#shit even send your ship of choice - if i'm familiar with it and it's not a nono ship (check my biases page)

[laurabenanti]

to the very very kind person who sent me two prompts on this ask game that i have not posted/responded to:

i promise i am going to do them still. i got a little preoccupied and my brain did not want to work. i appreciate you much and please know i'll post them this weekend at the latest!

[uyuartik]

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part iii

tags: angst, fluff, arguments, period typical misogyny (of course not from obi wan), just overall wealthy pricks being little shits, the trope of THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, but not really, do you believe in second chances (i don't) (💀), little smut compared to the rest because originally there was no smut in this (but i HAD TO use that idea), REPOST because i fucked up in the first place

a/n: welcome back for the finale!

well, i can't think of anything to say except this has been a blast for me, and i'm so happy that there are those who enjoys this madness as much as i do. hope you like the ending too. thank you all!

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can’t wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 8.3K

chapter three: fuck it it's fine!

You don’t board that ship. A slight sickness you excuse, then spend your days sulking at home, still covered by the expanse of your lies. It is not totally untrue, though. You did really wake up with a swollen throat, and that put the integrity of your health during the journey at risk, thus with great grief, canceled the plans. Nobody knew that you’d not even mention the symptom on any other day, just requesting some honey tea and hardly noticing it disappear in the morrow. And it exactly worked out as predicted, more so, without leaving its discomfort for remorse. But after that, the hours stretched out each day, like you were living in a different plane where you were not welcomed. Perhaps you actually weren’t, for if you followed your fate, you’d be eating different foods, and walking foreign corridors. In an attempt to run away from that feeling, you try to socialize just a little, attending even the most dull tea parties. Also, your preference of company has to be specialized now, and that proves difficult sometimes.

So, that’s exactly why you indeed sulk at home, even though all your efforts.

But not tonight. 

Then again, perhaps you should've.

His presence has nothing to do with it, to be perfectly clear. On the contrary, he makes it a little endurable. The forced small talk and empty eyes you once feared dearly are not the case, even after your last encounter. Of course, there's a little awkwardness, an uncertainty about where the line of intimacy now stands, shadows of anger and disappointment still darkening the atmosphere, but the overall sensation comes down to longing. You both lost a great friendship, cast it aside in a blink, but your souls don't accept this new arrangement that quickly, trying to fall into the familiar rhythm once more each time you feel your walls break. You don't allow it, neither does he. Yet, it is about the only thing that turns this night into a not complete waste of time. Even a pleasant one, you'd dare say. 

If it weren't for literally everything else except this.

The hushed little uninformed jokes start during the dinner. It is the lord of the house that says them, to his close circle, barely hanging onto etiquette he had glimpses of. As minutes tick and glasses of wine roll, that glimpse is gone, and even in your seat at the end of the table, you hear him clearly. The pressed lips and masked mimics pretending not to be aware of it soon become apparent on every face, excluding you and Lord Kenobi. You glower the first time another of the guests feels confident enough to make his dirty contribution to the subject. Typical, you try to stay calm, tapping your fingers on the table. The world is filled with the likes of him, and the last thing they deserve is your attention. The reflex doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and he sends a sympathetic smile, showing that you’re not alone and accepting this invitation was a most regretful choice. He uses a few retorts to close the deal, let the dinner continue in different matters- or in silence, that would be fantastic indeed, but his smart wit and slight intimidation work only for a couple of minutes. Now it’s your turn to reflect that sad smile, and you do.

The sadness doesn’t come from the circumstances around you all, though. Your heart feels heavy, for not trying better ways to handle that morning. That guilt will haunt you, drag you into the gloomy pit you’ve been in, and maybe, you should stay there for some time, a penance for your mistakes.  

After dinner, when the ladies and gentlemen huddle around different interests, you get a chance to cool off. The soft peals of laughter and giggles fill the room, a much more pleasant sound than the roar of men. You get to entertain others with your stories of other cities you’ve been to, and they tell their interesting incidents, and make fun of their husbands, people who deserve, as their commotion spills out of the walls. The topic of their conversation, marriage, diffuses out into your circle in such a way, that once again, you’re restraining yourself, trying to listen to the problems one of the ladies is complaining of, and not to hear the crude comments going on on the other side. You’re stopped from rushing out of your armchair simply out of respect you have for the woman speaking when you pick up your name passing in their remarks. Plus, Kenobi’s words, you don’t flatter me by offending the lady, reach every ear in the room, sharper than a knife. Your cheeks burn with anger, then with gratitude, and at last, out of embarrassment, because how are you going to explain he’s just doing an honorable thing, that it’s his character to defy ill minds when he sees one, and this has little to do with his “pursuit” of you? Your breaths are shallow and quick as you focus on the discourse, and dodge every attempt to pull the subject towards your relations.

Though, the snake doesn’t give up on eating, even his own tail, it seems.

In less than half an hour, a joke about abduction is whispered, and you surge from your armchair, the screeching sound echoing. You murmur what resembles to be an excuse (you’re still deciding whether they are worthy of one), and send one glaring gaze at the group, enough to make one flinch, and walk out.

Out of the entire house.

Lucky for you, this is a night in which you carpooled with another guest, meaning you only have your own feet to carry you away in this pouring rain.

But of course, that’s not enough to deter you.

You take big steps, enforced by your fury. Thus, the house leaves your sight in no time, but not their audacity, still ringing in your ears. Implications about your freedom. Complaints of wive-hood. Humor about how perfectly reasonable is to get rich, by kidnapping a young woman… (Honestly, after all that, you don’t have mercy for them of the panic they might experience when they realize their guest is not refreshing in another room, and have left the estate altogether. Alas, that guest is you.) You string curses at them, the only form of thinking you have in regard, and feel the bulk of emotions resonate with every stomp, even spilling out of your tear ducts. Your dampening body, and the length of the road don’t make it any easier, feeding your frustration. Your only anchor is your self worth, the reason you began this path in the first place, and you desperately hope it will turn the tide in a while.

Though now, the picture you paint with those foul words and wet clothes isn’t exactly the brightest.

It is still among these moods, that Obi Wan catches up to you. You’re not exactly surprised to see him, his carriage closing the twenty minute distance you put between yourself and that damned house with a speed that you think can’t be that good for the horses in the long run. They stop abruptly at your side, and you have all those insults readied if it turns out to be that fucked up man or polite declines if it is indeed Obi Wan. 

But, you can’t speak them. The world feels like it freezes, the raindrops slowing down, and carrying away your burdens as they fall to the soil. The small door opens, and Obi Wan rushes out of it, with an expression that is so honest and raw. His fright vanishes at the sight of you, that scared gaze dissolving, eyebrows relaxing… You can actually see his lips move, Thank God. He is totally undisturbed by the downpour, already making his strands stick to his forehead. His hands find yours, and pull you close, almost like an embrace. You look into his eyes, how focused they are on you, as if they could burn you from the inside with their intensity. You have an undeniable urge to kiss him right now, and that has nothing to do with lust, but your wish to undo the last couple of weeks, uphold that strong connection once the two you had. Of course, you don’t, you can’t, thus, you let him lead you inside, and continue towards whatever destination.

Funny, how you feel much calmer doing the thing you thought you wouldn’t. Moreso, you have no woes about it either.

The silence is deafening, but nobody dares to open their mouth, the greatness of the storm of emotions you both are having too heavy on your tongues. He puts his less soggy jacket around your shoulders, you welcome it with a nod. That’s the moment you realize the redness on his knuckles. It’s not hard to guess the scene, and that has your head turned to the floor, processing the entire night. It is also at this moment that you become aware of your fresh tears, still sliding over your cheeks. Even if he notices them, he doesn’t do a thing about it, an indifference you’re grateful for. He just looks out of the window, and contemplates, same as you.

===

The tub filled with hot water doesn’t make you any wetter, but it helps with the temperature. You’re sorry that you exhausted the owners of the inn you had to stay in, (for it was getting impossible to travel in that rain) with this request, but a voice tells you that Obi Wan wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re unbelievably silent as he sorts it all out, staying in your bubble, unintentionally playing the part of the damsel in distress. You listen to his list of requests, for the horses, for three rooms (the best reserved for the lady, he insists), a tub to be prepared for you, and some tea-

“No need.��� Your voice is weak, but it is clear. He would’ve protested this answer, but it is the first time you’ve talked after leaving the house, how ironic, and the realization sets deep in both of you. After that, you feel the words pile up on your tongue, but in a blink, you find yourself in a room. Alone.

“So sorry, I thought they gave me this room.” He stands at the door, holding it half open, face turned in the opposite direction.

“Obi Wan.” His gaze hesitantly finds your way again. God, he’s about to kill you with that blues… “Can we talk for a second?”

You name yourself a hypocrite for asking that, in this state, but you can’t breathe with all that untold things if you spend another second without explaining yourself to him, and apologize for all the trouble you’ve caused. And, isn’t this already proof of the trust you have for him, how vulnerable you can be in his presence?

And, there’s nothing he’s not seen before, after all.

He gingerly closes the door, locking it in a swift motion, and makes his way to you. You pull yourself together, and reach for his hand for him to help you out.

“No, stay. Your fingers are still cold.”

You can’t hide the small smile forming on your face as you settle back, careful to keep most of your body underwater. He, ever noble, keeps his eyes straight on your face, which somehow doesn’t help. There’s something about his rolled-up sleeves, the matching three-piece suit down to two for the damp jacket sits behind the chair in your back against the fireplace. His hair is drying up in all defiant shapes, and you have to stop imagining that morning he woke up next to you.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I- I never intended to cause this big of a mess, and make someone clean up after me. Certainly, not you, of all people. You shouldn’t have tired yourself this much, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You can’t expect me to do nothing.” The sentence begs for a dear to be added in the end, and he has to fight his throat to silence himself. Instead, there’s a kind tug at the corners of his lips.

“You’re right.” You nod. “But the truth is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed to get out, I just couldn’t sit there pretend I didn’t hear all those nasty comments.”

His fist clenches at the reminder, and you once again spot the bruises settling in on his knuckles, filling with the desire to mention them, but you inevitably decide not to. “That asshole-“

”He was obnoxious since the first hour, and loud, but that doesn't scare me, for thus he has proven himself to be just a foul mouthed man. But, that title started not to cover the extent of it- it was too much and I couldn’t take it anymore. You may say it was obvious from the start, but I tried my best to not evolve this into a thing I would regret afterward. And I succeeded.”

“So you don't even regret ever setting foot in that house?”

A tinge of disgust seizes your face, but only for a moment. Even with all those words echoing in your ear, you don't have hatred in your heart, or any remorse. You're not so quite sure about its reason, nor do you wish to be, avoiding all analysis. Like you don't know the basics already. But the sudden change in your expression tells everything. “I don’t think I can ever regret it. At least, not in its entirety.” You say, hugging your knees and lowering your head. Hot steam no longer hits your skin, you realize in your attempts of distraction.

There's a second of silence in the room, despite the thunderstorm raging outside. You are as cold as in the beginning because of it, and you almost contemplate how good of an idea this conversation was, especially under these circumstances.

“I’d say the same.” Obi Wan speaks, and that's when goosebumps rise on your skin. Your eyes meet his, then flutter away quickly, overwhelmed. Does he mean-

Why is him meaning that any different than yours, huh? Why is it any worse when he says it?

“You should get out of there.” He reaches for a towel, and you shyly stand up, turning your back and pressing your arms around yourself. Nothing he hasn't seen before, right? As the coarse fabric is draped around your shoulders, you can’t help but feel afire, the imprint of his hand around your shoulders for a second lingering way more than it should, creating a tingling sensation.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I must return to my room now.” He folds his hands together, like trying to preserve where they’ve touched, and his eyes still stay respectfully up, causing your heart to lose its rhythm. There has never been a scenario that involved nakedness without… sexual intentions, and clearly, it’s not even crossing your minds right now. Your awareness of it takes up all the space in your mind, tosses every other idea out, and leaves you at the mercy of your soul.

“Obi Wan.” Fuck, the way you call his name, it is bound to weaken him every time. “Can you-” Oh, haven't you demanded enough from him? “I- I would like it if you stayed.”

His mouth hangs open for a second, with a subtle sharp inhale. His fingers tighten around each other, then relax all together, hanging free by his side. “Of course.” For all the words that come to his lips, it’s a most simple answer.

Not that you have any complaints.

You’re filled with another kind of thrill, being this open with your wishes, but having no clue whether they’ll take the night, having no clue where you want the night to go, or how to act in this very moment, half covered.  You just know that you prefer him, being in the same chamber as you. You’d prefer to listen to his idle talk or slow breaths, than the silence of the room. You’d prefer him to snore in your bed than to picture him in his own, lying awake. (Because let’s face it, it’d take a while for him to surrender to sleep, if left to his own devices.)

He takes a step towards the armchair, unbuttoning his vest and you come back to your senses, stepping out of the tub in the opposite direction, towards the nightgown the innkeeper gracefully lent to you. It’s slightly large for your body, definitely not tailored for someone close to your size, but if Obi Wan ever heard you commenting on the fact, he’d wholeheartedly claim you still looked like an angel. Since you don’t, he doesn’t too, but it’s obvious in the way he takes in your form, a battle of excess fabric against your movements. He has to bury a groan when your sleeve falls down your shoulder, a simple accident. He knows that shouldn’t have been seen by him, or you didn’t do it on purpose, that tonight is not meant for those activities, and it shouldn’t get him so bothered up, but it fucking does. Does it also make him want to slap himself? Yes.

Walking near the fireplace, you wring the excess water from your hair and run your fingers through the strands before rubbing that towel aggressively, for the fact that it is already soggy enough, and is not gonna do much. You despise sleeping with wet hair, it is an invitation for you to get sick, not to mention that you’ll be sharing the bed, leaving frustrating streaks of wetness on the sheets for them.

“Hey, hey, let me help you.” Is he a little bit scared? The answer is another yes. But he’s not gonna stand there and watch you fight with your hair. He takes the fabric, locating the most usable spots, and slowly massages your strands with them. Objectively, it’s not a lot different in terms of overall results, but it does more than that anyway. Despite the forbidden intimacy, despite the question of “How is he so good at it?”, you’re lulled by the constant movements, the tension in your muscles easing off. He keeps you by the fire longer than you would’ve stayed, and that achievement belongs solely to him. Frankly, he too is not sure how long the two of you could stand like that, or put an end to it. All that matters is that your hair is pleasantly damp, less bothersome, and he did that.

To be honest, with each minute he is in your presence; the task of holding onto his manners, respecting his broken heart, and following your lead is getting harder to manage.

“Thank you.” You murmur, eyelids barely held open, and he feels like a juggler, suddenly losing his sense of balance, and dropping one of his props.

“You’re welcome.” Perhaps he was the one to thank, for the pleasure. That’s the second prop, falling down.

Still, it’s obvious how that sentence misses a darling thrown out after it.

You climb the bed, and he follows suit. You both favor the edges of the mattress, and there’s a ridiculous distance between both of your bodies, but you’re both too timid to use it, even at the risk of tumbling down.

Only after the urge to find a better position kicks in that you move, and end up just a little closer, face turned to his side.

He’s already turned to you, eyes closed but definitely not trying to sleep, or relax if nothing. He opens them of course, after you rustled the sheets that hard.

“What if I get sick tomorrow?” Admittedly, that’s a silly question, but the scenario occupies your mind. All the elemental factors are present, and you only have a formal dress on your back. Also, the fact that it would be all your fault, yet you are the one to complain? You hate yourself for saying it out loud.

“Then we would stay ‘til you got better.” His point-of-fact words, softened with his bedtime voice, must be annoying. Must be. It is not. It is the raw truth, straight from his core. You won’t disrespect it, (again). “I would take care of you.”

(Doesn’t he, always?)

 A shiver runs down your spine.

(He’d name this place heaven, if it allowed you two to stay together a little longer.)

“Obi Wan.” Whispering, trying your best to break that ugly silence, not to crush under the weight of his words, but more importantly to let him know your truths, the alignment of your soul. “I- I never told you how much I appreciated you. Now just today, but especially today.”

He’s trying so hard not to sound rude, or leave you unanswered, but none of them are good enough. Thankfully, you are not expecting one. Your fingers ghost over his knuckles, afraid to hurt him. he’s not even sure you’re doing that, ‘til you hunch over, and press a small kiss over them.

That’s all the acknowledgment he needs, ever. It wasn’t becoming of a gentleman, obviously, but the situation didn’t require gentleman-cy, too. He has no recollection of how his fist ended up in that man’s eye, except for the exact second it happened, feeling his shirt slide from his other hand as the impact sizzled through his bones, and sent the man to the floor. He found himself in the middle of saying God knows what- he still doesn’t have a single clue, and thinks about the possibility of how they’ll resonate, ‘til it reaches his ears once again.

Though, he has no fear regarding that, or the altercation before it. Nor regret.

“I am honored that our names are spoken together, a testament of our likeness.”

The third prop.

It falls, most obviously, but he doesn’t show it. Not under these circumstances. No matter how you try to avoid the subject of love, or a future, he’s burning for it, burning for you. In that moment, it is settled that it’ll always be that way, forever. You’re absolutely crushing his heart, and maybe even crush yours in the process (for which reasons, he’s never sure), regardless of your intentions pointing otherwise, because he knows you’re pushing through your struggles to speak up, select the appropriate expressions, to honor your past. He’s touched by your effort, as well as your words, oh, your words… This is the only compliment he’ll ever accept, and it’s not even meant to be a compliment. Your voice is already etched into his brain, and there will not go a single day he’s not reminiscing about it.

Thus, with such strong emotions, his every muscle twitched with the desire to pull you closer, wrap his arm around your waist, card his fingers through your cool hair as your lips meet. He wants to kiss you slowly, savor your taste and caress your tongue with his, for the sole purpose of being close to you. You, throwing one leg over him… You, falling asleep in his arms as he gets to bathe in your enchanting scent… The feeling of your warm breath against his neck as you take refuge in there… He’s surprised he doesn’t have to chain himself not to act on any of these images.

(Oh, it very much feels like he has done that anyway)

Yet, it is probably the worst night to do so. It has all been too much, and all this on top of that is a recipe for disaster. A disaster he’s been struck with nonetheless, though, perhaps he can spare you from.

When it comes to you, he has always put his heart before his mind, (but never disregarding the latter part. It is the essential element to keep both of you safe, to never compromise your social statuses, to create the optimum atmosphere for your relationship to flourish (by your own unusual standards)). For the first time, he’s not following that code. Even he can’t imagine the consequences if he doesn’t.

You’re glad that nothing has changed. No response from him, no action. His relaxed expression tells you enough; the calmness of his eyes, his slow breaths and the slight curve of his lips… To be honest, you’re relieved to see your words reach their destination but also set with the urge to prove them. To press down your mouth on his, from which you hope for an answer; to hold his hand without causing any discomfort, or simply hug him for a second, eliminating all space between your bodies like your souls.

Alas, the role of the hypocrite is a part you no longer wish to play, and you’re perfectly willing to hurt yourself by not succumbing to your wishes, and refrain him from further confusion.

“Good night, Obi Wan.” You say, fingers grazing over his for the last time, and curl yourself into a ball.

“Good night, my dearest.”

 ===

The morning is unlike the previous example.

You wake up to him getting up, so there’s no way for you to know if your bodies drifted closer during the night, but considering the position of your arm, extended way beyond the middle, it is quite possible to assume some physical contact was present.

Considering you two are not facing each other, thus acknowledgment of the situation is not a matter, your embarrassment is half of what it should be.

Though, your cheeks burn brighter each second you can’t peel your eyes off of him, filling up the rest of that cup. Watching him walk around, the movement of each chiseled muscle on his back as he puts his shirt and trousers on quickly highlights another impropriety. He is perfection, even in that drowsy state of the human condition, there’s harmony to his every motion, the slow steps he takes, the way the fabric glides against his skin, the subtle fine arrangements of his fingers to make sure it looks decent, even how he breathes causes him to blend into the room, but also bedazzle it in his grace, make him stand out like a crown jewel, a masterpiece of arts that name the place.

You can only stop your ogling once he leans in and stirs the flames, which were already going strong since they were last fed before you went to sleep- wait, that doesn’t seem possible, did he actually sever his sleep to tend to it?

Is there any other explanation you need?

Your heart may flutter out of your chest after this realization, so you skirt out of the blankets. Of course, the sound draws his attention, and you’re caught, forced to react.

Yet, the unstoppable smile forming on his lips inspires a similar response on yours so easily, so naturally that you don’t feel obligated at all. On the quite contrary, that simple mimic banishes any pretense, showering you with reassurance and bravery, the motivation to act on your own true terms, not society’s or the ones you pressured onto yourself.

“Good morning.” The simultaneous greeting pulls a giggle from both of you, and it is all so small, yet so much. You sway away from his direction, casually reaching for your clothes, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor of your legs when you shed the nightwear and put the chemise on. Because you know, he’s watching you. Divine justice, perhaps.

“Be careful, Obi Wan, I might start to think you enjoy watching me get dressed too much.” The snarky comment, fighting its way out of your mouth further softens the atmosphere, and it is like the first days of spring after a harsh winter, soothing your souls with relief.

“Guilty as charged.”

You shake your head, consumed by his usual forward banter. A scene taken straight out of your past. You shimmy into your dress instead of coming up with a cleverer response.

“You don’t sound sick.” He says, indicating that he’s been paying attention. 

Biting your lip, you turn away. “Actually…”

“Is there something wrong?” He ends up right beside you in a blink, as if the world changed by your unfinished sentence. 

Your heart picks up a different rhythm, hands raised in position to tie your ribbon but frozen. “It’s nothing, my throat just feels-”

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

That was the exact reason why you started with it’s nothing. Alas… “No, it’s probably just my overthinking and coming up with strange sensations.” And if not, it depends on how well you spend tonight, so there’s not much room for intervention. Definitely not in medical terms.

“Pity.” His comment makes you scoff. After that, you can’t reward him with your concerns, can you? It is funny, ugh.

“Let me help.” 

Your heart can’t get any rest as the tension simply changes garbs, his fingers trailing over yours and leading a 180° turn, leaving a blazing line along your skin, to tie the ends of your ribbon together. Your arms tentatively fall to your sides, not sure what to do with their freedom. His breaths lick your neck while he attentively, slowly smooths his creation, and you’d probably freak out if you weren’t so focused on the sheer range of his skills.

(Also the mystery of how he comes to acquire it, but it’s only the deep, dark parts of your mind speaking. Moreover, you do not pride yourself in a position to be jealous. You absolutely are, on that tiny level, and no, you’ll never admit it.)

Though, you’re not gonna comment on that, not when your heart threatens to fly out of its cage. The sacredness of the action brings back the echoes of your concerns, not a single one strong enough to overtake you, but the cacophony of them loud enough to occupy the entirety of your capacity.

All that talk of past times… Coupled with a little hesitancy, and how the tables turn…

“T- thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Like he just didn’t flip the dynamic, he carries on with his outfit, tying his cravat. His beautiful hands work expertly, effortlessly, and the result is perfect, even without a mirror, eyes on you the entire time.

“Is it looking fine?”

“Yes.” You meekly answer. It is decent, like he always is. Somehow witnessing that feels as sensual as the previous scene, pulling you further down the whirlpool.

Embarrassed enough already, you busy yourself with your hair, accepting the mess that it is, and decide on a simple bun, as much as possible. The practiced moves bring you some sense of calmness and control, even if the result isn’t perfect. The silence helps too, along with his occupancy of tidying up the room.

“Do you want to have some breakfast?” He asks. God, how does he still sound that cheery?

“No, thank you.” You don’t want to keep your father worrying any longer, and it’s not like you’re going to faint. The memory of your last food in the most unpleasant company is still strong enough to expel any thought of hunger.

That answer may be the clearest thought you’ve ever had this morning, yet it is the one that whispers doubt into his heart. You are silent, turned away from him, and far too engrossed in whatever unnecessary thing you’re doing. Because now, he fears that if the two of you leave this room, this building, all your lives in it will be a part of the history, never to be repeated or worse, mentioned again, lost in the torn pages. The joke about residing here for however long- seems awfully bitter, perfectly demonstrating he’d rather hold on to the possibility than put an end to this.

How could that be love?

Perhaps you were right, accusing him of madness.

That’s the only reason he walks out of the room to prepare the carriages, instead of cocooning the both of you in.

===

“Father!” You wrap your arms around him, who’s standing by the main entrance to your estate, waiting anxiously. He does the same, unaffected by the eyes that watch, the staff, and a mere acquaintance, Lord Kenobi.

Now Obi Wan knows who you got your bravery from.

He stands quietly, hands folded in front of him, not sure what to do but damn sure not to leave. He had plenty of time to think about his madness on the road, and decided it was not anything pathological- it was pure love and desperation for you. Isn’t that the nature of most of your meet-ups? Consoling each other in the positively dreadful situations, and utilizing everything to spend a second more together?

He hears you reassuring him of your well-being, and summarize the thing in pretty understated phrases. Even that makes him stutter over his words in a fit of rage. Obi Wan agrees. You distract him by speaking of the help you’ve gotten from a valiant friend, and that’s how he enters the conversation.

“Good morning, Sir.”

How he keeps it all cool, sharing and shaping his anger, silencing any doubt that may arise in him is a surprise, though he’s called a great negotiator for a reason, right? His work in various cases in court has earned him the title. He’s not overtly a fan of flaunting it. Though, it helps him a great deal in this instance.

At least, enough to have a pleasant exchange in these unpleasant circumstances, and secure permission to talk to you again.

Alone.

It is weird enough as it is already, you and him spending the night at some inn, him casually chatting with your father like his clothes haven’t benefitted from the merits of ironing, not to mention his hair being on the wild side after a slight treatment of rain, and now he is requesting your attention? Not only yours, but your father’s too in extent?

His plans have never been so crystal clear.

“No.” You declare your objection so clearly, in one word as the door closes behind him, giving you the privacy of the room. “No, no, no, no.”

“I haven’t even opened my mouth!” He objects, though it is more of a principal thing, than an actual defense. He knows you’ve worked it all out already. God, could he expect anything less from you? Your watery eyes and trembling hands break his heart into a million pieces, reactions so strong even before he has a chance to utter their cause. He caresses his beard, reevaluating if he should continue-

He can’t live with the consequences if he dares not. He can’t live with what-ifs, or not knowing the reason why you are so repulsed by the idea or would you still feel the same, if he told you about his love for you. Of course, that would require some magic, considering the magnitude and intricacy of it. How is he supposed to put the purest feelings he’s ever had to mere words, the origin of the butterflies caged up in his chest, the wires of his brain getting tangled up whenever you’re not around, and the constant intoxication from the strongest liquor he’s ever consumed? He’d rather die than sober up, and a part of him already recognizes that it’s not a possibility. It is his poison and antidote. There’s not a moment that passes without either of them.

And surely, he has no complaints about it. Never will. It is a brave choice, but what’s braver is this moment.

“No.” You repeat, hands clasped together to stop them from shaking. Your voice is low albeit steady, as much as it can be.

Because you do not lift your eyes to meet him. “You can’t propose to me, because I can’t refuse it. But I will. Then the whole country will wonder what is so wrong with you, and me, and they will talk about it all the time, for years to come. The whispers will be the first thing that you hear in every room you enter, and you’ll see the mischievous glint in the eyes of every person you meet, them scrutinizing whether those rumors are true. Our reputations will be tarnished forever, and we will hate each other for it.” And you can’t stand that.

You don’t sound like this is the first time you’re putting these words together. In all your distressed state, you sound awfully logical in your own way, so focused on one improbable, insane possibility (damn those reputations, he can never hate you), but devising every little detail.

“Why?” He basically hollers, running a hand through his hair. Why does that potential is the one you envision? “Why can’t you marry me?”

One can only dream that someone outside isn’t listening.

“Because- I don’t know!” You take a desperate step closer, showing him your honesty. You truly can’t quite name your aversions, and isn’t that already enough of a reason to stay away, spare the person you’re facing?  “I don’t know how to be a wife! And I am scared. All my life I alienated myself from the idea of a marriage, I methodically dismissed every chance claiming it wasn’t the time, all the way ‘til I would say it was too late. I was content with that idea. Because I love- loved my life the way it is; I get more than I need from my father, and that is to remain unchanged when my brother takes over, and I am free as a bird, unbound by society’s expectations, traveling wherever, wherever and trying new things. I was, I am so happy about it that anything that may alter it I shun from immediately. And now I find myself in a place I never imagined, and I am scared. I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what that future looks like for us.”

He moves towards you, his head tilted sideways in understanding, arms reaching for yours. Finally, finally hearing your justifications, the basis of your attitude, fills him with pride and compassion, and most importantly, gives him an opportunity to help you solve those problems, together. But, you hush him, squeezing his wrists in gentle guidance, with tears streaking across your cheeks. “I just know that I love you. I love you so much that my heart will always feel like a weight in my chest when I’m not with you, like a ship sinking, but never reaching the bottom. And I will continue to love you even if you stop loving me back, but I would rather lose you on my terms than by the burdens a marriage brings.”  

“Why do you so believe that a mere contract would change my feelings? Do you think my affections for you are that fragile?”

You frantically shake your head, causing the drops to fall faster. “No, I’m not saying that-“

“Then what?” He snaps, though not because he’s angry. He wants to learn every single reason that’s keeping you away.

“You don’t know what that will do to us.”

“No, I don’t! And I don’t care! It will never change my feelings.” This, he can shout freely. This is the simplest truth for all his remaining days on this earth.

You don’t know that, you want to object. “Obi Wan…” Is the response that comes out of your mouth. “I am not a good bride.”

“No.”There’s acceptance in his tone, a punch to your guts. “You’re the love of life, my companion, my everything.” When he pulls you even closer, and cups your cheeks, you let him. “Haven’t we been through all the struggles a couple could share already? Haven’t I seen all of you, and let you see all of me? Haven’t you claimed my entire soul, and occupied my every single thought? You made me break my rules, and painted a picture I never thought was suited for me- and I came to like that picture very much. In fact, it’s all I ever want my future to look like, with you in it. You, exactly in the way you already are, with all your unsusceptibility to the norms and striking habits. I know that can be scary. I am afraid too. But, anything worth doing starts like this, I know it. And we’ll be the biggest idiots in the world if we let our fear rule us.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, the joyful sound making his breath hitch. It is reflected on his face too, and it is something you’ll hold on to, alongside the tears that begin to form on his eyes. Fortunately, they sit there, despite him kneeling in front of you, his fingers never leaving the bend of your arm, only to follow the route they create, and hold onto both of your hands. “Please, marry me.”

You’re convinced, but your tongue is still tied, so you nod. Your entire upper body shakes with the gesture in seconds, making you look like an overexcited child, on the verge of losing their balance with the restlessness of their legs. You barely feel him kissing your knuckles before he stands up and embraces you, stabilizing both of you in both physical and emotional terms. Let’s be real, if he kissed you instead as he desperately wished to, you’d fall on the floor (and continue there- ‘til somebody discovered the two of you in very indecent terms). His chuckles quickly become your favorite song, you feel blessed as they delight your ears, and make your chest vibrate like his. He revels in the newfound proximity, despite the fact that you’ve been much, much closer in the past. This is new. This is raw love, uncombined with other emotions, strengthened by the absolute truth that you two are meant for each other, and with the promise of you’ll do something about it. He holds you ‘til your sense of balance is restored, for he now has urgent matters he has to attend to. He’ll get to hold you forever soon, and that revelation doesn’t change the herculean feat of letting you go now. He can’t help but wipe the streaks of wetness on your face, though it forms again. He solely doesn’t repeat himself because of the widest grin on your lips. You press yourself to his palm, eyelids closing for a moment, then place a small peck on it.

 “I- I’m now gonna go and talk to your father, get the papers right- and find a-” oh, that’s not “a”, he is going to require many others even if he keeps everything minimal, “I’ll be back in three, fuck, four hours, okay?”

“What? No!” You exclaim, almost giving him a heart attack.

“What’s wrong?” His fingers tighten, a slight tremble taking over them. You have to smile to get him to relax once again, and raise your eyebrows wittily, as if he is a fool for not imagining it already, reminding him of your nature.

“I’m only doing this once. I want everything to be right.”

He squints his eyes, grasping your chin. There’s a few seconds of silence, the time it takes for his nerves to settle. When it does, you’re struck by the intensity of his blue irises, the condensed calm before the storm. “So you want to stay as my fiance ‘til the next season starts, in eight months, succumbing to waiting as we get no freedom to ourselves, always in the center stage, enjoying the last of our bachelor states, the lonely nights and beds bigger than you can ever occupy.”

His other hand, wandering across your waist tells you exactly what he implies. While you actually weren’t planning on such a thing, it causes a surge of rush to overtake you, burning you from the inside. Pursing your lips as you free your face from his grip, with a contradicting shaky breath, you say. “I was always fond of winter weddings…”

To this, he laughs, echoing in the room, and you join him.

One can only hope whoever outside listens to this too, this moment of pure joy preserved in one more mind.

 === 

 “I couldn’t be happier to be married to you.” Obi Wan whispers, but the sentence is loud and clear to you, etched into where he takes nest in the crook of your neck, hot breaths burning your skin.

“We’re still not- ngh“ Yes, this is supposed to be the rehearsal, the night before the main event. You two should be at the reception downstairs, among your many relatives and friends and other members of the society, all gathered for tomorrow morning, when these words of yours will be invalid.

Of course, you are further making a hypocrite of yourself by the way you hold onto him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders as he burrows his cock into you. It was impossible to wait any further, as you were separated by the whole ordeal of preparations and the watchful eyes. The moment you found a clearing, you two slipped away, cue to now, where your back on the wall as he supports you against it. You didn’t even get one meter away from the door, you could basically reach the knob with a simple extension of your elbow, but in the end, who cares? Who cares when he fills you so deliciously, scratching the itch that has been building for some time, peppering you with all the love in his heart?

Still, your sentence is cut abruptly as he drives his hips faster, rougher- very much an act of pedantry, advising not to get lost in the details. It works, the correction dies on your tongue, though a quite loud moan takes its place. His hand flies to cover your mouth, and your eyes pop open, meeting his. The pressure of his palm against your face almost forces another sound out of you. Fuck, you adore those blue storms, even when they are focused elsewhere, turned to the door as if it can see past behind it, scanning for intruders. You do actually whimper when the danger dissolves, the vibrations running among his bones, and he keeps up his pace, hitting that sweet spot over and over again.

However, it is getting harder in terms of balance as he now has one hand to stabilize you, and despite your best efforts, it is quite hard not to slide off of the smooth fabric of his clothes. Remorsefully, you push on his shoulders, and he understands, pulling his cock out of you and burying his mouth on your skin. He stifles a sob in there, the frustration getting the best of him.

“Oh, you definitely had too much wine.” Look at who’s talking, you with those wobbly legs and bitten lips…

“No, I just had too little of you.”

Your heart flaps its wings out of your chest, as it does after his every cheesy compliment. You still cannot figure out how he makes you blush harder with those words, even as he ravages you in the meantime.

You reach for a kiss, it is always a good idea. He hums contently at the touch, grateful at the most basic form of contact. Obi Wan rocks against you unintentionally, and that’s how the unsatiated desire wages war, with desperate groans and roaming hands.

Then, his fingers tighten around your waist, and you find yourself supported against the vanity with your open palms, depositing most of your weight there (thank God, because you couldn’t trust your feet much longer). He pulls your hips back to his. Your back arches in a way that is most complementary to his chest, and fuck, it is a vision.

It literally is.

Fluttering your eyes open for only a second (that was your intention at least), you’re struck down with the image of the two of you in the mirror, faces contorted in the prettiest way that is possible in this dirty position, heavy lids and open mouths, fingertips whitened by the strong grasp you have on each other, the matching colors of your outfits…

Yes, even with that detail, you’re still on his side, agreeing you’d be idiots if you weren’t doing this.

Deciding to take the sight from its direct source, you turn your head to the side a little, looking at the adonis of a man you’ll soon call your husband, with his neatly trimmed beard and prominent cheekbones and long eyelashes you are slightly jealous of and so much more…

He meets your gaze, breathless with similar thoughts, that little tug on the corner of his mouth telling you all you need to know, but then he nudges your face to its previous state by a small clasp of your chin, and you’re watching him through the reflection, leaning forward when he starts to fumble with your skirt once again.

The moan that leaves you is totally incapable of being unobscured as he enters you anew. The change in the angle along with the visual stimulation has you teetering on the edge quite easily, like him, but he denies it, maintaining slow movements and choking out any noise that dares to leave him.

Of course, all is impeded when the door is knocked-

“Occupied!”

“Occupied!”

Your voices are synchronized, high and tight. The clock stops for a moment for your bodies, as if the stationary status makes it any less scandalous, and both of you fixated on the doorknob.

It never turns. Never.

Still, the dilated pupils remain a little longer, joined over the mirror, with big puffs of breath and shaking hands.

“Do you think they-“ There’s not an exact word that you can find to explain what has just occurred, but the sentiment is clear.

“Probably.” And the answer too is just as clear.

Well, the only thing lost is the trivial achievement of never being discovered before the wedding.

A wedding which is hours away.

So, you push back, wiggling your hips. His unrestricted sound is all you need to regain your spirits back, and you do it once more. Just like that, the wheels are turning. 

“You realize there’s a bed behind us, right?” He asks as he slowly thrusts into you.

“Yes, but I like the view better here.” 

[dragonomatopoeia]

I have zero problems reading horror—think it might have to do with the fact that I never visualise anything I'm reading ever—but watching horror movies sends me heading out the door or hiding under a blanket. I tried playing horror games but my heart can't handle it, especially when the suspenseful music ramps up. I remember I freaked out even one time when I was playing mass effect and got jumpscared by a random husk on an abandoned ship in the dark. I had a point there but lost it . I think it has to do with atmosphere

That makes sense! For me, I think a lot of it has to do with pacing, control, and immersion. When it comes to books, I'm engaging at a remove-- I'm familiar with the mechanics of writing, and I can intellectualize the horror. I appreciate the word choice and the pacing, the way the author has arranged sentences and paragraphs to provoke a response; however, that familiarity and knowledge means that it's harder to immerse myself. Like a magician at a show, I get so caught up in the artistry and mechanics of the trick that the wonder and magic get lost

One thing I do NOT know a lot about, however, is cinematography. I can recognize a dutch angle and talk shit about the composition of a shot, but that's about it. I know just enough to point out discontinuities in a reality show episode or a hallmark movie. I am Your Average Magic Show Attendee. I also do not know shit about sound editing. This means that I am very easily immersed in movies and video games, as I do not know enough to figure out how they're pulling off their tricks.

There's also the added element of books letting me stop whenever I want, as opposed to the demands of movie pacing or interactivity. Games are cruel because they force you to participate. You have to actually engage with the horror in order to proceed. Very scary

[unholyhelbig]

Season 2 is still not available in my country, so i need fanfiction to fill the empty void now. Pirate AU: Up to you what ship you use because i ship them all at that point. Posie, Hosie, Hizzie, Phosie... Just imagine how good they will look in those clothes! Though Penelope teasing the shit out of Josie and Lizzie and Hope trying to kill each other while deeply in love would be a treat. Go as angsty as you'd like; but please don't kill them... and i'm a sad bitch i really need a happy end xD

Read on Ao3 | Send me more Legacies Prompts! 

Title: Double-Edged Sword 

Ship: Hope Mikaelson/ Lizzie Saltzman 

The window had frosted over in the dull twilight. A full moon hung low in a velvet sky, its glow pushing close to the cobblestone streets and crowded pubs. The room was bathed in black and heavy with the scent of sex. Silk sheets clung to Hope as she stared at the ceiling, heart pounding and mind finally dwindling off to something other than the noise downstairs.

“What’s it like?” The girl beside her panted as she scooted up against the headboard, reaching blindly to the side table for a rolled cigarette, a flame shaded her face before the scent of fig and smoke coated her lungs. “Being one of them?”

Hope drew in a deep breath and her throat burned, her fingers curled around the bedsheet. “There’s a rush in it, I suppose. Nothing you can’t get out of sex.”

“Then why do it at all?” The girl took a long drag.

There was a crack against the wooden ceiling, soaked in water, and warped from the open windows that lead to the sea. That question had never been prompted before. It was easy to fall asleep in one of the rooms above the pub. She would leave before morning and move her aching body back to the ship as it rocked back and forth with the waves.

“Legacy,” Hope turned on her side and stared at the girl, her silhouette in the darkness “My father was a feared man, a memory of a nightmare. People used to call him the king of the seven seas, and he lived up to the reputation. It left me no choice, I suppose.”

The red glow of the rolled paper simmered like the eyes of a demon, blinking as she lowered it once more. “You always have a choice.”

“What type of woman becomes a school teacher when her family slaughters townships and holds ransom for gold? It would be a death sentence.”

She could imagine a red building perched on the top of a rolling green hill in the country. There would be no ocean in sight, not even the scent of salt. It would be a simple life without the knowledge of how to use a sword or the scent of gun powder. In another universe-maybe, but this one left her with the residual taste of rum.

“What’s it like killing someone, then?”

The girl had stamped out the tobacco and it left them bathed in eerie darkness. Hope frowned, even with the understanding that neither of them could see it. It was another question that she hadn’t been asked- though not many people stopped in the face of danger to have a civil conversation with her.

“You know, I’m not paying you to talk,” Hope growled, deep and husky as she moved across the bed and straddled the girl. Their bodies were warm and slick, her hand planted on the headboard. She tasted of ash and vanilla. “Or ask questions.”

Hope leaned down and bit softly at the girl's jaw before moving to her neck, her pulse right under her tongue. She almost didn’t hear the pounding on the door- and even then, she didn’t respond to it. It wasn’t until a warm light and the noise from the pub filled the room that she pulled away with a snarl.

“This better be important.” Hope didn’t bother turning to face the door.

“Ma’am there’s a crew downstairs.” The wench that stood so easily behind the bar stumbled with her words. She paid more attention to the noise in the pub now- it wasn’t the usual drunken laughter and jovial conversation. She hadn’t yet heard the firing of a gun, but there was a struggle, sharp and dangerous.

“Shit.” She glanced down at the girl, “It’s been fun,”

Hope stumbled off the bed and pulled on a pair of loose pants before fastening the belt and her shirt. The fabric was rough against her skin- all too uncomfortable. She grasped her boots and slid them onto bare feet.

“I would advise the window.” The woman responded, glancing towards the commotion once more.

She nodded curtly before unlatching the iron edge and getting a good look at the alleyway that it lead to. There was a certain crispness to the air and her breath pooled in front of her quickly. Despite the scuffle in the establishment, the night was oddly quiet.

It wasn’t a far drop, Hope had done worse. She felt her boots against the cobblestone and a dull ache in her ankles as her fingers touched the wet surface. But still- she was washed with relief. After a few pints and something even more, it would be difficult to fight.

Hope straightened up and looked towards the British port town.

Her back was suddenly against the wall of the pub, digging into her shoulder and forming a brash pain. But it wasn’t what Hope was focused on most- instead, it was the double-edged blade that was pressed against her throat, so sharp that it could split a hair. She grasped blindly for her own.

“Don’t fucking move.”

The open window above them swam with sheer white curtains, and despite the order, she glanced up. Her weapon was still leaned against the desk, scattered in paper and receipts and wax-sealed letters. So her attention flickered back to the stranger.

Even in the dull light of the moon, she could tell that the woman was breathtaking; dressed clad in a red trench coat that sparkled like her own spilled blood. A white shirt hugged her frame under that, long blond hair flowing over squared shoulders. She was a rich pirate. Not one too afraid to flaunt her treasures while Hope guzzled most of her own down on weekends.

The woman’s knee pressed between her own. “You’re coming with me.”

“Now, while that sounds enticing, I’ve already had enough fun for one night-“ Hope snapped her jaw shut when the blade pressed deeper into her skin and a searing scar blossomed. “Right, Okay, you lead the way.”

She smiled then, not something kind, but all together threatening. It was wolfish- primal even. “I don’t trust you, Hope.”

In one swift movement, she took the blunt end of the sword and hit her across the temple. A metallic taste coated her tongue and a sharp ringing hissed all at once; before the world suddenly turned black.

The first thing Hope Mikaelson heard was the low call of a seagull. There was a stifling heat to the room that did nothing to quell her slowly edging headache. It started at her temple and throbbed to the back of her neck, mouth thick with the taste of blood.

She groaned and shifted against sheets, her muscles tightening with sudden movement. Her eyes burst open and she cringed away from the abundance of sunlight. Hope blinked it away and took in her surroundings.

She was in a small room and even now, she could tell it was on a ship. It rocked back and forth with the tide, a small window bleeding with the sun. Hope was situated on a twin bed, the white sheets soaked in dirt. Her fingers shook as they pressed against her temple and she pulled back, hand wet. There was a tiny desk and a gas lantern adjacent to her and a dresser bolted to the floor.

The scent of saltwater coated her lungs, even as she grimaced and plopped her face back down onto the sheets. The smelled like lavender; like one of the large homes her father kept in the south. The summer breeze would fill the room and catch whatever book she would get lost in. There were fresh roses and a hedge maze that she would spend hours in, turning herself around.

Hope longed for those days. With the shaded porch and the sickeningly sweet lemonade served with biscuits. Her mother’s smile and the way she would point out the blue jays that landed on a feeder.

Now, her jaw ached and her heart throbbed, and she wished she hadn’t spent most of her evenings drinking herself into a stupor before sharing in close encounters barely remembered in the first place.

They, whoever they were, could kill her. Would kill her the second they got what they wanted.

Hope stood shakily, ignoring the dull nausea that filled her stomach the second she changed positions. She walked towards the desk and pulled open the bottom compartment. There were a few sheets of paper and the latest dictionary bound in leather. She pushed both aside before reaching for the very back.

“You’re not going to find a letter opener if that’s what you’re after.”

Hope froze and slammed the drawer shut before turning towards the door. It was the same woman from last night. She had shed her coat, the warm ocean breeze pushing easy white cotton against her frame. Her eyes were a ghostly blue, almost shining gray. There was a metal tray in her hands and a sword that Hope tried not to stare too intently at, attached to her belt.

She took a couple of steps forward and closed the door behind her before setting the food on the top of the dresser. “We’re about a hundred miles from the nearest port, and heading further.”

“you’re saying there’s no use in fighting, then?” Hope’s voice settled like stone.

“I’m saying you can try. If you get through me, there’s a whole crew waiting just beyond that. It’s up to your discretion if you want to try to survive at sea in your weakened state.” She spoke nonchalantly.

Hope glowered, but couldn’t’ help but lean against the desk for support. “Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Saltzman,”

Saltzman… the name sounded familiar, a trade family that used to run errands or her linage. They were well regarded until her father’s untimely demise last fall. It had been every ship for themselves, all order dripped away.

“Right, and what exactly do you want with me?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned closer to the desk behind her. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now.”

“We’re taking you back to Charleston.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll chance the sharks.”

“The Yankee’s have a bounty on your head, Hope. 19,000” Elizabeth quirked a brow “If the posters didn’t’ say alive, I would have skinned you on the spot, don’t get comfortable.”

Hope clenched her jaw, but didn’t like the way her head throbbed in response, so she softened her expression. It would be weeks until they got to the port in South Carolina, months if the weather wasn’t careful. Still- she stared Elizabeth Saltzman down like she had the upper hand. Like she wasn’t the one dehydrated and bloodied.

“Eat something, will you?” She turned and exited the room before slamming the door shut and dead bolting it with a deafening click.

[mightybigpill]

YOU’RE NEGAN NOW.

WHO: Rick & Negan. @scatterbraincd

WHAT:  Rick comes to attempt to talk to Negan. 

WHEN: After the faux battle with the trash people, alexandria, and the sanctuary. 

NOTES: I FORGOT TO POST THIS FORGIVE ME. Contains slight TWD spoilers because while this verse does NOT follow canon, similar things had lead up resulting in said circumstances. There wasn’t much feedback in terms of what the overall hope for the group is, so A NEW REIGN IS UPON US! Try not to die.

VERSE: Here! Join it!

RICK:

Of course he hadn't planned on them doing anything of the norm after how the battle went -- but the least that could have happened was for him to SHOW UP for a second so they could talk. It wasn't the same when their people were ready to kill each other. Having a few moments alone without the threat of an attack happening within twenty feet of them made things more civil and calm. The conversation could have gone so much better than when they'd last spoken.

    Knowing his way there, and a way in creates strictly for his own use, Rick had given the excuse that he was going to go search for NEW guns and a new potential friend in all of the chaos, and left to find the other on his own. Thanks to a car - one that was dead not far from Sanctuary - he only had to walk the first and last leg of the path. Sneaking in, he'd almost expected to be stopped, but it was possible it’d been forgotten about in the anger created by the possible attack.

    “You need t’ talk t’ me,” Rick started the conversation with no greetings or small talk. It would have been blocked out anyway, Grimes was sure. “Ya know we can't leave things as we did last time I saw ya.”

NEGAN:

Oh he was gonna LOSE it. No amount of fucking his frustration away was working and typically when the world got to be a really shitty place, having a place to bury his dick often made it better. But even now? HE WASN’T in the mood. A hot shower, followed by sending his wives away and DRINKING had followed. His head was a goddamn mess but boy were the games about to begin.

Rick’s APPEARANCE had startled him, he’d been on his couch, lost in his thoughts and a glass of whiskey, a book open on his lap. So when it finally registers, Negan does a DOUBLETAKE. “I don’t need to do shit.” Negan admits as he throws  the remainder of his cup back, the familiar burn consuming his throat. It’s still not enough.

“You got a lot of fuckin’ balls showin’ your goddamn face around here after that SUPREME shitshow.” And it’s true. Negan doesn’t INSTANTLY slip back into the pissed off aggression, but he’s ANNOYED at the other’s arrival.

“And why’s that, Rick? Why do you think you deserve ANOTHER goddamn minute of my time? I think I’ve already WASTED way too motherfucking much.”

RICK:

By the time Negan acknowledged him, Rick had ALMOST talked himself into turning around and leaving before he had a chance to make things any worse than they already were. His eyes followed the liquid in the glass as it moved with the gesture; emptying out into lips he couldn't even BEGIN to think about if he was going to get anywhere with their newest discussion. “Because you KNOW me…” Even Rick had to admit that was a poor example for an excuse, but it made sense in his own head before actually hearing it out loud.

    “I woulda told you about the plan,” he swallowed thickly, kept his voice low to make sure he held at least a little of his discretion and secrecy. They didn't need others knowing he was there -- it wouldn't have worked in his favor, that much was obvious. “Ya know everything else about what we do--” fuck. Where had he been going with that? “I've given ya whatever was asked of us? More than! I wasn't plannin’ on hurting YOU -- I SAVED you.” Okay. Not the time for boasting that Negan would have been shot without him making the first move.

    And now they had one less enemy to worry about! “They woulda turned on you too, if someone else promised ‘em somethin’ else. Next time you saw ‘em, they could be the ones thinkin’ of ways t’ put you an’ your people down… We can HELP each other.” He sighed. How the hell could he make it any better? “They're all… Saviors. They just don't know it yet -- I'm workin’ on findin’ ways t’ show the difference…” and now he looked like he couldn't lead for shit. “I stepped down when that fight was called off. They won't listen t’ me now if I tried. You could-” shit it was another moment of wanting to kick himself for HAND DELIVERING the advantage to someone else. “Step in. Tell ‘em t’ look at their options. They gotta pick YOU over the show I just put on in front a’everyone.”

NEGAN:

“Did you SAVE me?” Negan questioned, brows HEAVY with CONFUSION, “Or did you KILL the fuckers that betrayed you?” Was it going to get ugly? Yeah, pretty much, but that was used to his advantage, ESPECIALLY when he was fucking PISSED at Rick for betraying him, and fuck if he wasn’t going to make him WORK to make it up to him. “It’s NOT fucking good enough, Rick!” Negan BOOMED abruptly, discretion be damned. His heels connected firmly to the ground before he was standing tall.

Rick was scrambling. Grasping at straws and trying so fucking hard to regain his footing and Negan’s trust. “Rick, what the fucking SHIT do you not understand? I have been TRYING to help you people.” Words were consistently stoney, unimpressed and completely aggravated once more. He went to step away from the couch, but his palm hooked onto the end of Lucille, bringing her ALONG as he closed the distance between himself and Rick.

“See, that is EXACTLY what I had been fucking thinking, but it’s taking a LITTLE too long with the bullshit you and your goddamn people keep throwin’ at me LEFT and RIGHT.” Personal bubble be damned, Negan was already in Rick’s face, Lucille bouncing between his fist and his finger tips.

“And lemme guess, just like that, they’ll all suddenly see the light.” It was one thing working with converting them one on one. Shit, Eugene hardly needed the explanation before he was proclaiming his loyalties and New World Identity. “I gotta fuckin’ ask… Who ARE you?” At some point his unoccupied hand had risen to Rick’s jaw, locking down under his chin, fingertips painfully digging into unshaven flesh.

RICK:

Truth be told, he wanted to answer that it's been BOTH of those things, but he kept his response to himself as Negan moved. Trying to make him see Rick’s logic on the topic wouldn't have gotten him and further along in the ‘making it up to him’ battle he'd found himself in. It was best to leave things as minimal as possible unless asked otherwise. Eyes closed just long enough to look to the floor, then back up in a more disappointed fashion. It wasn't going nearly as well as his imagination had played out for him before going to meet with him.

    “I know that, and they'll see that yer right at some point--” once they'd all realized just how much harder it was going to be if they stayed where they were. Alexandria may have looked nice (after getting the bodies burned, anyway,) but it was a sinking ship waiting to go down under the surface completely. The lack of supplies, the way the saviors took whatever they wanted, when they wanted. There truly was nothing for them there save for a small patch of land they'd been using for farming. That wouldn't last long while they gave up everything that came from it either.

    Damn that bat. Too close to his face, too many bloody memories tied to it. How was he supposed to focus when the weapon that'd killed members of his family (that would have taken his daughter from him if he hadn't given up the fight) was waving ever so subtly in his peripheral vision? “They'll get there,” Rick promised him again. The hold on his jaw was nothing new, but the question that followed made him falter. On one hand, saying he was Negan would have probably helped his case. On the other, the fact he had to CONSIDER the different options hadn't done him any fucking favors.

    Grimes swallowed, hands at his sides but fingers slowly twitching for something to do -- to touch or push that weapon away from himself, to rub his face or even pretend he'd needed to cover a cough -- anything to break up the tension in that moment. He couldn't say anything, which he figured was probably as bad (if not worse) than giving his own name. “I'm…” he slowly shook his head, staring at the other. “Leavin’ that up t’ you. Now, I can be NEGAN, and I can keep doin’ what I've been doin’... or I can be RICK, in which case I gotta get back t’ my people and plan how t’ kill you.”

NEGAN:

“I’m SICK’a FUCKING waiting Rick. I have been so goddamn patient and I really think that deserves a little fucking THANK YOU.” If Negan hadn’t grown FOND of the other, it was likely Rick would have been dead ten times over by now, purely on the lack of heads up alone. There’s a low GROWL of frustration as Negan SHOVES away from Rick, the rough grasp on his face thrown as he pushes  back.

Was that really how this was going to be?

Rick was leaving the choice in his hands, was he? There’s actually a twisted INTEREST that forms a second later, taking hold of his attention as he turns back around, eyes narrowing before there’s any other sign showcased upon his expression.

Rick’s way? It wasn’t working.

And Negan was sick of waiting. Closing the distance between them as quick as he’d made it, he stops inches from Rick’s face, eyes locked onto the other’s giving no room for argument. “You’re NEGAN now.” He was done looking like the one who didn’t have the upperhand. “You fuckin’ GET that?”

RICK:

Fuck saying THANK YOU if Negan wasn't going to give him a little understanding with everything that had gone on. If he didn't know that the people of Alexandria were going to look to him for an ATTACK at some point, that was his own damn fault for underestimating their ability to fight back. Of course, Rick could have done SOMETHING more to prolong it, could have worked harder to get them to see it was best to switch sides and follow through on the real deal going between the two leaders -- but his people wouldn't have gone for that in a million years.

    Eyes closed and Rick glanced to the floor when he'd been shoved away from; testing the alignment of his neck from the force for just a moment before looking up at him again. If they were going to fight, he was determined to keep his eyes locked on the opposing pair rather than keeping his head dropped low like some kind of scolded DOG. Despite the small bubble of fear that started in his gut at the other’s return to his PERSONAL SPACE, he held strong. Negan. He was Negan. Of course he was. That didn't mean he could waltz back into the Safe Zone and tell them all to pick up and just BECOME Saviors.

    A slow, but firm nod was given. “I GET it,” Rick said, no louder than a harsh whisper; eyes narrowed in frustration to match a second of flared nostrils. “But you SAW what happened! I can't go back in there actin’ like nothin’s changed.” His words were given with a gesture toward the door, spine straightening to finally stand at his full height (if only for his own sake of not feeling too submissive in the moment.) “And they won't look at me the same. They won't just ACCEPT that they'd all be better off here if I tell ‘em they would.” They wouldn't have believed him before -- they DEFINITELY wouldn't listen to him after he threw in the towel.

    “Tell me how t’ fix it, an’ I will. YOU’RE the one that messed this up this time.” Rick had closed the rest of the gap between them; nearly pressing their foreheads together. “I had a PLAN fer that fight. Now you need one. I can't keep lookin’ like you OWN me if I want them t’ keep followin’ me.” If Glenn was still alive, they probably would have latched on to him by then and left Rick without any hold over them when he started kneeling for the prick before him. “So tell me. Whataya want me t’ do about it?”

NEGAN:

Negan’s eyes NARROWED dangerously as he looked to Rick. He was soaked in gasoline and standing awfully close to an open flame and he didn’t seem to have the SLIGHTEST idea. Certainly not the best tactic to get what you wanted. “No Rick, you’re fuckin’ RIGHT!” Negan booms, not a care in the world that it’s the dead of night and people are SLEEPING.

“You’re NOT gonna go back here like NOTHIN’S CHANGED, cause shit HAS CHANGED. “I don’t GIVE a shit how they look at you, and if that’s the fuckin’ case, THEN BY ALL MEANS, please get on your fuckin’ hands and knees ands and THANK my MOTHERFUCKING GENEROSITY for giving YOU some goddamn ASYLUM AFTER THAT FUCKING BETRAYAL.” How bad had their wires gotten crossed. Rick stands to his full height and Negan matches, still in his face, still far too close, still SUFFOCATING.

“I’M the fuckin’ one that messed this up?” ABORT, ABORT. Legitimate anger flares in his eyes, suddenly he’s standing taller, looking down at Rick like he’s about to CRUSH him, Lucille held tight in his HAND. But his unoccupied hand is on Rick’s throat and he’s SHOVING his back into the wall, body flesh against the FALLEN leader of Alexandria. “Your plan was to take out my fuckin’ men. That plan is a SHIT FUCKING PLAN.” And not one Negan would agree to.

“I want YOU to show me some motherfucking APPRECIATION and LOYALTY.” After all, he was now offering Judith extended Aslyum, and retracting the offer to bash in her brains and…. This was the type of reaction Rick had? NOT. FUCKING. OKAY.

RICK:

He'd barely had a chance to be surprised at being RIGHT before Negan was continuing with his explanation of what he was right about. It was something he should have seen coming. Really, showing up there had been a mistake, but he hadn't seen it until it was already too late. Rick was in too deep but couldn't quite grasp the edge to save himself from drowning. The only thing he could do was let it play through -- take whatever it got him and move the fuck on with his life. There was no doubt in his mind that NEGAN’S life had continued on like normal when he'd skipped out on meeting with him, why couldn't Rick’s have been the same?

    He had a point regardless of how badly Rick wanted to say there wasn't one. If there was only Alexandria for him, there was no telling how bleak it would have looked for him after the way things had fallen apart for him -- BECAUSE OF him. The ex-sheriff could feel his exterior cracking. The enormous walls built with anger and the lack of consideration (Negan could have at least met him and said they couldn't spend any time together rather than leaving him to figure it out on his own,) beginning to crumble.

    The mess Negan made of him on - what seemed to be - a regular basis needed to be easier to clean up. Because it had only started to pick up and Grimes was already swallowing down the lump in his throat. Of course that could have been from the way he'd come at him once again. It wasn't even the bat creeping closer to his face again -- it was the eyes, always the eyes, that spoke more danger than anything else. All that came close was that grin, but (unfortunately?) that hadn't made an appearance.

    Not while his back was shoved to the wall with a hand at his throat anyway. It HAD been a shitty plan, especially with the traitors that were supposed to have been on their side for the fight. Breath SHUDDERED in his chest and Rick finally opened his mouth to respond. If they were going to get out of the fight? It was going to have to be on him. It was best to give Negan what he wanted unless Rick wanted to start a whole new chapter in their war record. “Thank you.”

    His words were all but SPAT instead of whispered easily like before when he'd been held to the wall. “But how the hell’m I supposed t’ show you ANY of that if I'm supposed t’ be on THEIR side?” Well, at least until he could convince them to switch. “I can't TELL THEM I'm Negan now.” Or that he had been for far too long already. “HELP me.”

NEGAN:

The SPAT THANK YOU, deserves a GROWLED “YOU’RE WELCOME.” That feels like a blade across his throat with how sharp the fucking words are as they spill from a scowl, temper finally raised to where it ought not be. “You’re NOT supposed to be on their side any fucking more, Rick.” Negan spat back, just as ferociously as the other had tried to come off as.

“YOU’RE gonna go back there, get your fuckin’ shit, get your daughter, and say you’re TIRED of fighting. YOU’RE accepting my offer, You’re GIVING THE FUCK UP.” Negan informs him as if it isn’t rocket science. “You go, and you tell them you’re Negan now because you’re fucking SICK of fighting for scraps. You’re sick of how they look at you, You fuckin’ KNOW a good thing when you see one, AND YOU’RE DONE.”

It’s a demand, an order. “You fuckin’ do WHATEVER the fuck you gotta do, and then you come the fuck back here and START earning your goddamn KEEP and repaying me for my motherfucking time I wasted.”  At this point, if Alexandria wanted a war, they were going to get one. They could either join the Saviors, or they could perish as traitors and Rick could be on the right or wrong side of the line they’d drawn in the sand.

Regardless, it was going to be a bloodbath. “You start from the fucking BOTTOM doing whatever the fuck you have to do to earn my fucking TRUST back and when I think you’re fucking GOOD AND READY, I’ll give you your fuckin’ pea SIZED nuts back and you can get back to having a good fucking life.”

RICK:

How FAR he had fallen. Not only had he become someone his people (more than likely) couldn't look to for his guidance, but he'd put himself in a position that he could have sworn he would have never allowed himself to be pushed into. Over what? It wasn't like they HAD anything between them in that moment. There were no feelings - nothing more than anger, frustration and a growing pit of guilt and self-pity. And there definitely wasn't anything PHYSICAL going on in that room either. Was it worth allowing the kind of ABUSE?

    Rick wasn't one to take orders. He never had been, at least. Negan had become SOMETHING to him, which had driven his desire to follow what was asked (demanded?) of him. But with them all but screaming in each other’s faces, what was left to hold on to there? Had he really stripped himself of EVERYTHING over some asshole that put business before his personal life? One slow shake of his head, and he GLARED back into those darkened eyes. “Not until you give me a good reason -- one that doesn't include THREATENING the lives of those people.”

    Searching for some kind of validation from the ‘enemy’ probably wasn't the smartest idea, but if he wasn't going to get more than insults and a lack of self-worth out of it, what was the point? They'd all end up dead in the end anyway. “I wanna know this is more than a fucking BUSINESS DEAL t’ you… THEN I'll bring them all here.”

NEGAN:

Did he think this was his choice anymore? He had given up that option when he’d ASKED Negan to pick. Negan fucking picked the option Rick was too pussy to fully embrace, but sometimes, it took a PUSH in the right direction to get people to see your fucking side and for all intensive purposes, NEGAN WAS BEING REAL, REAL, MOTHERFUCKING PATIENT. A goddamn SAINT.

“Right now, with how I feel?” Negan questioned, a low whistle, eyes wide in HORROR at the other’s choice of action as his head shook slowly, back and forth. “You don’t deserve a goddamn thing.” It was a reminder, that Negan, as a leader would not be giving him ANY fucking special privileges after that shitshow had unfolded before his very goddamn eyes.

Negan WANTS to chuckle, but he’s thinking, eyes locked on Rick’s with an unreadable expression, tongue poking and pinched through pearly whites that look more VICIOUS than anything else. “If this were JUST a business deal…” Negan points out, words cold, calculated, and deathly transparent. “You, your daughter, and all of those fucking PEOPLE back at yours? They’d be DEAD after a motherfucking STUNT like that. I want you to take a moment to let that SINK IN.”

And silence followed. The calculated cold Negan projected down upon the other as his grip on his throat loosened so he was no longer making it hard for him to breathe. “This?” Negan pointed, a lazy finger motioning between their faces to PUNCTUATE his point, “This is the only thing that’s keeping Lucille from having a motherfuckin’ GRIMES BUFFET.”

RICK:

How had it gotten so DIFFERENT in his mind? That something had actually started between them that was more than some kind of stress relief? It wasn't like they'd filled their previous private time together with HATE sex -- well, at least not after the first time. It hadn't been that way to Rick anyway. But with ‘how he felt,’ if he could throw everything away, over a fucked up misunderstanding? He swallowed, waiting for Negan to finish what he had to say before being allowed to relax his stance -- breath coming back to him in full but still ragged in the face of what had been demanded of him.

    Perfect. He'd only managed to keep his family alive by having some personal secret kept between the two of them. Rick wasn't sure if he could take that as an insult to his leadership skills or the fact that - if it hadn't happened - there was a good chance they would have all died long before he could stand in Negan’s bedroom arguing with him about it. “Better--” he began. “I wanna know what I mean t’ you. Not just that you'd KEEP ME ALIVE.” Besides, their first meeting had included the idea that they couldn't work for him if they were dead.

    “You might not wanna HEAR it right now, but you NEED Alexandria regardless of what WE’RE doin’ t’gether. If not fer the SCRAPS, then fer the space, the farm land… Ya can't GROW anything on gravel and concrete.”

NEGAN:

WAS RICK REALLY TRYING TO PLAY THIS FUCKING GAME? Negan wasn’t entirely certain that’s where it was going, but at the gruff question of the other, there’s a long, DRAWN OUT fucking sigh, eyes rolling tediously. Did Rick think they were going STEADY? That T H A T was the type of outstanding gentleman Negan was?

Negan goes to speak but another sigh comes instead, this time turning into a laugh of disbelief, head shaking slowly. The thing was, despite Negan not wanting to admit it, the fact Rick was still alive meant he DID mean something to the other.

But even he wasn’t ready to admit whatever the fuck that was. It was having fun, relieving tension. Yeah they lingered sometimes, but it was GIVING IN to what felt good. “I told you.” Negan stated, finally pushing away from Rick, he was BORED now. “When you get your fuckin’ nuts back, and when you fucking EARN my goddamn trust again, I want you here.” As his righthand man.

Dwight was on the way out, Negan could feel something brewing, but he needed Rick. Rick had what it fucking took, and if Rick was in his pocket, he would have Rick’s loyalty. Rick was one of the few that many that could be driven by their emotions if given the right little push. “I need someone I can fucking trust, working BESIDE me. I had thought that was you.” But he was wrong. Still he had Harley, Simon… The others.

“Alexandria is prime goddamn real estate.” Negan pointed out, Lucille propping against the couch before he passed and moved over to the small bar, “We should be confiscating that shit for ourselves.” In the event they decided to kill everyone of course,”BUT I fuckin’ KNOW, Rick.” Anger extinguishes as quickly as it came and he’s pouring TWO glasses.

RICK:

His head dropped briefly, letting the words wash over him. To get himself back on Negan’s good side - to regain any small amount of his manhood back in the other’s eyes - he needed to give up again? Tell them all he was done fighting like some child tired of being pushed out of the playground and pretend they all should have fallen in line behind him for the sake of ‘once being their leader’? There was no way that would work out the way Negan mapped it out for him. (But really, what other option did he have? It wasn't like he could return and FIGHT after that huge disappointment.)

    Rick wanted to argue -- he could have been one hell of a right hand man, despite being better as a LEADER than a sidekick. Or, he had been at one point. But there was no point in arguing anymore. He saw that now. Judith would listen to him -- he hoped -- because she was his daughter. The rest? Maybe he could make something up to get them to cooperate. If he had to tell them it was the only way to keep Judith alive, they had to let it happen. And once they saw the other side, they wouldn't WANT to go back. (In a perfect world anyway.)

    “Fine,” he sighed, wetting his lips and crossing his arms over his chest if only to better close himself off from the situation. “I can't promise they'll all follow me, but…” fuck. “I'll bring Judith back with me.” Even if it had to be only for her safety. He wasn't about to leave her behind to be killed off like some common survivor that didn't know better. “We’ll stay here.”

NEGAN:

It was THAT confirmation that had a GRIN suddenly appearing. Look, he knew this wasn’t easy, but considering the shit they’d pulled it was necessary and he wasn’t TRYING to make this harder on Rick, not anymore, not now that he HEARD him give into exactly what he wanted. “At this point, I don’t care if they do.” It would be ideal if they did, but Negan knew it to be highly unlikely.

Negan took a slow stride over to Rick, holding out the glass he’d just poured. Grin slipping into something a little less irritating, an attempt at some REASSURANCE. “That’s a good fuckin’ choice, Rick.” He admitted with a nod, raising the glass for him to take.

“I’ve been TRYING to play nice, but my patience? They’re’a RUNNIN’ out.” And it wasn’t Rick’s fault, he could only lead his people to water, but he could not force them to drink. “Y’wanna see your rooms?” Negan offered, trying to give him something more to look FORWARD TO. “Listen,” It comes after a moment, with a sigh, “I’m not tryin’ to BE the fuckin’ prick.” Usually it didn’t matter, but this wasn’t an act they were putting on for the others.

RICK:

At least Negan thought so. Rick wasn't all too sure about it, but if it was going to keep Judith from having to fight anymore -- he'd give up just this one last time for her sake. There was still a promise that he would have been somewhere better than the bottom of the barrel (or the end of his fucking rope,) so it wasn't ALL bad. Besides, Sanctuary had EVERYTHING. They'd been taking and taking and making a life for themselves from the start, it seemed. They must had had a hell of a comfortable life despite the killing -- but Rick hadn't come all this way without getting his own hands dirty.

   Hell, killing people was what had really gotten Negan on their ass in the first place. No one was innocent anymore. A slight tremor played over his hand as he reached for the glass offered to him; frustration with HIMSELF over the man in front of him running his stability (or lack thereof.) “I have two demands,” he said against the lip of the glass before SIPPING at the liquid. “You don't TOUCH the kids -- Judith and Sophia. They don't have to fight anymore… and I want medical care for Maggie. Without having to work for it.”

    Negotiating made him feel a bit better; getting his side out in the open and not giving Negan the chance to call ALL the shots when it came to Rick’s people. “You agree to those terms an’ we won't have any problem.”

NEGAN:

Negan wanted to point out how they DIDN’T hurt kids, but threatening Judith had been a special scenario he needed Rick to realize, but there wasn’t a moment of hesitation as Negan’s eyes locked onto the other, “Done.” It was effortless, easy, as if without a thought, but this made Rick have SOMETHING to present his people. Yes, he got Rick, but the pregnant widow got taken care of and the kids were protected.

Plus… Anything he gave to Rick offered his own leverage because even still, Negan was MIGHTY fucking understanding of the shortcomings he had experienced at the hands of the other community. “I’m not an unreasonable fuckin’ person, Rick.” Sure he could appear that way, but there was a method to the madness.

“But I got ONE fuckin’ demand’a my own.” Negan pointed out, “You bring my PUPPY back and you both fuckin’ work for me.” It sounded like water under the bridge in turn of Daryl escaping, something an often punishable offense.

RICK:

That had been easier than expected; and the shock spread across his face said just that. Rick had almost prepared himself for another argument; ready in case Negan decided to make his demands even greater. But what he got in return was -- understanding. He'd gone there looking for it in the first place and (after too much of an argument) had finally gotten the smallest taste of it. The mention of Daryl, however, had his spine straightening. Something about hearing him called Negan’s PUPPY grated on his nerves.

    The only saving grace was that BOTH of them would have ended up working for him anyway. And he hadn't pictured leaving him behind to fight and search and starve. One firm nod was given in response with an echoed “done.” The last of his drink was swallowed with a DEEP grimace and a shove of the glass back into Negan’s hand. At least they were more on level ground than when he'd first shown up (and definitely more than when the Saviors had last shown up at Alexandria’s gate.

    “Gimme a couple days t’ convince the rest t’ come with us. If I can get Daryl an’ Maggie t’ come, the rest should follow in b’hind them.” He had an idea of how to win each of them over; medical supplies and care, a way for Maggie to get back to her sister, and a chance at helping him keep their people safe and taken care of for Daryl. It really had come to feel like the best option for all of them to stop trying to burn the bridge to the Saviors and join them on the other side. “Thank you,” he said again a few silent moments later; softer and more sincere than before.