.

Rex lets out a loud sigh, and he takes his helmet off, wiping the sweat from his brow. His blond hair is matted with dirt, and his face is covered in grime. He glances over at you, and his eyes crinkle with a tired smile.

"Well, that was a fun morning," he chuckles, and the clones in the near vicinity laugh at the quip. Waxer gives him a good-natured slap on the back as he walks by, and you snort, shaking your head.

"Glad you enjoyed yourself," you retort, and his smile widens.

He turns and gestures to the castle looming in the distance. "Do we still want to take a look around?"

"We might as well," you say, shrugging. "It's not like we're going to get a chance like this again."

Rex nods and pulls out his commlink, tapping a button. A voice crackles to life, and he begins issuing orders, the clones splitting off into teams and heading towards the estate. He watches them go, and then he looks over at you, nodding.

"Ready when you are."

You take a deep breath and begin walking, Rex falling into step beside you. The estate is sprawling, a series of towers and spires rising up from the valley floor. It's surrounded by a high stone wall, and you can see turrets peeking out from the battlements. You've never seen a more dreary, impenetrable fortress.

The main doors are open, and a squad is standing guard, their weapons raised. As you draw nearer to the entrance, a sense of anticipation settles over you, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Your hand drifts towards your lightsaber, and your fingers tighten around the hilt. You can sense something, but you can't put your finger on it. An energy, an electricity, a presence, but it's faint, just out of reach. Something inside you wants to run, either away or toward, and you can't tell which.

You hear a grunt beside you, and you glance at Rex. His face is pinched, and for the first time you notice him limping, his left leg dragging a bit behind his right. Concern flares inside you, and you stop, turning towards him.

"You're hurt," you accuse, and his eyes widen, his jaw clenching.

"I'm fine," he insists, but his voice is strained, and the pain is clear in his eyes. You shake your head and grab his arm, pulling him to a stop. Whatever is behind those doors can wait.

"Rex, what's wrong?" you ask, and he sighs, his shoulders slumping.

"Just a little bruised," he admits.

You arch an eyebrow, gesturing to his leg. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," he insists. "I'll be fine."

"Uh huh," you murmur. You step closer and lean forward into his space, looking into his eyes. He avoids your gaze, his cheeks reddening, and you narrow your eyes, sensing the truth. "Rex."

"What?" he grumbles.

"You should see a medic."

"I will," he promises, and his eyes dart over to the others, before returning to yours. "Later."

"Liar," you grin, and his lips twitch. You roll your eyes.

The two of you watch as the troopers file into the estate, disappearing from sight. When they're gone, he lets out a breath and looks at you, the tension in his body easing. You're grateful for the quiet, the stillness, the opportunity to collect yourself.

But it's also a relief to have him all to yourself, without the constant pressure of the others, the expectations and attention. And you can tell he feels the same.

"I am a liar," he admits sheepishly. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, a shy smile spreading across his face. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Maybe," you tease, and his grin widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Sit down. I'll take a look at it."

"You don't have to," he starts, but you shake your head, cutting him off.

"No arguing. Sit."

Rex grumbles but does as you say, letting you lead him over to the half-shattered fountain in the center of the courtyard, the water long gone. He lowers himself to the ground, hissing in pain, and you kneel beside him. Together, you remove the armor from his leg, setting it aside. The fabric of his bodysuit is torn, and underneath is a nasty-looking gash, a mixture of dirt and dried blood caking his skin.

You bite your lip, worry bubbling inside you. You've seen worse, much worse, but there's something about seeing him hurt that makes your heart clench. You know you're being irrational, that the injury isn't serious, and that the medics will be able to treat him. Still, it hurts. To see him in pain. To feel his pain.

"It's not that bad," he mutters. He's looking down at you, his brow furrowed, and he gives you a reassuring smile. "Honest."

"Uh huh," you say, unconvinced, and he huffs a laugh. You reach out, tentatively, your hand hovering over his leg. "This might sting."

"I can handle it," he tells you. You raise an eyebrow, and he gives you a crooked grin. "Probably."

You roll your eyes and move your hand closer, your fingers gently brushing the swollen skin. Rex sucks in a breath through his teeth, and you wince as you're hit with a jolt of his pain, sharp and sudden.

You breathe deep, steadying yourself, and then you press your hand fully against the wound, letting the Force flow through you into him.

You're far from adept in the healing arts, one of many weaknesses in your skill set, and you're no healer, but you can do this much. It's not a particularly complex injury. The tissue needs to be repaired, the pain reduced, and if you syphon some of your own energy, it's not as difficult as it seems. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Still, it's not easy. The injury is larger than you thought, and the pain is intense. Rex tenses underneath your touch, his leg twitching, and you can hear his teeth grinding. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you fear his teeth might crack. You blindly reach up with your opposite hand and rest it on his knee, trying to steady him.

"Easy," you murmur. His hand settles on top of yours, your fingers intwining. You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "Almost done. Just breathe."

"Right," he says, his voice strained. He lets out a shaky breath and nods. "Keep going."

You let out a breath of your own, and you continue the work, draining your energy into him. After a few more moments, the wound is closed, the pain reduced, and you withdraw your hand, pulling back the fabric to examine the newly healed skin. It's a little pink and raw, but it'll do. He'll need proper medical attention, but for now, it'll keep him on his feet.

"There," you say, and Rex lets out a soft groan, the tension in his body fading. He looks down at the wound, and he turns his leg side to side, admiring your handiwork. "Good as new."

"Wow," he breathes. "That's...impressive."

"Yeah, I'm pretty great, aren't I?" you tease.

"Yeah," he nods. His hand is still holding yours, his fingers lightly tracing your knuckles. "You are."

The sincerity in his voice surprises you, and your cheeks warm, your heart skipping a beat. You swallow hard, and you give him a weak smile, trying not to read too much into his words.

"Thanks," you murmur. You let go of his hand and sit back, and he sighs, his eyes never leaving yours. You shift under his gaze, unsure of what to do, or say, and then, his expression changes, his head tilting.

"Why don't you do that more often?" he asks, and you frown, confused. He gestures to his leg. "Heal."

"Oh," you reply, just as a wave of exhaustion washes over you. You try to suppress a yawn and fail. "It's not something I like to advertise. I'd rather not burn myself out."

Rex raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to elaborate. You hesitate, biting your lip. It's not something you're proud of, and it's not something you talk about often, but for some reason, you feel compelled to share.

"I'm not particularly skilled in the healing arts," you admit. You look away, your brow furrowing. "Some can draw on the Living Force, use its power to heal others. I can't."

"But you did just now," he points out carefully.

"I did," you acknowledge, and a wry smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You turn and meet his gaze. "But it took a lot out of me, and I don't mean that metaphorically. If I'm not careful, if I'm not prepared, it could kill me."

Rex's eyes widen, and a look of panic flashes across his face. His hands clench into fists, and he shakes his head, scowling.

"Don't ever do that," he orders, and you chuckle. "Seriously. Don't. Not for me."

"If I didn't, you would have been laid up in the infirmary for a week," you tell him, trying to sound casual, but your tone is anything but. Your words come out more harshly than intended, a bit more bitter. "Besides, I wanted to. You're worth it."

Rex stares at you, stunned, a flicker of something passing over his features. Surprise? Confusion? A hint of fear? You're not sure, but it makes your stomach twist, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of your gut. You swallow hard, resisting the urge to look away.

"You shouldn't have," he tells you, shaking his head. "You could have-"

"But I didn't," you interrupt, and he sighs, the corners of his mouth turning down. You stand and brush the dirt and debris from your robes, clearing your throat. "And if you ever tell anyone I did that, I'll deny it. Got it?"

Rex snorts, the scowl vanishing, and slowly rises to his feet, testing his weight on his injured leg. He stretches and rolls his shoulders, his neck cracking, and then he nods. "Got it."

"Good," you huff.

You watch as he reattaches his armor, your arms crossed over your chest. He seems to have forgotten about the estate, about the mission, his mind on other things. His expression is thoughtful, his eyes distant, and you can't help but wonder what he's thinking. What he's feeling. Whether or not he's upset with you. With himself.

You know you've worried him, that he's afraid of what might have happened, but you don't regret it. Not one bit. He needed your help, and you gave it. It's as simple as that. Besides, you're a Jedi, aren't you? Isn't this what the Order teaches? That compassion and generosity are the most important aspects of your duty, your life?

Still, there's a nagging voice in the back of your head, a voice telling you that what you did was selfish. That you did it for yourself, not for him. That you did it because you care about him, because you can't stand the thought of him being hurt.

And, the truth is, it is. It is selfish, it is reckless.

You're not a healer, not really. You don't know how to channel the Living Force, how to heal the wounded, or cure the sick. You only know how to take, how to absorb the pain and suffering of others and give something of yourself in return, and you've never done more than a handful of healing sessions in your life. You're a warrior, not a physician.

And yet, here you are, playing medic, because it's Rex. Because you can't help yourself.

Rex finishes buckling his armor and looks at you, his expression unreadable. You meet his gaze, and a moment passes between the two of you. An understanding. A realization. Something is changing, something fundamental, and neither of you knows what to do about it. But you don't need to. Not yet.

"Listen," he starts, his voice soft. "I—"

"Sir!"

The two of you flinch, startled, and you turn towards the source of the voice, your hand drifting towards your lightsaber. Fives and Echo are jogging across the courtyard, their blasters raised. You relax, and Rex lets out a sigh, running a hand over his head.

"Yes?" he calls.

"General," Fives pants, and he skids to a stop, his helmet under his arm. "Sorry to interrupt, but we found something."

"What is it?" Rex asks, frowning.

Fives glances at you, and a grim expression settles on his face. He shifts from foot to foot, his eyes darting between the two of you.

"It's...just come see."

Rex nods, and he gestures for Fives to lead the way. The trooper hurries off, and you follow, Rex at your side. The four of you weave through the rubble toward the castle, Fives and Echo in the lead, Rex and you a few steps behind. You feel a chill creep up your spine, a sense of unease filling you, and your hand rests on your lightsaber, your thumb brushing against the hilt.

As the doors loom overhead, Rex looks over his shoulder and meets your gaze. You shake your head, a silent warning, and he nods, his expression hardening.

Whatever it is, it's not good.

You pass through the archway and into the darkened hall. The interior is massive, a high vaulted ceiling overhead, with ornate columns rising from the floor to the roof. The walls are lined with marble, and the floor is polished black stone. There are statues lining the walls, and they look like they were once pristine, but now they're covered in soot, and chunks of the ceiling have fallen, smashing the art. The place smells like smoke and death.

"This way," Echo says, gesturing to the left. The group turns and heads down the hallway, your footsteps echoing around you.

As you move deeper into the castle, the air becomes thicker, the smell of smoke and dust growing stronger. The hallways narrow, and the walls become rougher, the marble replaced by stone. Torches flicker along the walls, casting eerie shadows across the floor.

Your uneasiness only compounds the further you walk, and a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. You're starting to feel sick, the sensation only growing stronger with each step.

You glance over at Rex to find him already watching you, his brow furrowed. He slows, letting the others get a few paces ahead, and he leans towards you, his voice low.

"What is it?" he asks. "Do you sense something?"

"I do," you whisper. You rub your temples, your eyes drifting closed. "But I can't put my finger on it. It's..."

"What?" he prompts.

"Dark," you say. "Very dark."

"Shit," he breathes. His hand reaches out, hovering near your shoulder, as if he wants to comfort you, but he hesitates. "Do you want to go back?"

"No," you murmur. You take a deep breath and open your eyes, meeting his concerned gaze. "I'll be fine."

"Alright," he says, though the worry remains in his eyes. He steps back, putting a little distance between the two of you, and he nods towards the others. "Let's catch up."

You nod, and the two of you resume walking, following the clones through the gloom. The air is getting colder, the scent of smoke growing stronger, and you can hear a low hissing sound, like gas escaping from a broken pipe. You grit your teeth, doing your best to ignore it. Whatever it is, whatever is making you feel so ill, it's coming from up ahead.

After what feels like an eternity, the four of you come to a stop outside a massive wooden door, and Fives looks back at Rex, gesturing towards the handle. The captain nods, and the trooper takes a deep breath, reaching for the knob.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No," you answer, and the three of them chuckle, the sound echoing around you.

Fives nods and pulls the door open, and a wave of cold air rushes out, blowing through your hair and making the torches flicker. You shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin, and a lump forms in your throat.

There's a long, winding staircase leading down into the darkness. The walls are covered in soot, and the stones are slick with ice. The air is frigid, and your breath mists in front of your face. You can hear the sound of dripping water, and the scent of dampness and decay fills the air.

"I don't like this," Fives mutters, and Echo grunts in agreement.

Rex looks over at you, and a wry grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "What do you think, General?"

"It's creepy as hell," you deadpan.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he chuckles, and he steps forward, placing his foot on the first step. "Come on, then. Let's get this over with."

You follow him into the stairwell, and the rest of the squad falls in line behind you, the four of you descending into the darkness. The light from the torches quickly fades, and the only sound is the scrape of your boots against the ice-covered stone, and the occasional drip of water.

The further you go, the worse the feeling gets, and the air grows colder, the smell of rotting wood and mold invading your nose. You feel like you can't breathe, like there's a hand gripping your throat, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

"You sure you're alright?" Rex asks quietly. He doesn't turn to look at you, keeping his gaze fixed on the steps, his fingers gripping the railing.

"No," you murmur, and he frowns, glancing at you over his shoulder.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks.

"Not unless you do," you reply. "It's just..."

"Yeah," he agrees, nodding.

The stairs eventually level out, and the path opens into a cavernous chamber, the ceiling soaring high above your head. The walls are covered in stalactites, and the ground is slick with ice. You can't see beyond your hand, and you stumble forward, your foot sliding out from under you.

"Easy," Rex murmurs, grabbing your arm, steadying you.

"Thanks," you grunt, and you let out a shaky breath, trying to get your bearings. You draw your sabers, the yellow blades illuminating the room, and you hear the sound of the others' flashlights flicking on, the beams of light dancing around the space.

"What the hell is this place?" Fives asks. His voice is hushed, but it echoes around you, the silence deafening.

"I don't know," Rex whispers. He lets go of your arm and walks forward, his eyes scanning the room. You stay close, not wanting to lose him in the darkness. "It looks like some sort of dungeon, or..."

"A tomb," you finish, and he looks back at you, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It does."

You step forward, your gaze sweeping the area. The ceiling is high, the walls covered in icicles. The ground is smooth, with a layer of ice coating it, and you can see a path leading deeper into the cavern. You feel a tug, a pull, and your pulse quickens.

"Rex," you murmur.

"Yeah," he says. He follows your gaze, and he sighs, his expression grim. "I know."

You nod and begin moving forward, the others falling in line behind you. Your footsteps are muffled by the ice, and the air grows colder, a chill settling over the room. The light from your sabers doesn't seem to reach the walls, and the darkness presses in on you, like a living, breathing thing.

"General," Echo says, his voice low. "You don't think this is a trap, do you?"

"I don't know." You shrug, and the three clones let out a chorus of sighs. You turn and look back at them, arching an eyebrow. "If it is, it's not a very good one."

"True," Fives agrees. "Maybe Dooku isn't as smart as we thought."

"Or, maybe he's playing a different game," Rex says, his tone grim. He glances at you, his eyes lingering on yours. "Just...be ready."

"Always," you assure him.

You continue through the cave, the air growing colder, the ice thickening beneath your feet. The path twists and turns, and the ceiling lowers, until you have to duck to avoid the icicles hanging above.

Finally, the path opens into another large chamber, and you come to a stop, taking in the sight before you. The ground is littered with debris, chunks of stone and rubble scattered around the space. A row of unlit torches lines the walls, and you can see a series of steps leading down into the center of the room, the ground cracked and broken.

And there, in the middle of the chaos, is a pedestal.

You frown, stepping forward. There's something on top of the pedestal, but it's too far away to see clearly. You reach the edge of the broken ground, and you stop, peering down.

"What is that?" you murmur.

Rex comes up beside you, his brow furrowed. "Looks like a...box."

Your blood runs cold, and you turn, your hand twisting. The torches ignite, filling the room with light, and you see the box, the ornate wood gleaming in the torchlight. Its surface is scorched and dented, and it's covered in ash, but there's no mistaking it.

"Get out," you say, your voice hoarse.

"What?" Fives asks. "But we—"

"Get out!" you shout, and they flinch, stumbling backwards. "Now!"

Rex hesitates, his eyes darting from the box to your face, and you stare at him, your hands clenched into fists, the blood roaring in your ears. After a moment, he nods, and he raises his hand, signaling the others to fall back.

"Yes, sir," Fives murmurs, and he turns and begins marching back the way you came. Echo gives you a long look, his eyes lingering on yours, and then he, too, retreats. Rex doesn't move, and you turn, glaring at him.

"Go," you order.

"You told me to stay close to you, remember?" he retorts, and his voice is laced with anger, his jaw clenched. "Well, I am. And I'm not leaving."

You sigh, a headache building behind your eyes, and you shake your head. "Rex, I—"

"No," he growls. "Don't. Don't push me away."

"It's not—"

"You're not going through this alone."

"But—"

"I don't care."

His voice echoes around the chamber, and you swallow hard, the air rushing from your lungs. You stare at him, at his unwavering determination, his absolute refusal to back down, and a part of you wants to push him, wants to shove him away and send him back to the others. He's disobeying your orders, he's questioning your authority, and you should be angry. You should be furious.

But instead, you feel relieved.

You turn back towards the pedestal, the box gleaming in the flickering light, and a cold weight settles in the pit of your stomach.

"Alright," you sigh, deactivating your sabers and shoving them into their holsters. "Fine."

Rex's expression softens, and he reaches for you, his hand settling on your shoulder. You lean into him, his warmth comforting, and he squeezes gently.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

You nod, and the two of you begin the descent, slowly making your way down the broken path. The ground is slick with ice, and your feet slide a few times, Rex's grip on your shoulder tightening to keep you from falling. You finally reach the bottom, and you approach the pedestal, a lump forming in your throat.

You stand over the box, and you run your fingers along the surface. It's warm, and there's a faint vibration, the Force humming with energy.

"What is it?" Rex asks, his voice quiet.

"It's..." You trail off, and you swallow hard. "It's what I found when I went out that night."

He frowns, and then recognition dawns on his face, and his eyes widen. "You mean when you were attacked?"

"Yes," you whisper.

Rex is silent, and you stare at the box, a wave of emotion welling up inside you. Anger, sadness, grief. They mix together, churning in your stomach, and you clench your fists, the nails digging into your palms. You can feel the darkness swirling around you, a miasma of pain and fury, and it threatens to drown you. But you can't look away, can't turn your back.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs.

"Yes," you repeat, and the word comes out thick, the tears burning hot. "I'm sure."

"Then, it's him," Rex whispers, his voice laced with sympathy. He steps closer, his hand settling on your back, his thumb rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "Isn't it?"

"It is."

You reach out and place your hand on the lid, and the wood is smooth and cool under your fingertips. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, and then, with a single, smooth motion, you lift the lid. The hinges creak, the sound echoing around the chamber, and a cloud of dust swirls in the air.

The inside of the box is lined with a velvet material, the fabric faded and worn. The scrap of her robe is still there, along with the datapad, but that isn't what makes your heart seize in your chest.

It's the lightsaber.

You recognize it immediately, the sleek, silver hilt a stark contrast against the crimson fabric. It's the same design, the same length, the same width. You've seen it a hundred times, a thousand, more than you can count. But the last time you saw it, it was in her hands, a blaze of green light. Now, it sits, cold and lifeless, and the ache inside you only grows.

And when you reach out, your fingers brushing the blade, the hum that vibrates up your arm is unmistakable. The same hum, the same vibration, the same power. Her power.

"Is that..." Rex breathes, his eyes wide.

"Yes," you choke out, the tears spilling over.

You can feel his presence behind you, his energy warm and steady. But even his strength can't shield you from the anguish that bubbles up inside you, a deep, primal wound reopening. It's a wound you've spent the past ten years ignoring, pushing aside, burying deep, but now it's tearing you apart, the pain consuming you.

Your hand encloses around the hilt, pulling it to your chest. The metal is cold, and you can feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of the kyber crystal inside, a faint echo of her Force signature. It's been so long since you've felt her presence. Since you've been able to sense her power, her wisdom, her kindness.

It's like a knife to the heart, the wound reopened, bleeding anew.

Rex's hand grips your shoulder, a comforting weight, but the sorrow is a tidal wave, drowning you. It's all too much. The memories, the guilt, the regret. They crash over you, threatening to drag you under, and a sob tears from your lips. You're falling, the darkness consuming you, the void swallowing you whole. You're spiraling out of control, the pain overwhelming, and you can't stop it, can't hold it back. All you can do is cling to the hilt, to her weapon, and hope she can forgive you.

But as you fall to your knees, Rex is there. His arms wrap around you before you can hit the ground, a cry ripping from your throat, and the two of you sink down together, your head pressed against his shoulder.

You bury your face in his neck, the tears flowing freely, your body trembling. His hand finds yours, the one holding her lightsaber, and he entwines his fingers with yours, his other arm tightening around your waist. He's whispering something, his voice soft and soothing, but you can't make out the words, can't focus on anything but the pain. And as Rex holds you, your face pressed against his neck, you let go.

You let the emotions wash over you, the grief and the agony and the remorse. You let the darkness consume you, and you let yourself feel the pain. Because this is what she would have wanted. This is what she would have told you.

To let go. To release the past. To find peace.

So, that's what you do. For the first time in ten years, you let yourself mourn.

You mourn the loss of her, the emptiness in your life, the absence of her guidance, her friendship. You mourn the future that could have been, the bond the two of you shared. The connection that was severed, the wound that will never heal.

It's the most painful thing you've ever experienced, and the agony is a physical thing, clawing at your chest, tearing through your heart. It's the most intense emotion you've ever felt, and it's excruciating, but you don't pull away. You don't hide from it. Instead, you cling to Rex, his arms a steady, reassuring weight around you, and you let yourself feel it. All of it.

"I'm sorry," you gasp, your voice muffled against his armor. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he murmurs, his voice strained, and his fingers tangle in your hair, holding you tighter against him. "It's not your fault."

"I couldn't...I wasn't...I tried to..." You can't get the words out, can't form a coherent sentence, and your head throbs, the pain blinding. "I couldn't save her."

"You did everything you could," he says. "You didn't fail her. You didn't fail anyone."

You want to believe him, to let his words soothe the ache, but the sorrow is overwhelming, the guilt crushing. And, even as you cry, a part of you feels guilty for showing him this side of you. For letting him see the weakness, the vulnerability. But the truth is, you've been weak for a long time, and he's been there every step of the way.

He's seen your worst, and yet, he's stayed.

"I miss her," you sob, the tears burning hot. "I just..."

"I know," he breathes. His cheek presses against the top of your head, his fingers stroking your hair. "I'm so sorry."

You don't know how long you sit there in the icy cavern, Rex's arms wrapped around you. You cry until there are no tears left, until the sobs turn to hiccups, and the hiccups turn to shuddering breaths. And all the while, Rex is there, his grip never loosening, his voice never wavering.

When the last of the tears have dried, you slump against him. Your body feels heavy, drained, and the lightsaber is a dead weight in your hand, the cold metal leeching what little warmth you have left.

You lift your head, and Rex's gaze meets yours. You're surprised to see his eyes are wet too, his lashes clumped together. His nostrils flare, and he lets out a shaky breath, trying to keep his composure. He gives you a weak smile, and you swallow hard, the words getting stuck in your throat.

"Thank you," you finally manage, and the words come out thick, the tears welling again. "I...I don't know what to say. I didn't expect—"

"Hey," he murmurs as his thumbs wipe away the tears, his touch gentle. "You don't have to say anything. I understand."

You nod, and he pulls you against him, his head resting on top of yours. The two of you fall into another silence, your arms wrapped around each other, the lightsaber clasped tightly in your fist.

Eventually, the sound of footsteps fills the cavern, and you hear the others calling out, their voices echoing around you. Rex pulls away, and he looks over his shoulder, watching as the troopers approach. His body shields you from view, protecting your privacy, and a wave of gratitude washes over you.

"Not yet," he says, his voice stern, and the footsteps stop, hesitating. "We need a few minutes."

"General," Fives calls. "Are you alright?"

"She's fine," Rex answers for you.

"Are you sure? We heard crying."

"She's fine," he repeats, his voice hardening. "Just...give us a minute."

You close your eyes, exhaustion tugging at your limbs, and you rest your head on Rex's shoulder, letting the sounds of his voice soothe you. The others are talking, whispering amongst themselves, but you can't make out the words. You're not sure you want to.

You don't know how long the two of you sit there, but eventually, the voices grow quiet, and you hear the troopers walking away, their footsteps fading into the distance. When they're gone, you open your eyes and stare at the ground, the tears drying on your cheeks.

"You didn't tell them," you say, your voice quiet.

"No," he admits. "I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because," he murmurs. He turns, his hand reaching up, his fingers tilting your chin towards him. Your gazes meet, his eyes soft, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "You deserved a moment alone to grieve. Without the others staring."

You nod, and a weak smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, the tears welling once more. He cares so much, cares more than he should, and it warms your heart despite the cold surrounding you.

"Thank you," you whisper, and the words come out strained, your voice cracking.

"It's the least I can do," he replies. Rex lets go of your chin, his hand falling back to his side. "I wish I could do more."

"You're already doing more than enough," you tell him, and you mean it. If not for him, you would have lost yourself completely. The thought terrifies you, but also warms you. He's saved you, time and time again, without even realizing it. "I couldn't have done this without you."

"You could have," he says, his expression earnest. "But I'm glad you didn't have to."

"Me, too," you murmur.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the only sound the faint drip of water. The air is frigid, the chill seeping into your bones, and you shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin.

"Come on," Rex says. He gives your shoulder a squeeze, his hand trailing down your arm and coming to a rest on your elbow. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah," you agree, and you let him help you to your feet, your legs shaking. You brush the dirt and grime from your clothes, and then look down at the box, your mouth pulling into a grimace.

"I can't believe he kept it," you mutter, placing the lightsaber back inside, the scrap of fabric on top of it. The lid falls shut, a loud thump echoing around the chamber.

"I'm not surprised," Rex replies, his tone laced with bitterness. He shakes his head, a scowl on his face. "He likes his trophies."

"He's sick," you mutter. The rage is starting to burn inside you again, the pain giving way to anger, a familiar, comforting emotion. "Do you think this was his plan all along? To lure me here?"

"Maybe," he admits, his eyes sweeping the area, his expression hardening. "But that doesn't matter now. What matters is that you have your evidence. You can finally get justice."

"Justice," you repeat. The word tastes like ash in your mouth. You shake your head, your lips pulling into a thin line. "All I want is revenge."

"Revenge won't bring her back," Rex murmurs. His hand rests on your lower back, his warmth seeping through the fabric. "You need to be smarter than that. We can't—"

"I know," you interrupt. "I know we can't."

"If it was up to me..." He trails off, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing against your spine.

"Yeah," you sigh. You reach out and pick up the box, the weight of it heavy in your arms. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and then glance up at him, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Wishful thinking, right?"

"Wishful thinking," he echoes, and the two of you share a chuckle, the tension in the air easing.

Rex looks at you, a softness in his gaze, and a strange feeling passes between the two of you, the understanding, the acceptance. This war is not about justice, it's not about peace. It's about survival, and the two of you have to fight tooth and nail just to stay alive. But the fact that he's fighting with you, the fact that he's by your side, means everything.

"Come on," he says, and he gently guides you towards the path, his hand lingering on your back.

You nod, and the two of you begin walking, your footsteps echoing around the chamber. You follow the path, Rex's presence steady at your side, and the darkness recedes, the torchlight growing brighter. You can feel the weight of the box in your arms, the pulse of the kyber crystal, the whisper of her Force signature.

Yaddle.

Your Master. Your family.

Gone.

And the one responsible, just out of reach.

But if you can make the Council listen, maybe, just maybe, you can find a way to bring him to justice.

Or maybe it's just wishful thinking.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #fandom: be nice to satine #me:…im finding it #also i'm doing whatever i want with force abilities fyi

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myosotisa · 1 year ago

Text

Like Real People Do - e.m.

Part 2/2 - What did you bury?

ǁ summary: After your altercation with Eddie, you find yourself facing a lot of questions and uncertainty. Attempting to look closer at why you're in rehab, how you feel about him, and what the future holds for you feels like more than you're willing to take on until you realize it's only hurting you more not to.

ǁ tags: angst, hurt/comfort, heavy themes. depictions of inpatient rehab in the 90s. implied fem!Reader, no pronouns used, no y/n. strangers to reluctant acquaintances to lovers. happy ending!

ǁ content warning: both parts will contain mentions of drug use, struggling with addiction, self worth, society's view on drug users, grief, and death by drug overdose. brief mention of domestic violence and drug assisted disordered eating. please consume thoughtfully and if you have any questions before reading, feel free to message me.

ǁ word count: 12k

ǁ Part 1 ǁ Read on AO3 ǁ

It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people. ― Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

You’re sitting on an examination table in the hospital wing in a paper gown with Dr. Lincoln fluttering around you like a nervous mother. Penelope had taken you right here after you had gotten all of the dirt off of your hands and pants, explaining Mr. Ford and Dr. Lincoln insisted on seeing you. Despite your assurances that you were completely fine, just shaken up, they had gotten you into a gown and prepared for a full exam.

“Are you able to lift your arms above your head?”

You do as asked, face stoic despite the pain in your shoulders from the movement.

“How about twisting? Carefully! How does that feel on your lower back?”

Performing the action, you also easily hide the discomfort the throbbing in your tailbone causes when you shift in your seat. “It feels fine.”

“And your head? You didn’t hit it? Does it hurt? Blurry vision, nausea, confusion?”

“No,” you sigh out, quickly losing patience with Dr. Lincoln’s anxious questioning. You can’t remember now if he was like this when you were first admitted or if he’s going overboard now because he’s worried about some kind of lawsuit. “I told you, I’m fine.”

He plucks your chart off the edge of the table, pen clicking as he begins to write furious lines along the bottom of the page. “I can give you some ibuprofen for the pain. Nothing stronger than that, of course. Given the circumstances.”

A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. “I don’t want anything. It doesn’t hurt.”

Liar.

Penelope steps up from where she was having a hushed discussion with Mr. Ford off to the side. “Are you sure? It looked like quite the fall.”

“I’m sure. I don’t want any painkillers.”

This pain is good. I need it. I deserve it.

Mr. Richard Ford steps up then – a severe looking man in his late 50s, always dressed in a freshly pressed suit and tie, with his hair combed just so and his mustache neatly trimmed across his upper lip. You’re still not sure if he’s related to the Ford’s that founded the facility or if it’s just a coincidence that he shares the surname.

His dress shoes click across the tiles as he approaches you, throat clearing uncomfortably when he enters the circle that has formed around the table. “Miss…” He looks down at your file and repeats your last name like he’s never read it before, earning him a cold glare from Penelope. “I am deeply sorry for what occurred. I assure you we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here.” He adjusts his tie along with his posture, looking proud as he explains, “We’re already in the process of having Mr. Munson transferred to another facility.”

A lick of panic rockets up your spine. “No.” 3 sets of eyes lock on you, emotions ranging from curious to concerned. “You don’t have to do that.” Your fingers curl into fists where they sit on your thighs before relaxing, taking some of the tension in your body with it. “I don’t want you to transfer him.”

He seems to hesitate then, bushy eyebrows drawing together on his wrinkled forehead. “Are you positive? It’s important to us that you feel safe here.”

“I do feel safe here,” you press, looking back and forth between the three of them before settling on Penelope. “It was an accident. Eddie’s barely into his detox – barely started therapy – and I should’ve known better than to get into an argument with him.” Her face remains passive, unreadable. No insight into how she feels about what you’re saying. “It’s my fault as much as his. It wouldn’t be fair to move him, not when he’s struggling this much, this early into his treatment. I don’t want him moved.”

“That’s very kind of you, but you should be more concerned about yourself.” Dr. Lincoln takes a small step forward, adjusting the collar of your gown to take another look at the quickly forming bruises near your collarbone. “You’re not worried about something like this happening again with him, maybe even worse?”

You think back to the moment you hit the ground. Looking up at him, silhouetted by the bright afternoon sun, leaving almost all of him cast in shadow. The way he looked utterly terrified at what he’d done. How quickly he had tried to apologize when he came back to himself.

Potentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality waiting to be shaped.

“No, it’s fi–” Hazel eyes narrow into a squint, stopping your sentence in its tracks. Another deep breath, in and out, and you try again. “I’m not worried. He won’t do something like this again. I want him to stay.”

A few moments of silence follows your declaration, Mr. Ford and Dr. Lincoln glancing at each other before looking to Penelope. Her calculating gaze remains on you, entirely unwavering even as the other two stare holes into the sides of her face. For the first time, you make a conscious effort to keep eye contact, to remain firm despite your desire to shy away.

The corner of her mouth lifts almost imperceptibly in response.

“Then that settles it.” She clasps her hands together in front of her stomach, looking back and forth between the men beside her with a placating smile. “Mr. Munson will stay, pending further transgressions.”

Your shoulders sag in a relief you hadn’t anticipated feeling, but you’re quick to straighten when she addresses you again. “Any other incidents, with you or any other resident, and he will be moved to another facility. Understood?”

It feels like a lifeline. Like a chance. Like an opportunity.

If you want him here, then help him stay.

“Understood.”

The next morning when you walk out for breakfast at 8:30 sharp, there’s something sitting on your table. It strikes you as odd immediately given you’re one of the first people out of your room today and there doesn’t seem to be anyone milling around. You withhold your curiosity – follow the same pattern of line, meds, line, breakfast. Stamp down the nervous feeling in your gut as you cautiously approach.

Completely dusted free of dirt and with your bookmark perfectly in place, is Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. It had completely slipped your mind that you’d even dropped it. You place down your tray with shaky hands and pick it up, flipping through the pages like you’re checking it for wounds. There’s no note, no sign, nothing that could indicate who brought it back for you.

But you know who. It scares you half to death that you know just who, that you know it with certainty.

When is the last time anything felt certain?

The question lingers, festers, and grows as you push around your food and wait for him to plop down in front of you. Imagining what stupid thing he might say, how you would brush it off with a groan and a snarky comment, how he would take that reaction with a smile and never press for more.

He never shows.

It’s with great annoyance that you find yourself looking for him all day. Sitting in your chair by the window, you glance up every half a page to see if you can catch a glimpse of his shaggy hair around the hall. You actually take a walk during your outside time instead of hiding, and you tell yourself it’s because you want the exercise and it’s finally cool enough outside to not sweat your balls off, but that doesn’t exactly account for the way your eyes search the grounds for any sign of tattooed forearms and lanky legs.

When you walk into Therapy House with the others that afternoon, Eddie is already inside. He’s in the chair beside Penelope, slumped down so far most of his ass is hanging off the edge, legs out long, and looking every bit a kicked puppy. You silently beg him to make eye contact with you as you sit, willing your stare into a physical sensation that might force him to just look at you.

He doesn’t look away from his own hands once, silent as a mouse the entire session.

The moment group is over and the counselors come around to collect their first resident of the day, you’re walking across the sunbathed birch wood floors and stopping short just behind him before you can even think about it.

“Eddie,” it comes out as a sigh, eyes pinned to the way his shoulder blades tense before your very eyes, “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I’ve, uh… Been in here, for the most part,” he explains over his shoulder, still not turning to face you. His voice is hoarse around the edges, ragged and torn from overuse.

“Oh, okay.” Your face pinches in concern, hand raising like you want to reach out to him but hesitating there. “About… about yesterday–”

“Sorry,” he cuts you off sharply, turning halfway toward you with red-rimmed eyes still trained on the floor, “I’ve gotta go.”

He’s halfway across the room and climbing up the stairs to the lofts two at a time before you can say another word.

The image of the swollen redness around his teary eyes, half covered by his hair as he refuses to look at you for even a moment, haunts you for the rest of the week.

“So, how are you feeling today?”

Penelope is dressed in a teal silk blouse. It washes out her skin tone and the boat neckline makes her shoulders look too small. Not to mention the strange height of the cinch just below her bust, giving it the appearance of a child’s nightgown. Plainly, it looks really bad on her. All of her clothes are carefully curated and fashion forward – meant to make a statement about who she is and the authority she holds. This is absolutely not making that statement. And you were staring at it for all of group, trying to wrap your head around what it meant.

“Who gave you that shirt?”

This might be the first time she’s ever looked even half surprised at something you’ve said, her lips parting slightly as she glances down at her chest like she had forgotten what she was wearing. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she looks back at you, passive expression back in place.

“You would’ve never bought it, I’m surprised you’re allowing yourself to be seen in it,” you continue, eyes narrowing into a squint as you continue to search it and her for clues. “The fact that you’re wearing it makes me think someone gave it to you and you’re going to see them today, so you felt obligated to wear it to please them. Maybe one of your parents or a sibling or a friend… A partner?”

She uncrosses her legs just to recross in the other direction, attempting to appear amused as you explain. Gotcha.

“A partner, then. One who obviously doesn’t know you very well, or doesn’t understand fashion at all, because the color is god awful and the shape even worse. But you want to impress them enough that you’re willing to wear it anyway.”

If it was an after work date, she would’ve changed after. So it’s someone she would mostly see during her normal day. Plus, she lives and breathes her job, when would she have had time to meet someone?

“I didn’t realize you paid that much attention to what I wear… Or that you were so into fashion,” she offers casually. Too casually to play off.

A bit too sharp, a bit too pointed, you snap back. “I’m not into fashion and you’re deflecting.”

She blinks at you for a few moments before she settles back into her chair, draping her arms over her stomach. “And you’re projecting.”

“No, I’m not,” and it comes out defensive. Too defensive to play off.

So then the quiet kicks in. Queen Penelope Windsor’s beloved uncomfortable silence. Part of you is convinced one of her professors taught her that awkward silence is an invaluable tool in psychiatry. You want to know who that professor is, so you can inform them how utterly wrong they are.

Penelope is, however, utterly right.

“I’m projecting,” you concede, gaze casting down to your lap to settle into the discomfort.

Her pen clicks and it feels like salt in your wound. “Okay then. Would you like to talk about what you’re avoiding?”

And maybe you’re not quite done being snarky when you reply, “Isn’t the whole point of deflecting because you don’t want to talk about it?”

“It can be. But I still would like to give you the opportunity to. You never know, it might help you feel better.”

Your eyes roll hard enough to just see white for a moment, looking off to the stupid little white noise machine in the corner. It’s the size of a radio clock and sits directly on the floor by the door – you’ve almost tripped on it 10 times.

Probably an accessibility hazard. Someone should really complain about that. If someone less coordinated, or even Thomas with his cane, tried to walk in they could really get hurt.

“Fuck!” The exclamation comes from nowhere, probably just barely loud enough to draw attention from outside the room. Penelope remains incredibly passive despite the sudden change in your attitude, not making a move or a sound as you bury your face in your hands with your elbows propped on your thighs.

Probably just interrupted other therapy sessions. Made them lose track of what they are talking about. Maybe even triggered someone unintentionally with your sudden yell. Great job, idiot.

Digging your nails into the skin along your hairline, you take in a hissing breath through your teeth and attempt to exhale some of the tension. It’s been weaving through your muscles all week, infecting all of your time, distracting you at all hours of the day. A part of you hoped it was just another phase in recovery but it just keeps getting worse and worse.

Penelope’s voice is softer when she speaks next, more cautious. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking about right now that’s distressing you?”

“It’s the fact that I’m fucking thinking that’s distressing me.”

Realizing that probably doesn’t help at all, and most likely makes you sound insane, you release your hands to clasp tightly in your lap as you raise your head to look at her again. “I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop noticing everything. I can’t stop.”

“Okay,” she gives a small nod of encouragement, sliding her notebook further into her lap to focus more attention on you. “What are you thinking about?”

“Everything. Your shirt and the noise machine and how someone could trip on it and hurt themselves. And how we are required to have 1 hour outside a day but half of us sit in the shade the entire time because it’s too hot or we don’t want to get sunburnt, and they aren’t exactly going to start stocking sunscreen and ointment just to facilitate 60 minutes in the sun. I’m thinking about how I finally figured out that there’s a different cook on the weekends and that’s why the stupid scrambled eggs they make us every day are oversalted Friday through Sunday and undersalted all the other days. I’m thinking about how all of the books in the library used to have an organization system but no one takes care of it – so all the books are all in the wrong places and now I feel like I have to take some of my free time to fix it because I know nobody else will, even though I can’t figure out why I fucking care so much. I’m thinking about how you asked me to help Eddie so he could stay here in recovery and I want to do that because he latched on to me when he first got here and now I suddenly feel responsible for him, even though I didn’t even like the guy at first, and now he won’t even fucking talk to me so I can’t do that.”

You inhale sharply, talking way too fast but unable to stop. “I’m thinking about how this facility is built to house 50 people or more but only gets one new resident a month, maybe two. So why is it so big? Why not bring in more people? Probably because they’re only accepting the people willing to turn out their wallets in order to get help or because they know someone who will so then all the people who really need help are left to fucking die under highways and in abandoned buildings because if they don’t have money, they don’t fucking mean anything to anyone. But for some reason I still care about that and feel bad about it and feel responsible for it even though there is literally nothing I could possibly do to change any of it.”

Another heaving breath that makes your chest feel too tight and you’re squeezing your eyes shut against the brunt of the pressure. “I can’t stop thinking about everything and I feel like it’s fucking crushing me and I just want something to turn my brain off – but that’s the entire fucking reason I’m here in the first place. I started using because I just wanted something to numb it all.”

The admission feels like a slap across the face. Like being dunked head first in ice water. The reality of where you started.

The sprawling, trembling fault line that led you here – to where the tectonic plates move and shift. Where the earthquakes, that used to feel like subtle vibration in the dirt beneath your feet, now knock you to the ground with ease. Standing on the edge of the chasm between that you’re still not ready to cross.

Because what’s on the other side?

And what if I fall through?

The next week of your life passes in a sort-of overwhelmed daze. The realization of that pit before you– what it means, what it could do. It hangs around like a spirit haunting your home. It’s always been there, you just couldn’t see it, too focused on your own feet and keeping them moving to see anything beyond the inches of ground in front of you.

Now, the inches of ground before you are darkness. Unfathomably deep and impenetrably dark. And on the other side, there’s sun. Grass. Trees.

Shouldn’t I want to get there? Shouldn’t I be excited to jump?

The questions follow you through your days on autopilot as you keep to your schedule.

On the two week anniversary of your argument with Eddie, Penelope announces that, instead of talking in a circle for group today, she’ll be pairing you off into partners to play games. Trust exercises, she assures you when you all look at each other like she’s lost her mind. It wasn’t the first time she had used her slot of time to do some kind of activity – but it hadn’t been something like this.

And really you should have seen it coming.

Because Queen Penelope, in her oh so infinite wisdom, points you and Eddie to a pair of chairs facing each other below the skylight. While Eddie shows little to no reaction as he shuffles over, you cast a pleading look at her. Hoping to get across some of the betrayal you’re feeling in your eyes.

She just smiles. Meets you with silence before shuffling around the other pairs of residents throughout the room.

When you sit down on the metal folding chair across from him, you get your first good look since the day after you’d argued. The last few times you’d seen him, he looked no better than a zombie – half awake and half asleep as he went through his days. He’d kept quiet for the most part in group, only adding in a sentence or two at times, and left his 1 on 1 session in the lofts with red rimmed eyes and looking about ready to pass out. But he’d also gotten into the habit of playing cards most days with his roommate, Howard. And while you couldn’t imagine the gruff old man of few words was very good company to keep, sometimes you could have sworn you’d look over and see them smiling.

Maybe it was just wishful thinking.

The both of you wordlessly adjust on the seats, warmed by the sunshine filtering through the circular window overhead. Penelope had placed the chairs close enough together that, with his long legs, you both accidentally kept knocking knees. The third time, you muttered, “Sorry,” which brought a small smile to his face.

He ends up with his knees splayed wide, hands resting on his thighs, while you bring your knees in tight together, propping your feet up on the bar beneath your chair as you settle into soft tapping of your fingertips near your knees. Beyond your apology, neither of you say a word or make any eye contact as you watch Penelope and wait for instruction.

“So, the aim of the exercise is simple,” she explains, projecting her voice slightly as her heels click along the wood, “it’s a question and answer. Going back and forth to learn more about each other, being as honest as you’re comfortable being. This is not supposed to be something that causes you intense distress. But don’t be afraid to lean into some discomfort if you feel it. You might end up discovering something valuable about yourself.”

When you glance back at Eddie, his big brown eyes are already looking at you.

A warm feeling creeps up your spine, your fingers twitching in your lap as you adjust to the unexpected attention. His expression is pensive, gentle… Soft. He doesn’t look mad, or hurt, or upset. He’s looking at you like he’s happy you’re here – sitting across from him in the subtle heat of the sun. And while you’re glad he doesn’t seem upset to be forced to speak with you, you’re more confused than anything.

In a move that surprises even yourself, you break the silence first. “Hey.”

His chest rises in a deep inhale, shoulders and arms relaxing on the long exhale before he responds. “Hey.” You offer a small, slightly awkward smile, and he mirrors it as you adjust to tuck your hands under your thighs, bringing your shoulders slightly forward. “I wanted to apologize.”

Blinking at him a few times, you manage an unsure, “Oh?”

“You were right,” he sighs, hands coming together over his abdomen to fiddle with his own fingers. “I… I needed a wakeup call. Some sense knocked into me.” The corners of his eyes pinch up in pain before he returns your eye contact again. “I’m just really, really sorry it came from hurting you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you rush to try to assure him, pushing away the ache of the bruises that have faded from your tailbone, “I was more just shocked than anything.”

He winces, forefinger and thumb pinching some skin between his nails. “I appreciate you saying so, but you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.” His eyes cast down to your knees before he continues, “I know what a push like that can do.”

Unsure exactly how to take that statement, mind absolutely swirling with possible solutions, you swallow dryly and offer an, “Okay.”

Tense silence falls back over you both, the murmured conversations of other residents echoing throughout the open space into a white noise of unintelligible words. You sit and you wait as Eddie rubs the pads of his thumbs together, lower lip drawing up between his teeth as he continues to stare at your knees. He looks deep in thought – eyebrows twitching together a few times before he seems to remember himself again. Adjusting to sit up straighter in his chair, one of his knees knocks against the outside of yours before he clears his throat. “What are we, uh, supposed to be doing again?”

“Asking each other questions.”

A small scoff leaves his lips in a puff of air, the corner tilting up in amusement. “Like asking what’s your favorite color and shit?”

A soft smile and a smaller shake of your head, you flex your feet to point your toes toward the floor before relaxing again. “I think it’s supposed to be more drug and rehab and therapy related shit but… She really didn’t specify.”

“Ah… A tempting loophole,” he agrees, nodding his head as if he’s really thinking about it. “But I guess we should try to do what the good therapist thinks will help us, huh?”

A wistful sigh leaves you as you roll your shoulders back to sit up straighter. “I guess so. You can start.”

“Oh, shit.” You laugh softly at the awkward face he pulls when you put him on the spot, and the sound seems to put him at ease. “Okay… Oh! I asked you a couple weeks ago what you were in for. Like what you are, were, addicted to?”

A simple enough question, you answer quickly. “Oxycodone. And Alcohol. Normally together, I guess.”

If he’s surprised by your answer, he doesn’t show it, just lets out a low whistle through the side of his mouth. “Downers and downers, huh?”

“Yup,” you confirm, pressing your lips together and offering an awkward shrug. “What about you? You’ve mentioned coke and meth before…?”

“Mostly coke, meth, and alcohol,” his head rocks slowly back and forth in a nod. “But I’ve probably done a bit of everything – ecstasy, xanax, opioids, ketamine, the works.”

“Truly a man of culture,” you attempt as a joke, and his half smile tells you that you were successful.

“You could say that. So how’d you start? Using, I mean.”

“Like, where did I get it?” He shrugs and waves for you to continue with that thought. “A friend of mine, she was already involved in… All of it. And offered to connect me.”

“A stellar friend,” is his attempt at another joke.

The statement twists in your chest painfully, the cold feeling seeping out like a wrung washcloth. A sad smile and a deep breath to try to move past it. “And you? How’d you start?”

“Are you just gonna repeat all of my questions? Feels kinda unfair.”

“I’ll come up with a new one after this. Scout’s honor.”

He snorts, cracking a smile as he shakes his head again. “I don’t think you’re allowed to use that if you’re not a boy scout, but okay.” You’re about ready to retort back that he doesn’t know that you weren’t really a boy scout, but he answers your question before you can. “I was a dealer, back in high school. After my buddy Rick got arrested, I took over the mantle. Mostly just weed to suburban kids. I had other shit but didn’t sell it often. Back then, I needed the money more than I needed to sample the merchandise so… I would only smoke weed once in a blue moon when I had the extra stock.”

“As for when I really started…” He looks back down at his hands in his lap. “Our first tour. It was hectic – fucking nuts. More than we ever thought it would be. But we were living out our dream, y’know? It was like being in a fuckin’ movie sometimes.” A small, wistful smile tilts his mouth as he recalls the memories. “We were going 24/7 between the travel and the concerts and the afterparties. At one of ‘em, someone, understandably, brought the white shit.” The knuckles in his hands momentarily turn white as he grips them together, a subtle show of tension before they relax again. “You can, uh… You probably know where it goes from there.”

“I can assume, yeah,” it comes out softer than you thought it would, affected by his vulnerability. The Eddie you met on his first day would’ve never done anything like this. Would’ve never even spoken like this. How had so much changed so quickly? How had he surpassed you?

“Okay, how about…” Like he’s trying to bring some life back into himself and you, he begins a drumming tap on his thighs, shoulders rolling forward as he applies himself to the motion. You don’t bother to try to withhold your laugh, feeling your nose crinkle with the force of it. His chin tips up towards the sun, a cheeky grin splitting to show the whites of his teeth as he starts to hum a single note out into the open space, an over dramatic representation of his thinking.

“Eddie!”

The sharp call has both of you freezing, faces dropping as you slowly turn toward where Penelope stands with her hands on her hips and a deep scowl. “A little quieter, please?”

Your lips press together tight to withhold your laugh as he offers her a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

When he turns back to you, looking a little embarrassed and thoroughly scolded, you can stop the laugh from escaping you in a snort through your nose. “It’s not funny,” he mutters, lower lip jutting out in a pout as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“You got in trouble with mom,” you whisper yell, leaning toward him with a teasing smile. “It’s kinda funny.”

His expression breaks – smile stretching against his will as you make fun of him. “Yeah, yeah. I bet you’ve never even gotten in trouble before. Ever. At all.”

Taking it as a challenge, a single eyebrow raises as you lean back into your chair. “Is that your question?”

Intrigue showing clearly, he nods, hair shifting from behind him over his shoulders as he does so. “Sure, that feels close enough to the topic. Have you ever gotten in trouble before?”

Tapping the tip of your finger against your chin, you make a small show of trying to think about it even though you already know what you’re going to say. “Three times come to mind.”

“Three?!” He gasps, hand flying to his chest in mock drama. “Say it ain’t so.”

“First, I convinced my grandfather to buy this huge box of ice creams for dogs. He thought it was for us so, when he walked into the kitchen, and I was holding it down for my dog to lick, he immediately started to yell at me. When I told him that’s what it was meant for, I swear to god – I thought he was going to pop a fucking blood vessel he was so mad.”

Eddie snorts as he shakes his head back and forth slowly. “That would be the kind of thing you’d consider getting in trouble.”

“Hey!” You point an accusing finger at him, falling into this comfortable dynamic between the two of you. “I’m not done yet!” Putting his hands up in surrender, he mimes pulling a zipper across his mouth as he settles down to look at you again. “The second… Well, I got called to the principal's office in high school. Because,” you take a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable reaction you’ll get, “because some kids were spreading a rumor that I was sleeping with a teacher.”

This finally seems to entertain him, jaw dropping slightly as his eyes widen. “Well, did you?!”

“No!” You’re quick to deny, voice rising slightly in pitch as you do. His chin dips down, looking up through his eyelashes at you, extremely unconvinced. “I mean, I probably could have, but I didn’t want to!”

His head rocks back as another low whistle presses out of the corner of his mouth. “Wow, sunshine… Now that’s some juicy gossip. Have you mentioned that one to Melissa?”

Your foot kicks out, knocking into his shin hard enough for him to sit up straighter in surprise. “Shut it, Munson.”

“Okay, okay! Sorr-ee, geeze.” And yet he’s nothing but smiles as he returns to making eye contact with you. “And third?”

“Third was definitely drug related.” You’re quick to amend, tucking your hands back under your thighs. “I was picking up some oxy after completely running out. Desperate enough that I went to his apartment while the sun was up – which I always tried not to do.” His head dips in acknowledgment, showing he’s actively listening as you continue. “It must have been my lucky day because the bag was barely in my hand before the door slams open, police screaming his name and boots stomping inside.” Adrenaline kicking up slightly at the memory, you can vividly picture the way your skinhead dealer went deathly pale in mere seconds at the noise. “It was a good thing that I wasn’t on anything that day because before I knew it, I was out the window, down the fire escape, across the alley, and over a fence. I didn’t stop running until I ducked into a Walmart – hiding in the crowd.”

“Damn.” He sighs, looking impressed but attempting to sound disappointed. “There’s a bit of a rebel in you after all.”

And while you’re not exactly sure if it’s something to be proud of, you’re at least happy to earn his approval as you raise your chin slightly. “See? More to me than meets the eye.”

The moment between you stretches out a bit too long as he seems to appraise you, a soft smile made warmer by sparkling eyes. It takes some conscious effort not to react to his study – heart thumping hard in your chest a few times before he agrees. “Pretty metal, I’ll give you that.”

Exhaling some of the tension in your shoulders, relaxing more into your chair, you’re quick to try to move on from talking about you. “You said you were dealing because you needed the money. Were you saving up to move out or something?”

His expression shifts, smile turning awkward as he brings a hand up to hook behind his neck, bent arm laying beside his chest. “Not exactly.” Giving him your full attention and what you hope is an encouraging smile, he takes a deep breath before he begins. “I moved in with my uncle when I was a kid. My dad’s brother Wayne. My parents weren’t…” His mouth presses into a thin line as he tries to think of how to phrase it. “My dad ended up in jail and my mom didn’t have it in her to be a single mom. Hadn’t worked in a long time, didn’t have the money, all that. So she dropped me off with my uncle with a promise to try to get her life together and come back.”

The implication there is heavy enough, sorrow settling into your gut like a brick, but he still adds, “That, uh… That never happened. So it was just me and Wayne and his one bedroom trailer in a small town in Indiana.” His arm drops from his neck, hands coming together in his lap so he can fidget with his own fingers again. “He did the best he could for a guy who never expected to have a kid – more than I could ever ask for. Gave me his room, worked night shifts at the power plant to bring in cash, made sure the pantry was never empty. But it was more than that, y’know? He is… He taught me how to change the oil of my car, how to fix the little AC unit in my window, how to tie a tie.”

His lips part in a smile, his eyes far off as he tells you, “we used to play cards a lot. I swear, no one has a better poker face than Wayne. You wouldn’t guess it from the looks of him, but he used to make a killing in Texas Hold ‘em back before I came into the picture.” His face drops slightly at that, eyebrows tipping up in an emotion that he’s quick to shake off. “But he has a tell – I learned when I was 13. When he’s bluffing, he’ll do a little sniff as he’s leaning back from raising. It’s really hard to tell but it’s there.” His excitement grows again, fidgeting in his hands ceasing. “He had this crazy collection of hats and mugs, and the one time I accidentally knocked one off the shelf and it broke – man,” he exhales, shaking his head. “I thought he was gonna cry. Never that he was gonna scream or yell or try to hit me or send me away. He would just get so sad, like he was about to start tearing up, and I’d always fold – scrambling to apologize and asking what I could do to make it better.”

Brown eyes flick back up to yours, quickly followed by a dusting of pink across his cheekbones and up to the tips of his ears. As if realizing he was getting off track, he clears his throat and says, “Anyway. It was always a struggle for him to get by, having to feed a boy with the appetite of a fucking rhino and everything else on top of that. So, when I got old enough, I started looking for anything I could do to bring some cash in. To try to… I mean, I could never repay him but like, to at least try to help, y’know?” You nod, not sure if he was actually looking for confirmation but he seems to appreciate the gesture regardless. “So I was doing odd jobs and started getting involved with stuff and eventually became an errand boy to Reefer Rick. Who I took over for when he got put away.”

Sensing a pause in his story, or at least what you perceive as one, you can’t withhold your curiosity as you press for more answers. “Is Wayne still alive? Like are you two still close?”

His face falls, that heavy feeling in your gut following closely after. “He’s alive, at least, as far as I know.” His attention is off in nowhere again as he visibly shrinks back as far as he can into the metal chair. “I went back to see him a year or so ago. I wasn’t doing so hot – couldn’t seem to even get out of bed without a line. He caught on pretty quick what was going on. Got more mad than I’d ever seen him.” He swallows harshly, attempting to get rid of the lump he feels growing there. “We both said some nasty shit – how he wasn’t really my dad and didn’t know what he was talking about. And he said I was turning into my dad, that I’d never looked more like him than I did that day. I stormed out. And we haven’t talked since.”

Your heart bleeds for the defeat you can see in his expression, the pain in the way he explains. How heavy it must be for him to carry that. While your first instinct is to offer apologies and words of comfort that really won’t matter much in the end, you settle for looking to the future. “Are you gonna reach out to him again? When you get clean?”

“I…” He looks confused then, hand coming up to rub at his forehead roughly before he settles. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Taking a deep breath of your own, you muster up some courage. “It’s not my place, at all, so feel free to tell me to fuck right off but… I feel like you should. I think he’d be happy for you.”

The sentiment rocks him – face twisting in a mix of emotions before he brings up both hands like he’s going to rub them off of his face. “Yeah, yeah, maybe.”

Silence falls, heavier like it was before. The momentary comradery falling away to reality again – two strangers trying to figure out what the hell they were doing. The tension in the air is palpable, at least to you, as he continues to stare off for another minute or two because coming back into himself.

“So…” He clears his throat, anxiously adjusting in his seat and knocking against your knee again. “What made you decide to get help?”

The million dollar question.

Another thing you feel like you should’ve seen coming, should’ve prepared for in advance. But here you are: sitting across from a stranger you feel inexplicably tied to and faced with a question you still don’t know the answer to. The question that has hung over your head for the past week and half.

Why are you trying to get better?

“Well, ending up here – like, in rehab – was easier than the alternative. So that part wasn’t hard.” The skin between his eyebrows folds as he looks at you, a bit confused but not interrupting to ask for clarification as you continue. “As for why I’m getting help…”

The rest hangs there, suspended by hesitation. Uncertainty blooms in your chest like a burst of frozen air – like blue tipped fingers gripping your heart in their fist. A threat and a warning.

Eddie hits the toe of his shoe against yours, bringing your attention back to him. “You don’t have to answer. Not if… You don’t have to.”

And the sun is shining down on him from the skylight above, casting him in a glow. A soft auburn hue shines in his wiry hair, the red undertones coming forward in the sun. He’s still pale but you can see them now – freckles across his face and the skin just beyond the collar of his shirt like a dusting of cinnamon. Brown eyes that have a bit more life in them than they did before.

There’s still a sense of frost beneath his skin, half alive and freezing like it used to be, but it’s thawing. Warming. Before your eyes and beneath the light of day, Eddie Munson was coming out of his cold shadows, one small step at a time.

“But you can't just leave it at that!" said Anathema, pushing forward. "Think of all things you could do! Good things." "Like what?"

“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out.” Out comes the honest truth. Truth he wasn’t expecting based on the way his eyebrows raise, skin wrinkling beneath his bangs. “It feels like there should be this big reason – some grand goal or something that would be a good answer in a biography. And I don’t really have one of those. Not right now.”

There’s a long pause then, like he wants to make sure you’re not going to say anything else before he replies. “I don’t think it has to be something fantastical or anything like that. Maybe it would be a better story if it was but… I dunno, I think any reason is as good as any other.”

A self-deprecating smile and joking change of tone, you ask him, “Even if my reason is just because I want to make more bad jokes that people can’t decide if they want to laugh or groan at?”

His answering smile is filled with genuine determination when he tells you, “I think that’s a fucking stellar reason, sunshine.”

Your 60th day of rehab comes with a party.

Not for you, of course. It would be a lot of resources for the center to celebrate arbitrary anniversaries like that for every resident. No, this is a graduation party. A going away party. A ‘see you never’ kind of party.

When you walk back into the main hall after group, there’s a hastily made banner hung between the nurse’s station and the kitchen that says ‘Happy Graduation Tony!’ in shades of blue and yellow, with some splashes of green mixed in. There’s a weird animal drawn on the right side that you can’t identify – but you guess it’s supposed to be a wolverine based on the ‘Go Michigan Wolverines!’ underneath in blocky text.

There are various basketball-themed party decorations scattered throughout the tables, all looking like they came from a big wholesale package of party favors. It looks alarmingly like an 8 year old’s birthday party, but Tony’s smile is brighter than you’ve ever seen it as he laughs at the attempt Kathy, Melissa, and Thomas made at decorating for him.

The University of Michigan Wolverines is his favorite college basketball team, he explains to the rest of you as you look on confused. He gives Thomas a joyful ribbing at having remembered a comment like that in passing, and Thomas’ bashful smile makes even Howard soften with fondness as you all filter in among the tables. There’s music playing – a Best of 80’s CD spinning in a shitty old speaker system in the corner of the main hall that is barely used. Down Under by Men at Work plays softly as you settle down at one of the tables covered in plastic-y yellow, feeling lighter than you have in weeks watching Tony cross the room to where there’s a small selection of snacks and a sheet cake with his name written on it.

Eddie sits down beside you at the same time Howard sits down across from him, the older man immediately brandishing his deck of cards and arcing them into a professional shuffle. Lola, the newest resident, an older woman who kept taking morphine long after her hip surgery healed, sits down uneasily next to Howard, content to quietly watch him deal out the cards between himself and Eddie.

Switching back and forth between watching Eddie and Howard playing a game you can’t seem to identify and watching Melissa and Kathy grill Tony about what he’s going to do first when he gets out, you feel a sort of contentment. An emotion you’re so unused to, you’re not really sure what to do with it now that it’s sitting in front of you.

Two games in, Eddie drops his cards with a groan before pointing an accusing finger at Howard, who smirks in pride. “This isn’t over, Finbar.” And while your eyebrows draw together in confusion, lips parting in preparation to ask, Eddie keeps going before you can. “I’m going to go grab a water and some cookies, anyone want me to get anything while I’m up?”

Howard waves him off without a word, huffing as he has to lift up slightly off his chair to pull in the cards Eddie left on the other side of the table so he can shuffle the deck together again. Lola, in her syrupy, southern drawl, asks for a cup of water, if he doesn’t mind. A short nod and then he looks down from where he stands beside your seat, a gentle smile on his face as his eyebrows raise in expectancy. The words get caught in your throat for a moment before you are able to force them out. “A cup of water and some chocolate chip cookies would be great. Thank you.”

Another cheeky smile and a dip of his head and he’s walking off, lanky legs knocking against a chair or two like he’s a newborn calf who hasn’t learned how to walk steady yet. The sight makes you laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you turn back to the table.

Lola is watching you, eyes slightly narrowed, when you turn back, making you jolt backwards in surprise. “Y’all make a cute couple,” she says sweetly, with a smile just a kind as always.

“Couple?” You question in a slightly higher pitch, feeling the blood rushing north to warm your face and make your brain spin. “We’re – we’re not a couple. Just friends. We just met here, only a few weeks ago.”

“No?” Her head tilts in curiosity, but her expression reads like she knows something you don’t. Can see something you can’t. “That’s a shame. Looks like a match made in Heaven to me.”

Your jaw drops, mouth opening and closing uselessly, as you try to think of something you could possibly say to that when Eddie walks back up, shakily balancing three plastic cups of water between his hands and a packet of napkin wrapped something tucked under his chin. The waters are safely set on the table, one passed to Lola, who replies “thank you, sugar,” before he lifts his head, the packet falling directly into his now-free hands. Dropping into his chair, he sets the packet on the table before unfolding the white napkins to reveal several slightly smushed cookies.

“Oh,” he blinks a few times at them before offering you a sheepish smile. “Guess they didn’t quite survive the journey. Hope you don’t mind picking at crumbs?”

You shake your head, mischief infusing your smile as you tell him, “I don’t mind, I’ve always thought it would be kind of cool to be a pigeon.”

He snorts in amusement at the same time Howard rolls his eyes and Lola uses her hand to cover her smile. The mix of reactions is perfect – exactly what you were hoping for – as you pinch a big chunk of cookie between your fingers and pop it into your mouth while Howard deals out another hand of cards.

Your contentment continues through the next hour or two, watching as Eddie and Howard go back and forth between winning hands while songs play on – Come On, Eileen, followed by Pretty in Pink, and Africa.

When Melissa shrilly announces it’s time to cut the cake, everyone turns toward the front of the room while Billie Jean by Michael Jackson weaves its way into the open air. Tony laughs at himself and how his hands shake in nervousness, making jokes about how he feels like he’s at a wedding, as he cuts into the sheet cake directly through his name. Using the plastic serving utensil, he deposits a huge square on his paper plate, the ‘o’ from his name completely removed as everyone cheers and claps.

Looking incredibly embarrassed, he turns and gives a little bow to the crowd, missing Kathy as she reaches over the table to grab the huge slice. A sing-song call of his name, and you all watch as he turns and is met with the slice of cake to the face, white frosting smearing across his skin before the entire plate hits the floor with a dull slap. No one moves for a few moments, quiet enough you could hear a pin drop, until he starts to laugh. Almost the entire room joins in, cackling as he scoops frosting away from his eyes and shakes it out onto the floor.

Everyone who wants a slice of cake moves through to grab one before settling back down at the tables. And when you look over at Tony, glowing as he has an animated conversation with Melissa, you can see a small smearing of frosting across his cheek that no one seems willing to tell him is still there.

You all say goodbye to him that evening before the sun sets, watching as he departs out of the double doors with a bag slung over his shoulder and is immediately met by a young boy – a Michigan Wolverines jersey on his back as he tackles Tony around the waist in a tight hug. The doors click closed just as Tony’s hand meets the boy’s head in a rub, both sporting the exact same bright smile.

Despite being back on good terms, Eddie continues to sit across the room from you during group therapy sessions. You kind of like it better than way, not that you’d ever admit it to him. Sometimes you find yourself looking over for reactions to things people say and it makes it easier to give him your full attention when he adds to the conversation. Being able to sneak glances without it being too obvious makes you feel a bit more comfortable than before.

And although you feel like you’ve been making progress, you still rarely join in the conversation in these group circle sessions, and you never talk about yourself in them. Penelope has never tried to push you – she is satisfied as long as you continue to make progress in 1 on 1 sessions. Talking in a group setting isn’t for everyone, she explained, but it can sometimes be more beneficial than you think it might be.

It just never struck you as something you wanted to do. It never spoke to you, as some people said. Besides, other people always had plenty they wanted to say after Penelope did a bit of prodding.

“I talked to my husband on the phone the other day,” Kathy admits following a small silence. She’s playing with the drawstrings on her sweatpants as she speaks. “We haven’t talked in a couple weeks – the kids have been staying with my mom while I’m here.”

Penelope shifts in her chair to face her more directly. “How did that go?”

“Bad,” she answers with a sigh, eyes falling closed for a second before she forces them back open. “I guess I was just hoping he misses me… Misses the kids, misses our life. But he actually seems like he’s happier now.”

“That must’ve hurt to think about.”

“It did. It does.” She takes a deep breath, eyebrows turning up in what looks like an attempt not to cry. “It’s hard to think that picturing going back home to be with him and Sarah and Ben is what really gets me through all this but he… It doesn’t seem like that’s what he pictures anymore.”

“No offense, Kathy, but he sounds like a dickhead.”

Her and Penelope both turn on Eddie, looking surprised and annoyed in that order. “Eddie, that’s not very nice.”

“No, it’s not,” he concedes, hands coming into play as he tucks his elbows into either side of his waist, “but neither is the way he treats you. I mean, the whole reason you ended up here is because he refused to help you – with anything! Ever! And left you to take care of him and the kids and the house and everything.”

Kathy’s face twists, looking conflicted. “Well, yes, but–”

“But he works to put food in the fridge. That’s what you’re gonna say, right?” Her mouth presses into a tight line before giving him a sharp nod. “And yeah, that’s important. Having money to survive is essential and all that. But so is taking care of yourself. And your kids. Taking care of your house. Those are all things people should try to do the best they can. Sure, a lot of people fall short sometimes. It can really suck trying to get everything done by yourself. But that’s what your partner is supposed to be for. To help you.”

Everyone watches on silently as Eddie continues, looking entirely impassioned in his defense of her. “Yeah, he works a job. But you work three jobs just trying to take care of yourself, him, and both your kids. It’s not fair. And it’s fucked up that he not only doesn’t do shit to help but also doesn’t appreciate how much fucking work it is for you and the fact that it was killing you.”

“I mean, that’s just how marriage works,” she tries to argue. “Men go to work and women take care of the house and the kids. I’m sure that’s how your parents did it.”

“No,” he answers with a humorless chuckle, “not even close.”

“Then what did they do?”

“My dad beat my mom.”

The room falls into a tense hush, all eyes on him. While a part of him still looks worked up from his debate with Kathy, and another looks angry at even admitting the fact, the rest of him looks like an exposed nerve. His shoulders shake slightly as he takes in a breath and lets it out just as slow. “He wasn’t… He wasn’t a good guy, my dad. Kind of a piece of shit actually. In and out of prison on assault, drug charges, petty theft, the works. And whenever he was out, he was coked out of his mind and making my mom’s life a living hell.”

Brown eyes descend to the floor as his voice wavers, clearing his throat to try to fix it. “I remember one time, I was 6? Maybe 7? My mom was trying to convince me to do my homework at the kitchen table. And in storms dear old dad, fresh snow on his nose, and already screaming.” His eyes close, hands clenching with white knuckles. “Mom always made sure to get in between us. She didn’t want him to hurt me. But I guess he was mad at me for something, and her getting in the way was even worse, because before I knew it she was on the floor.”

Teary eyes open, glancing up and meeting your gaze. Eyes entirely focused on you as a few tears escape with his blinks. “I can see it so clearly, y’know? My mom was on the floor, bruises around her eyes, begging him to stop. And my dad was standing over her with his fists clenched like he was ready to go another round.”

I know what a push like that can do.

Your mouth opens wordlessly when you realize – chest twisting in agony as he offers you a sad and knowing smile.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. Because I don’t wanna end up like my dad.”

A feeling in the base of your stomach catches hot and burns. Ashes smolder and leak smoke up your esophagus until it brings tears to your eyes. Beneath the dull roar of your blood in your ears and the murmured ‘Thank you for sharing’ from Penelope, you can hear the tremble of the earth beneath your feet. A vibration that rumbles up through your bones in a cold shiver that breaks out across your back. Stones fall into the chasm before you as the world shakes and bends with the force of the quake.

You stare into the cold darkness of the space between the tectonic plates and the cold darkness stares back.

“I have something I want to talk about.”

All eyes turn to you, a pair of wide brown iris the most important of all. Penelope is nothing but encouraging as she says, “By all means, what would you like to say?”

A deep breath in, an attempt to clear the smoke in your lungs, you force the words out into the open. “I… I want to talk about how I got here.” You pause, eyes leaving Eddie to glance over at Penelope to register her shock. “Why I’m here. Because I’ve never told anyone.”

“Okay,” is her simple reply, an attempt to be encouraging. But you’re already faltering, the cold creeping in and dampening the ashes until you return to making eye contact with Eddie. And while his expression shows very little, attention wholly focused on you, he does dip his head in a slight nod.

Go ahead, the movement says. You can do this.

“Two days before I got here, I was with my friend Luna.” The name feels like ice water down your throat, swallowing hard to try to push past it and keep going. “Luna was the one who got me into taking oxy in the first place. I’d told her I was too wound up all the time and couldn’t relax, too caught up in my head. She told me it would help. We’d been friends for a long time by that point. She… She’s my best friend. She saw me at my worst and didn’t blink an eye. And maybe it was a fucked up way of helping, but she was really just trying to help. Suggesting what she thought would help.”

“That day, she called me all excited. Saying she got some pills from a new guy and she couldn’t wait to try them. So I went over to her place like we always did. She was all excited about the new stuff, but in my head, it was just the same shit, so I told her I was going to take from the old stash of pills. I guess I didn’t want to waste them or something. She just kinda said whatever, your loss, didn’t fight me on it.”

The visuals start to press in now, like a slideshow playing behind your eyes. “I remember waking up in her bed. It was dark. I don’t know how long I was out for. I got up,” your feet hit pink shag carpet, “I called her name,” you look around the girly bedroom, barely lit by the lamp on the bedside table. “I was still pretty out of it. I walked out from around the bed and…”

Your eyes squeeze shut, head shaking to try to clear the images like an etch-a-sketch. It doesn’t work.

“She was on the floor. I thought maybe she was just in it but her – her lips a–and her fingers were blue and she wasn’t breathing. I called 911 but… She was already cold when they told me to check for a pulse.”

“Those new pills she was so excited to take were laced. Fentanyl. She overdosed. And… And maybe if I had been awake, y’know?” When you blink back into the room, there are tears pouring from your eyes, your breath coming in hiccuping gasps. Cutting yourself off from any more what if’s, you rub your forearm under your nose as you sniffle. “Anyway, I got picked up when the ambulance came. I don’t really know why they gave me the option but it was basically rehab or jail so it felt kind of like a no brainer.”

You huff a wet laugh, crossing your arms over your stomach as you try to fight back the sobs, breathing through the freezing cold feeling in your chest. “It’s easier to be here. Then to think about leaving,” you admit softly, eyes trained on Eddie’s shoes. “In here, I don’t have to see her stuff around my place. I don’t have to think about who I’m going to spend my Saturday’s with. I don’t… In here, I don’t have to face the fact that she’s gone.”

When your eyes meet his, they’re watery again. Red rimmed, swollen. His hands open and close on his thighs like he’s holding himself back. Pale, pink-toned fingers, cast in warm, gentle light from the sun above, that look like they want nothing more than to reach out to you.

Blue tipped fingers reach out from the cold below, a threat and a warning of what lies before you if you fail. But on the other side – the sun shines. There’s grass and cherry blossom trees and birds singing and music playing and life.

“She’s dead. And I can’t get her back. But I’m still here, and I still have a future. I… I want there to be a future.”

You jump the gap.

Bright green grass folds beneath your sneakers as you cross the field, hand raised along your brow to search for a familiar face. It’s the first Saturday of July and there are people everywhere – blankets and lawn chairs and folding tables set up across the wide open greenery ringed with trees.

A familiar whistle echoes toward you, giving you a vague direction to continue your trek. Sweat collects at the base of your neck and trickles down your spine as you go, the heat of the summer sun bearing down despite your careful choice in clothing. You’re just about desperate for a drink when a familiar flop of brown hair catches your eye.

“Steve?” You call, hoping to confirm before you walk all the way over. His head swivels in a full circle before his eyes catch you, a grin stretching across his face as he waves you over.

Steve is a relatively new friend, you’ve only hung out with him a handful of times since you were introduced. He’s shirtless, cotton discarded after sweating through it, and a pair of shorts that show off an alarming large amount of his tan skin. He’s tucked under a large umbrella with Robin, another new friend. She’s draped over a beach chair with her head rolled back, an unbuttoned shirt hanging off her shoulders over a bikini top and a pair of oversized shorts. The closer you get to their blanket in the grass, the more clearly her complaining becomes.

“It’s so fucking hot,” she moans, arms flopped down beyond the sides of the chair. “Why did I agree to this?”

“The music is going to start soon, so shut it, Buckley.” He turns toward you, head tilting back as he braces his arms on his knees. “Hey, good to see you.”

“You too,” you set your things on one edge of the picnic blanket, dropping to your knees at the boundary of where the umbrella covers. “And good to see you too Rob, even though it looks like you’re actually melting.” She groans loudly, sliding further down in her chair as you laugh. “Speaking of melting, cooler?”

Steve heaves it over his lap toward you and opens the lid, twisting back toward another bag as you dig through the melting ice and drinks. Drink in hand and an ice cube in the other, you use your elbow to close the lid again before pressing the ice cube to the nape of your neck in an attempt to get some relief from the heat.

Just as your mouth opens to ask, you hear an, “Incoming!” ring out right before a heavy object makes impact with your side, knocking you into the cooler with a yelp. The furry projectile pants wildly as it rights itself from its sprawl across the blanket, paws immediately climbing up onto your thighs in a happy greeting.

“Hey Oz,” you laugh, chin receding into your neck as you try to dodge his eager licks toward your mouth. “Are you having a good day, buddy?”

“He better be after the fucking pain in my ass he’s been all morning.”

Both hands scratching at the dog’s ears, both to calm him and keep him away from your face, you tilt your head back to catch sight of warm brown eyes. Eddie’s hair is pulled up into a messy bun on the back of his head, the wisps by his ears and parts of his bangs slicked down with sweat. He’s in a tank top that looks like a modified graphic tee, arm holes cut absurdly low to show off almost the entirety of his tattooed ribs. As he settles onto the blanket beside you, the light wash ripped cut off shorts he’s wearing stretch further to show more of his thighs.

His arm loops around your back, hand pressing into your ear as he directs your head lower so he can press a happy kiss to your temple. “Hey sunshine. Have any trouble finding us?”

The heat suddenly feels more like it’s diffusing from the inside out as your smile grows. You shake your head as you sit up straight again, Eddie’s arm still propped behind your back. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I could hear your stupid dog whistle from space.”

“Hey!” He cries in mock offense, leaning away from you as he yanks on the purple plastic whistle around his neck. “The training is going really well with it, actually! So shove it.” And he ducks down toward the pup sitting in front of you, coming to eye level as he says, “Isn’t that right, Ozzy?” The dog lunges forward in an attempt to lick his face but Eddie’s expecting it, blocking the attack and using a gentle force to push the dog down onto his side. “Ozzy, Ozzy, Ozzy!” He chants as he rapidly rubs the pup’s stomach, both of them shaking with excitement.

“Munson, you’re gonna work him up again and the fuckin’ music is about to start!”

Eddie sighs in disappointment, slowing his scratches and rubs considerably, running his hands along fur in an attempt to calm the dog. “I know, buddy. Your mom is so lame and doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Steve levels another glare at him, leaning back on one arm as he complains, “I’m not his mom. We’re both dads, dude.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ozzy. That man is your mom and you know it.”

The dog doesn’t care either way but does settle, laying out long with his belly in the sun just as some speaker feedback echoes out into the space around you.

“Finally!” Robin sighs in relief, pulling her sunglasses down her nose as she lifts her head. “I was starting to think we were roasting out here for nothing. Might as well be in Hell for how hot it is outside.”

Steve snorts, cracking open a gatorade as he explains, “Pretty sure Hell would be way hotter than this.”

“How do you know, dingus? Have you been?”

And the two start to bicker, something you’ve come to learn is a pretty common occurrence. Tuning out of their platonic marital dispute, you look back toward your boyfriend only to find him already looking at you.

“If Hell is this hot, I never wanna go,” you joke, vaguely aware of the sweat that continues to collect on your skin and how much you dislike the feeling.

“I dunno babe,” Eddie sighs long and loud, head tilting your direction as he looks up at you through his eyelashes, smile tilting in mischief. “It is said that the Devil has all the best tunes.”

The cherry blossoms in your chest unfurl in the heat of the sun, petals stretching out at the same rate as the smile parting to show the whites of your teeth. A soft laugh of disbelief, a grin that matches your own, and you’re quoting Good Omens back at him by saying, “It’s true. But Heaven has the best choreographers.”

And he laughs. Head thrown back, the sun’s rays grace the planes of his face as he barks out laughter into the blue sky above. Robin and Steve look at each other confused before shrugging slightly and then you’re laughing too. Falling backwards onto the blanket beneath you, you roll with it, shoulder knocking against Eddie’s when he falls backwards too.

Warm with the heat of the day, the music pouring out across the field, and the hope of a day just as bright tomorrow – you and Eddie laugh like it’s the best joke you’ve ever heard. Like there would never be a better joke than this.

If you want to imagine the future: imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. ― Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

thank you so much for reading. the response to this story was more than i thought it would be and i hope you're satisfied with the ending. i'm grateful you chose to come on this journey with me. i hope you find your way to greener grass and gentle sun whenever you're ready to find it <3

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