#the pushing of parenthood into characters just because they hang out and care about a younger jid will never not deeply frustrate me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years ago

Text

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

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

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

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

-D.H. Lawrence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How far along are you?”

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

“I… what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t know.”

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

“Would he not be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

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

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

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

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

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

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

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kind.

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needs to know.

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

Wise.

Perceptive.

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

Strong.

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

Gentle.

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

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

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

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

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

Stars, how you want to let him.

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

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

Disciplined.

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

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

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

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

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

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

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

Nothing can.

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

Treasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darling, I’m…”

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

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

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

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall we do something about that?”

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

“Allow me.”

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

Or so you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anchor. Anchor against me.

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

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

You still have much to learn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

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

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

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

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

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

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

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

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

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

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

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

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

567 notes · View notes

piracytheorist · 3 years ago

Note

Since the first thing that strikes me about re8, story-wise, is that it seems to be all over the place? Again, I’ve no idea how it ties to previous games but it feels like this parental/mother-child theme is just hanging there with no resolution at all? I mean yes, Ethan saved his daughter, presumably breaking some sort of abuse cycle, yay, congrats, but what about his wife/gf? Isn’t she supposed to be like the main protagonist of the story of a mother bereaved to the point of tyrannical madness

Or rather, this specific story is not the right choice for his character since there’s SO many ethical and philosophical issues and questions implied but never properly explored because of Ethan’s ‘fuck you, idc’ attitude (which is completely understandable in those circumstances but adds virtually nothing to the plot and arguably even ruins it a bit). Heisenberg could’ve been an excellent ally with fascinating grey morality (provided the writers wouldn’t push him to the point of absolute insanity and let freedom, not power-hunger be his main goal and motivation for rebellion).And again, aren’t the lords supposed to represent child development stages? In which case Ethan what? Kills the possibility of some evil version of Rose? Or his own chance to experience fatherhood throughout all of those stages? Either way, it seems a bit… weird to have a Parent destroy multiple people whose main relevance to the plot is that they’re children of an abusive antagonist in a storyline so extremely focused on parent/kid relationships.

I feel like the main theme of re8 is not just parenthood/motherhood, but the relationship itself of the parent to the child. There's a lot of mentions to "children being used". Miranda kidnapping people, experimenting on them and mutating them and then treating them like they're her kids; Miranda kidnapping and practically killing Rose; Dimitrescu making daughters out of reanimated corpses she experimented on; Heisenberg wanting to use Rose's powers, etc etc.

And it's important that Miranda is at the center of this. There's something very interesting she says to Ethan in her boss fight:

"Why do you interfere? Surely you have no need of Rose now, so close to death?"

And that's where her mistake was. Ethan wasn't doing all that because he needed Rose herself. He was doing it to save her, fully aware that he wasn't going to be a part of her life cause he knew he was dying. Miranda was way too dependent on her love for Eva - and like, I honestly get it that losing your child can devastate you (if anything my fear of that is one of the reasons I don't want to have kids) - so much that her life literally revolved around her child. Once Eva died, Miranda wanted to die. Once she found the Megamycete and discovered she maybe had a chance to bring Eva back, she dedicated her entire life and ruined multiple others to do just that. Her one and biggest need was to get Eva back. It wasn't a simple want or wish. It was a need. She'd get her child back, damn everyone else - including other people's children.

Miranda had no-one to blame directly; Eva had died from the influenza, it wasn't like she had any chance to change things. Ethan's case was different; he had people to blame, particularly, the one who kidnapped Rose and dismembered her, and her lackeys who kept said parts and fought him for trying to take them back.

So on one end, you have a parent who lost her child due to a tragedy, and ended up destroying other - innocent - lives in order to get her back. On the other, you have a parent who lost his child due to a crime, and ended up going after the criminals responsible in order to get the child back. Like, it wasn't even revenge, and it wasn't that he "needed" Rose in his life. He simply wanted to save her and ensure she'll be alright.

I fully agree it could have been Mia as the protagonist in re8, and that it was a wasted opportunity to simply fridge her and have her in the sidelines angsting over her husband. But whether it was Mia or Ethan as the protagonist, I feel like the theme that I explained above does offer a resolution, showing the opposites of Miranda and Ethan, and ending Miranda's tyrrany of her "need" to have her child back through Ethan's determination to ensure his child's safety and happiness - even if he doesn't get to be a part of any of that later on. Miranda showed obsession; Ethan showed dedication.

And this is how I see the abuse cycle breaking and the resolution is reached; an obsessed parent hurt a good parent's child to bring their own child back - the good parent's dedication stopped the former, allowing the former's tyrrany to end and their child to grow up safe.

Seeing as this is a horror game, I don't tend to focus on the morality issues (if I'm interpreting your second message correctly). Like, the developers are making a grant effort to put us in Ethan's shoes, first-person POV, plain character protagonist and all; our child got kidnapped and practically murdered, and we have the chance to bring her back. We'll absolutely raise hell to the people who are responsible for it and we will get our child back, fuck any moral dilemmas we might have. When someone is threatening your life, you have the ability to kill them to defend yourself. In the case of a caring parent, that ability may multiply by a lot when the threat is towards their child. And I feel that this is what the game explored in the end. Though the whole survival issue is taxing on Ethan, he doesn't give a damn about who he has to kill if it means saving his daughter - but again, it's only the responsible parties. We see how watching all the people at Luisa's house die affected him, and even before Elena died, he wanted to ensure her safety before he went searching for Rose; he is sympathetic and morally rational, but also capable of cold-blooded murder if someone is threatening his child. To a lesser extent, we saw that in re7 too. With his life on the line, he killed Jack (multiple times) and Marguerite, and at the end he recognized how they were actually victims of Eveline. But they were still actively trying to murder him so he wasn't given the chance to help them. With Zoe, he promised to send help, and he did, even wanting to talk to her once she'd been rescued by her uncle and Chris. The same applies to re8, but as I said, it's multiplied since it's his daughter who's in danger, and the end of re8 proves he cares for her safety more than his own.

Now, all that said, I think it's important to note how it's stil a Resident Evil game. I haven't actually played or watched any playthroughs of other games, but the basic concept in these games, from what I understand, is that the player shoots zombies; ex-human beings who have lost any human mentality and will just come for your throat if you don't kill them first. They're not humans anymore, they can't be reasoned or sympathized with. It's not really an issue of morality, ethics or philosophy. Your life, and the life of your child in the case of re8, are in danger. You don't give a shit. You just start shooting and hope for the best. Again, I don't know if the morality issue is explored in other RE games, but to be honest... Resident Evil doesn't sound like the kind of franchise that's thematically into going super deep into the morality of shooting zombies to save your life.

I have to admit I haven't thought of the Lords being representative of child development stages. I think they could be put as Moreau being a toddler, fully dependent on their parent - funnily enough, the Greek word for baby is "moro", pronounced almost exactly the way "Moreau" is pronounced in the game - Donna as a child, Heisenberg as a (rebellious?) teenager, and Dimitrescu as a late teen/young adult (if anything, Dimitrescu seems to behave like the eldest child of the bunch). But I'm not sure the connection that has to Ethan as a father, if anything because the bosses are fought in complete random order of age, if my analysis is correct. Like, I understand the symbolism behind the Lords' behaviours, maybe as you said they represent the obstacles Ethan had to overcome. In one single day and with his life on the line, instead of in the course of Rose's entire childhood and adolescence, but that's exactly why he hated being a protagonist of a horror game, lol.

Anyway, yeah. All in all, I don't think Resident Evil is a franchise where we should expect to sit down afterwards and ponder whether we were right to shoot the zombies that were trying to kill us. Again, I'm not the right person to ask this, since I don't know anything about other RE games, but that's the conclusion I'm making in a meta-thinking way.

#Resident Evil #Resident Evil Village #Resident Evil 8 #Ethan Winters #Mother Miranda #re meta #anonymous #ask and ye shall receive

18 notes · View notes

avengerscompound · 5 years ago

Text

Home - Chapter 10

Home: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word Count: 1964

Warnings: Angst, parenthood, sexual manipulation, action, injuries, underage drinking and drug-taking.

Synopsis: 16 Years after the death of Daisy, Steve and Bucky have successfully raised two teenage kids with telepathy. Teens are never easy to live with though. Sarah in particular likes to test boundaries. Now on top of all the usual challenges of parenting, they have to deal with troublemaking demigods, a daughter who just wants to be accepted for who she is and running the Avengers. That’s when the children of other super-powered individuals start going missing.

Chapter 10

Sarah and Loki stood outside the office door where Viper had locked herself after Hydra agents started dropping like flies. Sarah took the door handle in her hand and just as she went to twist it open Loki put his hand on hers.

“You don’t have to do this. This burden does not have to lie at your feet.” He said.

There was gunfire from inside, narrowly missing both Sarah and Loki. Sarah twisted the handle, shattering the lock and pushed the door open. “Yes, it does.” She snarled.

Viper raised her gun but Sarah stopped her gross motor functions. All Viper was able to do was stare straight ahead.

“Hello, Viper,” Sarah said, walking towards the woman. “How would you like me to kill you today? I could be kind. Let you use that cyanide pill you have stuck in your back tooth that you keep thinking about. Or I could just switch your brain off. That would be pretty painless. I did promise to tear your throat out with my teeth though. I don’t like breaking my promises.” She ran her fingers down Viper’s neck.

“I’m not scared of death, you foolish child.” Viper seethed.

“No, I can see that. I can see exactly what you’re scared of. Seeing as you love torturing little kids, maybe I’ll just trap you with that.” Sarah snapped. She closed her eyes and pushed. Viper fell to the ground trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape. She whimpered as she lay on the ground. Her body twitching.

“Sarah, stop this.” Loki soothed. “Let her go. Your fathers can arrest her.”

“Why should I?” Sarah yelled. “Do you know what she did to me? To the others? What she was was going to do to us?”

Loki ran his hand up and down Sarah’s arm. “I know. Trust me, I know better than anyone what it’s like to be consumed by the thoughts of vengeance.”

“You’re lecturing me?” Sarah snapped. She walked to where Viper lay whimpering on the ground and dragged her to her feet. Her fingernails bit into the skin on vipers throat. “You killed thousands of people. You were going to destroy Earth and you’re worried about her life?”

“I don’t care about her. She could die a thousand times over and I wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.” Loki said, slowly approaching Sarah. “What I care about is you. Doing this. Killing a person in cold blood. It will change you.”

“Maybe I want to change. Maybe if I change people will start taking me seriously.”

“Sarah?”

The sound of Bucky’s voice made Sarah’s head snap around. “Daddy?”

“Let her go, honey.” Bucky soothed. “Let me take care of this.”

Sarah dropped Viper and ran to Bucky falling into his arms. Bucky held her tightly putting his chin on the top of her head.

Sarah’s mental hold on Viper released and she came to, stumbling to her feet. She lurched forward in an attempt to run but Loki caught her, sliding his blade effortlessly between her ribs. She screeched as Loki removed the blade and wiped it clean on her back. He let her go and she slithered to the ground.

“Loki! I said I’d take care of it.” Bucky snapped.

“And now you don’t have to. No need to thank me, soldier.” Loki said, waving his hand.

Jamie and Bucky supported Sarah as they left the facility. When they reached the exit, an icy blast of air hit them in the face. Sarah shivered. She was still only wearing the light white cotton Hydra dressed her in.

Steve spotted them and ran over embracing his daughter. “Oh god, Sare. I was so scared.” He breathed.

“So was I,” Sarah replied, breaking down in tears.

The Avengers got all the missing children situated on the jet and notified the authorities to the Hydra base and the incident that had occurred.

Bucky and Steve pulled Loki aside on the Quinjet.

“What happened in the base?” Steve asked.

“I found the children together. Sarah had already taken out three guards and opened their cells. Those people that had them had inserted something into their necks. Some kind of Midgardian technology to negated their gifts. Sarah was about to cut it out of that one there.” He pointed to Danielle.

“Oh god.” Bucky groaned.

“Then what happened?” Steve pressed.

“I removed the devices from each of the children. We fought our way out.” Loki explained. “I say we. It was mostly Sarah. That small blue child can phase into things and disrupt technology. He is the reason we were easily able to break through the doors. But Sarah just made everyone we came across fall asleep. It was quite boring in the end.”

“What about the dead woman?” Steve asked.

“That was me. I’d apologize but I am not sorry for that. She was in charge. She tortured those children. I wouldn’t normally concern myself with such petty trivialities, but I have grown fond of you mortals. Particularly your family.” Loki said.

Steve scowled but chose not to press it. Instead, he moved back to check on the children.

“I heard what you said to Sarah,” Bucky said when Steve was out of earshot. “I just – I wanted – Thank you. You’re right. It would have changed her. Killing. It puts a stain on you that is impossible to erase.”

“Why Barnes, are you getting all emotional on me?” Loki laughed. “The next thing I know I’ll be invited on the next Rogers’ family picnic.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Bucky said. “Just thank you. And thank you for finding her.”

Epilogue

“Alright, Sare. I think that’s it.” Olive said, securing the last clasp on Sarah’s uniform.

A year had passed and a lot had changed.

Sarah was now homeschooled. Primarily taught by Vision. Her grades had evened out and she found that without all the noise she could actually learn. She wasn’t just leaching off what other people were thinking.

With Sarah away from school Olive had started to realize that her feelings for Sarah were real. She wasn’t confused. She didn’t just not like boys because the ones around her were all terrible. She liked girls and specifically, she liked Sarah. Her powers didn’t matter. Sarah had never given Olive a reason not to trust her. Sarah’s powers were scary but she’d never used them to hurt her. So Olive had called Sarah and said she’d missed her. They had started hanging out outside of school and had now been dating nine months.

The Avengers had started a program to help train enhanced children with their abilities. So they could both control them, but they could protect themselves if people came after them. It was called the Young Avengers Initiative and for the most part, just acted as a weekend or summer holiday style program. Depending on how far the children had to travel. For extreme cases, the children moved into the compound and were looked after like family. They also studied with Vision and were trained by ex Avengers such as Clint, Natasha, and Tony.

Today was the day the first graduate moved up to the rank of official, the government recognized Avenger.

Sarah had her uniform. She had her code name. Now she had to just show everyone what she could do.

“Thanks, Olive. Oh god. I’m so nervous.” Sarah said.

Olive smoothed her hands down the red, blue and white stripes of that ran down Sarah’s midriff. She leaned over and gently grazed her lips over Sarah’s. “You’re gonna do fine. You were born for this.”

Sarah and Olive walked down the hall and stepped outside into the sun. The training grounds looked like a crowd had assembled for a kids soccer game. Children and adults lined a rectangular pitched and all talked and played while they waited for the proceedings to start.

Olive kissed Sarah on the cheek and veered away from her, heading in the direction of the crowd. Sarah walked towards Steve who was standing in the middle of the field.

The crowd cheered when they saw her.

Steve smiled. “Today we are here to welcome the first graduate of the Young Avengers Initiative through the ranks to become an official Avenger,” Steve shouted. The crowd cheered again. “But first we have to see what she has to offer the team.” He turned to Sarah. “Liberty, let’s see what you can do without your powers.”

Steve lunged at Sarah but Sarah stopped his gross motor functions. “Sarah, I said no powers.” Steve scolded.

“No, you didn’t.” Sarah pushed.

“No, I didn’t,” Steve repeated back.

There was laughter from the crowd. An arrow suddenly flew in Sarah’s direction. She ducked out of the way of its trajectory and glared at Jamie. He stood on the sidelines with his bow raised.

“Stop cheating, Sarah.” He scolded.

“Ugh, fine,” Sarah said, letting her dad go.

Steve shook himself. “Cheeky.” He laughed and came at her again.

He and Sarah sparred. They were quite evenly matched. Steve had the experience and size but Sarah knew his moves before he made them and strength-wise she took after him.

He threw his shield at her and she swatted it out of the air. As it fell she jumped and used it as a launchpad to attack Steve from above. She caught him with her thighs and flipped him out of the field.

Carol came at her. Flying in from above and shooting energy blasts.

“No fair!” Sarah cried as she zigzagged across the field avoiding them. “How come you get to use your powers and I can’t use mine?”

“You’ve got this, Sare,” Carol replied.

Sarah scooped Steve’s shield up from the field and used it to deflect an energy blast straight back at Carol. Carol got knocked backward out of the field.

Sarah felt Scott coming towards her. “I know where you are, Uncle Scott.” She said.

“But what about if I do this?” Scott appeared out of nowhere, returning to his original size and launching himself at Sarah. Sarah feinted to the left and Scott went sprawling on the ground.

“Yes. I know where you are when you do that too.” Sarah smirked.

Ants started swarming onto the field. “Please don’t make me kill your ant friends, Uncle Scott.” She groaned.

“Okay, Liberty. You can now show us your powers.” Steve shouted over the crowd.

Sarah grinned and looked at Scott.

“Oh, shit…” Scott cursed, scrambling backward away from her.

Bucky approached Steve and hooked his arm around Steve’s waist. “She looks pretty good out there.” He said.

Sarah had taken control of Scott’s body and was using him to get rid of the ants.

“She’s going to be an asset to the team. I just wish I could have protected her from this life.” Steve agreed.

“It never ends. The fighting. There’s always something else to fight for. Better she can defend herself than just be a victim of the next thing that comes.” Bucky said. “Besides, it’s what she’s chosen for herself. Jamie chose to opt-out of being an Avenger. He’s happy living a normal life. It’s good for him. Sarah chose this. Just like you did. If there was anything I wanted for them it would be the ability to chose what they do. I didn’t really get that.”

Steve leaned over and kissed Bucky, pulling their bodies tightly together. “I love you. You know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you too, ya punk.” Bucky grinned.

Steve ruffled his hair and pulled away. He stepped out into the field.

“I think you’ve proved yourself a worthy member of the team.” He shouted. “So with this new member of the group. Come welcome your new teammate. Avengers…”

~ END ~

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #captain america #the winter soldier #bucky barnes x steve rogers #captain america fanfic #the winter soldier fanfic #stucky #fanfic #fanfiction #finding home #home

24 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 6 years ago

Text

No Thieves Welcome XII: Kissing Ass

Author’s Notes | The next chapter will be gritty for supporting characters. Consider this one a transition piece.

❛ pairing | Hvitserk/reader

❛ word count | 2647

❛ genre | Angst, smut.

❛ summary | Hvitserk apologizes and shit gets real.

❛ warnings | Femdom, manipulation, bad parents, bad friend, hate fuck.

You are receiving a call from Asta Nilsson, an inmate at Storstrøm correctional facility. Would you like to receive this call?

Yes.

“Are you okay?”

The other line was quiet as you held the phone on your ear. Anxiously you wait for your dear friend across the line.

“Fine.” She answers curtly. “Aethelwulf says I’ll be in here a while since school has cameras and all.”

“How long is a while?” You ask her as you pull your book from the reserved shelf. For some time, she doesn’t really say anything. You clear your throat to prompt her-- and so she finally works past a few bubbling tears to be able to speak to you with good reason.

“Six years.” She looks around. “Since I’m an adult now and was fighting around ‘children’ or something like that.”

That seemed extensive-- you have a mind to think that Aslaug had something to do with this. Of course, Asta had been locked up before. For drugs, but nothing major. Your voice runs dry along the other line. She clears her throat after a brief amount of time and so you correct yourself.

“Take care of the milkshake okay? Come visit me.”

“Okay, Asta.” You clear your throat, fiddling with a book off the shelf. Breast is best? You tilt your head. “I’m sure you’ll be out sooner.”

“Not with Hvitserk on the stand.” She laughs dryly. “To think I thought he loved you once.”

It’s too soon. Your stomach recoils as you replace the book back into its rightful place. When they open and turn down, you recognize the steel toed boots that stand just to the right of you at the end of this end hall within the library.

“Ah… I’ll talk to you tomorrow Asta, Far is here to pick me up.” You lie. “Yeah, love you too. Bye.”

“Now I’m ‘Daddie’ too, mm?”

The second you turn off your phone, Hvitserk moves against you. He smells of menthol cigarettes that burnt the pungent odor perfume from his collar. Hvitserk must have stopped for a cigarette before coming to visit you.

“Move.” You say, eyes skimming the cords of his black hoodie. You don’t want to look into his eyes. It was bad enough that he had you cornered within this stuffy aisle between the tacky wall beside you and parenting books to the side.

“No.” He states.

“Hvitserk, move.”

“Nope.” He muses. You duck underneath him to escape but tricky as he was, he went with you, grasping your wrist to spin you into his arms. His grip tighten around your slightly swollen stomach.

“I will fucking scream Hvitserk.”

“You won’t, princess.” Hvitserk turns his nose into your soft hair. He fingers the lock of hair you have dyed around his finger. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re mad at me.”

“Mad doesn’t even cover it. Do you have any idea what you did? To Asta? To me?” You whisper under your breath. A sweet little bubbly haired teen bobs by, quickly catching the message to get lost when Hvitserk shoots a look up to them. As they make themselves scarce, you turn around to face Hvitserk.

“She’s the one who jumped me.” Hvitserk reiterates.

“Because she saw you with her! While I was pregnant!” You all but shout at him.

“I don’t know why you’re getting so offended. It was just a kiss.” He snorts. “It’s not like I’m sleeping with her.”

That seems to be what makes you snap. You snatch his wrist from your hair, yanking him out of the library with no other explanation than the rage behind your steps. Darting down the steps and across the concrete plaza you shove him into a line of bushes. Hvitserk staggers on the other end of the bushes, opening his mouth to speak when you shove him onto the dusty ground. He leans up on his forearms when you pose him a question that he can’t really ignore.

“Are you fucking her?”

His face goes blank. Of course-- he had been expecting that you would be upset, but for different reasons. It was his fault that Asta wasn’t here by your side.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He rumbles-- the wrong answer. Your hand digs into his jeans, unbuckling and pulling his cock free. He looks down to his half hardened cock that you tug to excitement, toes curling in his boots until he’s fully at attention for you. Hvitserk doesn’t speak as you spit upon the tip of his cock. You mount him, sliding him into your warm pussy with a harsh twist of your hips upon him. The swirl knocks Hvitserk’s dick around pleasurably within you.

“This is mine.” You say. It reaches his ear and so he leans up.

“Say again?” He hums.

“Your dick is fucking mine.” You give a small shout, causing him to flinch as if unsure if anyone else would be listening. Then without error you squeeze him tight, pushing your palms on his chest to shove him into the grainy dirt. Hvitserk turns his head up, a laugh threatening to spill over. He holds it, biting his lower lip in favour of not pounding your pussy for you.

“I couldn’ hear that.” He rasps just for the fucking hell of it. At the wrong time, too. You’re in no mood to play any of his fucking games and so you snap your palm across his cheek with so much force that it snaps his head into the dirt. Then your hands alternate down onto the preexisting marks left by Asta, crushing her marks with your own. He can’t speak and much less actually fight you with your insistence on riding him for all he was worth.

“Say it.” Your fingers loosen their bruising grip just enough for your bad boy to actually speak. Hvitserk’s throat burns yet remains otherwise wordless.

“I needa cum--”

“Say it.” You glide your hips up, swirling just his tip inside of you. He thinks that this will be another one of those stupid practice sessions where he would reprimand you for not having the correct amount of dick in your pussy so that he wouldn’t slide out. But you have it this time, jamming right back down and riding him with the precision he could only dream of teaching you. Maybe buying those dildos for you was a good idea-- even though he much rather it if he were the only toy you used!

“Say it you STUPID FUCK!”

Oh god, there’s no way no one heard that! Hvitserk bites down on his lip hard, eyes wincing. He can feel your sweet juices squelching over his balls and coating the honey coloured tuft of hair at the base of his pubic mound.

“Ah shi-- Fuck, I’m yours!”

“You want to cum don’t you?”

He nods, eagerly so.

“Then you’re not going to speak against Asta at her trial if they ask you to.”

His eyes widen as you still your motions, making him kiss underneath you. This whole fuck was a ploy! He was sure of it! But then, he did the same damn thing to you.

“Are you fuckin— you li’lbitch!”

“I’ll get off you right now.” You hiss. He’s gonna cum-- and hard. His balls feel heavy as fuck with the cum he hadn’t gotten rid of since you broke up with him.

“Fuckin’ fine!”

Despite the ruffle of leaves and biting roar of Hvitserk Ragnarsson by one of his favourite teachers, fuck, he wasn’t gonna let that bitch get the drop on him! He barely even looks over as he fills you up, eyes instead deciding to shut.

“Hvitserk RAGNARSSON!”

Shit, the bitch acted like he wasn’t the one getting strangled.

Man, this was all some fresh ass bullshit.

“Do you know what having unprotected sex can lead to?”

Hvitserk sat with you in Mr. Andersen’s office. Aslaug was on the way to come get him, but until then, he was stuck with his arm lazily thrown over your chair. Compared to your guilty face, his was far more relaxed.

“Yeah, pretty sure I do.” Hvitserk snorts. “Mr. Andersen. Lemme lay it on you. I’m a put it in and eat it out kinda guy but I can’t get her any more knocked up than she is already.”

“Hvitserk.” You hiss.

“So the rumours are true.”

Two banging cracks upon the black lined window cause everyone in the room to jump. Not only because well, it was loud, but on the other end he can clearly make out the booming voice.

“Can someone open the door?!” It’s your mother’s deep, but feminine voice. She doesn’t mean to play with anyone by that tone.

Hvitserk blinks deliberately slowly, leaning in with his arm still around your chair. Your teacher raises to get the door for your mother who walks in with a hot and heavy brewing expression. Her scrubs reflect that she had planned on going to work if not for the fact that she had been called. You weren’t sure why, you were an adult! Your head hangs unable to look anywhere but your lap.

“Hey, Ellisif, how are you?” He waves with two jaunty fingers.

“(Y/N) up. We’re going home.” Your mother says with a stone face frown. Her hands clutch a rosy pink envelope purse while you look down to your backpack. It was already after hours and no one wanted to be there, much less the counselor who cleared his throat.

“Uh, ah, Ms. (L/N) please have a seat. We were about to speak about options for the child.”

The expression on her face goes from bad-- to worse. Before you were sure she was going to speak but now, well, she might have exploded if not for fact that the counselor was right in front of you. Your counselor rolls over toward a hanging folder to pull out a few pamphlets. He tugs free a bright pink paper and hands it to you.

“First thing is first.” The counselor clears his throat. “Have you made a decision on what option you would like to take?”

Options:

Keep the baby-- single parenthood.

Terminate pregnancy.

Marriage.

Adoption.

Fostering.

“Marriage?” Hvitserk glances down, letting his hand massage your shoulder. “What kind of option is that?”

You glance over the questions-- then look to your mom. The disappointment is visible across her face. She tucks a lock of her bob behind her ear before she urges you to pay attention to the counselor to speaking to you.

“I… can’t abort.” You whisper. “But I was about to graduate.”

The counselor weaves his fingers together patiently.

“You won’t deliver until after you graduate.”

But then, you think, what about college? If you kept it, that was a sacrifice you’d have to make. At least for the time being. Hvitserk leans over to look through the pamphlet and all that it would offer: resources for donated clothes, emergency food cards and other things.

“You can do online school until the child is old enough.” He suggests. “Assuming Hvitserk will be here to help out--”

“Of course I’ll be here.” Hvitserk brings his fingers to your hair, affectionately tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear.

“We’ll keep it.” Your mother cuts through, effectively taking the decision out of your fingers. It is the same as you were thinking. She makes you feel robbed of your choice as she insists it. Mr. Andersen motions to the other document.

“This one will help you find resources for low income hous--”

“That won’t be necessary.”

From the wooden doorway-- you spot the woman that you had met in the Ragnarsson’s home. The matriarch Aslaug with her hand wrapped in the loop of her husband’s arm: Ragnar himself. The counselor stiffens visibly and your mother, not at all pleased, looks up.

“These weren’t the circumstances I thought we would meet under, Ellisif. Ragnar, Hvitserk’s father.” Ragnar holds out his hand toward your mother. You look out toward him, gazing over his body. He reminds you lightly of Hvitserk. His black v-neck sits smoothly over his top, dark blue jeans stuffed into steel toed boots. Tattoos wrap around the side of his cropped hair-- and the rumors were right. He was a little bit of a sight.

“I had no idea we were supposed to meet anyway.” She takes his hand.

“Well…” Ragnar’s lips purse together, looking in the direction of a chair by Hvitserk. He pushes Aslaug to sit with her patient little Yorkie in her arms. She leans in to kiss the side of your cheek. “There are worse ways to meet.”

Your mom perks her eyebrow as if to ask what, on earth, could be worse when Ragnar reclines against the frame of the doorway. His tongue cuts across his pearly upper teeth.

“Hvitserk will handle being the breadwinner.” Ragnar says. “Anything else?”

“I… I only wanted to… ask if they could not have sex on campus.”

“I’m sure they are not the only ones.” Aslaug cuts dry, her long legs folding one over another. “Is it really that much of a problem?”

Mr. Andersen remains quiet on the issue.

“That will be it then.” Ragnar turns his head toward your patient yet inpatient mother sitting in the corner of the room. Hvitserk stands up and offers his hand out to help you up. His mother leaves the room followed by your mother whose sneakers squeak across the thin faux tile. You notice that Ragnar has stayed behind. Once outside, your mother beelines towards her car. She is already in before you are.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Hvitserk leans in, kissing the top of your head.

“I don’t forgive you.” You say. “Asta could be facing charges now.”

“You better after I bail her ass out.” Hvitserk says negating the fact that Asta was in prison. “She did attack me.”

“Oh, like you attacked Magnus?”

This again.

“And now he is with Bjorn probably learning how to get his dick sucked by two different blondes at the same time.”

“Really?” You hiss. “You’re really going to justify it?”

“You’re the one that fucked the shit out of me say what, two hours ago?” Hvitserk snorts. “It doesn’t bother you that much.”

“I…” Then again, he cuts you off.

“Look, I didn’t fuck her. You’re my baby mama now. I’m not letting you go so easy. So, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tugs open the car door and situates you in the car that was so tense you could probably not even cut it with a knife. She’s deadly silent as she drives past your favourite sweet shops.

“Are you mad?” You whisper to your mother, clutching your backpack in front of your stomach. She shifts with a sigh.

“I’ll tell your father.”

It began to feel really lonely.

With the Ragnarssons, Hvitserk’s worries were far beyond any that you might have had. Having kids, he had no issue with that. His mother was the stay at home wife that he always dreamed of having himself. Except-- he definitely wanted a better one. All things considered, his life wasn’t so bad right now.

And besides-- having a kid? You would be stuck with him. It was one thing to keep you entranced by his body. It was another to have something as permanent as a child with you. There was no option. He pops open his phone to look at old messages.

Thora

How did it go?

Hvitserk

Gotta meet up to tell you, you won’t believe it.

Where are you?

“How much did he owe you?” Hvitserk asks as he tacks out another response to Thora. Blaring sirens whizz by. Hvitserk peeks out the window, twisting his head curiously at the ambulance making its way by.

“Few grand.” Ragnar answers. “Call Uncle Rollo to set you up.”

“Okay, Far.”

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434, @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword @two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm, @atequilahead, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @my-little-wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @queenmissfit, @hallowed-heathen, @neeadinghugs, @mblaqgi, , @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @attorneyl, @iconicvaleria-blog, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @austenkingmylady, @thisisparadisemylove, @pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass

#Hvitserk x Reader #Hvitty x Reader #Hvitserk/reader #hvitserkxreader #hvitserk imagine #Vikings imagines #vikings imagine #Vikings/reader #vikings x reader #hvitserk's heathen feast

184 notes · View notes

theliberaltony · 5 years ago

Link

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

In a book released on the eve of the 2016 election called “Asymmetric Politics,” political scientists Matthew Grossmann and David Hopkins argued that America’s political parties don’t just have different ideologies, but are really different kinds of organizations. “Republicans are organized around broad symbolic principles, whereas Democrats are a coalition of social groups with particular policy concerns,” the authors concluded.

I don’t want to treat that book as gospel, but it speaks to a certain understanding that has existed throughout my 17 years covering national politics. Democrats have been considered the party of Asian, black, gay, Jewish and Latino people, along with atheists, teachers, union members, etc. — in short, a coalition organized around a bunch of different identity groups. Meanwhile, Republicans have been thought of as the party of small government, low taxes, a strong national defense and “traditional” moral values — in short, a coalition based around a few core ideological principles.

That has always been a fairly simplistic view of the parties. (And Grossmann and Hopkins’s book is much more nuanced.) But as an easy rubric to understand the two parties it worked. It still does, to some extent. But less and less so.

The two big stories happening right now in American politics — the 2020 Democratic primary and impeachment — show both parties being reshaped in ways that break with that asymmetry: The GOP is becoming increasingly organized around identity groups, and Democrats are becoming increasingly ideological.

Let me start with the Republicans.1

With Republicans on Capitol Hill strongly defending President Trump amid the Ukraine scandal, you might say that the GOP has simply abandoned many of its principles in deference to Trump. Maybe. But I think the more accurate story is that Republicans on Capitol Hill are standing firmly behind Trump because GOP voters and GOP activists and elites are demanding that they do so. There just isn’t much room to break with the president of your party if close to 90 percent of voters in the party approve of him and many of those voters get their news from sources strongly supportive of that president.

Why are Republican voters and elites so strongly aligned with Trump? There’s not a simple answer, but I think identity — rather than ideology — is a big part of it. Trump is defending the identities of people who align themselves with the GOP, and this is a more powerful connection and reason to back him than pure ideological concerns. In defending Trump, conservative voters are really defending themselves.

No party ever governs strictly on ideology, but some of the breaks with conservative orthodoxy in the Trump era are notable.

If you think of the GOP as being broadly wary of government intervention into the economy, it’s been striking to watch the Trump administration try very hard to prop up the coal industry — even as the rise of natural gas and other alternative fuel sources have reduced the need for coal. The administration’s limits on travel from certain countries and cuts in the number of refugees who are entering the U.S. have affected Muslims most, suggesting that the GOP’s long-championing of religious freedom is now really just about defending the values of Christian and Jewish people. On trade policy, Trump imposed tariffs on China and other nations, and after those nations retaliated by making it harder for U.S. farmers to sell their goods abroad, the administration gave direct financial aid to farmers.

The Republican Party has traditionally favored few tariffs, limited government intervention in the economy and not giving government money directly to people in lieu of them earning it through work. Its recent actions seem out of character for a party organized around a particular ideology.

But if you think of the GOP as being organized around identity groups, these policies hang together quite well. The clear beneficiaries of the Trump administration’s actions have been businesses and corporations whose leaders back the president (such as those in the coal industry), conservative Christians, farmers, gun rights enthusiasts, people wary of increases in the number of foreign-born Americans and Islam, people wary of movements like Black Lives Matter and MeToo, pro-Israel activists and residents of rural areas.

Of course, I’m not the first person to notice any of this. The journalist Ron Brownstein refers to the GOP as the “coalition of restoration,” trying to fight against a “coalition of transformation” led by Democrats. Robert Jones, head of the Public Religion Research Institute, has described Trump as the defender of a “white Christian America” that sees itself in decline. In a recent speech, Attorney General Willam Barr praised the “Judeo-Christian values that have made this country great” and warned that “irreligion and secular values are being forced on people of faith.” All three of those formulations describe a complicated mix of identity and ideology.

“Some values and preferences that were always there, like racial resentment, rural resentment, nationalism, are being amplified and others, like free markets, are being diminished,” Hans Noel, a scholar on political parties who teaches at Georgetown University, told me.

“Allegiance to Trump is becoming more important to what it means to be conservative,” he added, “But post-Trump, that change may persist, with a conservatism that is more populist and nationalist.”

You might argue that this was always the Republican Party — that the GOP of Ronald Reagan and the two Bush presidents was similarly organized around conservative identity groups and not ideology. Perhaps the Bushes downplayed that dynamic for electoral reasons and to be “politically correct,” and therefore presented themselves as, say, more liberal on racial issues than the party’s base voters really wanted. Maybe Trump has simply stripped away the artifice. And you could certainly also argue that the Trump administration, particularly its aggressive push to reduce the number of people on Medicaid, is quite ideologically conservative on many issues.

Notably, Hopkins mostly disagrees with me, arguing that there have been some shifts in the Trump era but that the GOP has not fundamentally changed.

“His racial appeals are more common, more central and more overt, and he is more likely than most Republicans to simply be misleading or dishonest about what his policies are,” he told me. “But his appeals to patriotism, nationalism and nostalgia for an idealized past are very much in line with traditional conservative rhetoric, and he increasingly speaks the language of small government and capitalism.”

I think those arguments have merit. I don’t think that the Republican Party has abandoned ideology in favor of identity completely. But it does seem like identity is playing a bigger and clearer role than it did a decade ago.

Let’s move to the Democrats. Polling shows that a rising number of Democrats view themselves as liberal — now half of the party, compared to less than a third in the early 2000s. Democratic voters are increasingly likely to support liberal positions such as allowing more immigrants into the country and the government playing a role in helping Americans pay for their health care.

But the shift among Democrats is even more evident among activists and elites. Groups like Black Lives Matter, Demand Justice, the Sunrise Movement, Planned Parenthood and the newly-revived Poor People’s Campaign are pushing the Democratic Party in a more ideological direction. That ideology is perhaps best defined by a push for equality across a lot of realms — and particularly around ethnicity and race, gender, income, sexual orientation and wealth.

I think this is why Kamala Harris struggled to win the support of young, liberal black Democratic activists in her presidential run. She often tried to connect with them on identity (as a woman of color), but many of them were more interested in Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, who both made taking strong stands on racial and wealth inequality central to their candidacies.

“What makes the Green New Deal notable is that it’s a solution to climate change on explicitly social-democratic grounds,” said Daniel Schlozman, an expert on parties who teaches at Johns Hopkins University. He was referring to the fact that the Green New Deal is an environmental proposal but also includes liberal goals like guaranteeing all Americans a job and the ability to join a labor union.

I don’t want to overstate this shift, which I think is largely about party activists and a certain bloc of the party’s elected officials, including Sanders and Warren. You might argue both that Democrats have long been obsessed with equality and that the party still functions effectively as a bunch of different groups joined together. And it’s worth noting that about half of Democratic voters identify as “moderate” or “conservative,” not “liberal.” Another reason to be cautious about the idea that Democrats are more ideological than ever is that the leader in the national polls in the Democratic primary, Joe Biden, is running much more as a coalition-style candidate than an ideologically driven one. He seems to be trying to capture the nomination by combining the support of blacks, Catholics, liberals, moderates, Latinos, union members and whites, as opposed to running as an explicitly moderate or liberal candidate.

“I think there’s a ways yet to go before the trends we see add up to a fundamentally ideological Democratic Party,” said Hopkins. But he added, “Sanders and Warren are trying to redefine the party, and there’s a chance they or their political descendants could succeed in the future.”

Indeed, I think the party is changing, even if it has not fully changed. There has been a huge shift over the last five years by the Democratic Party’s officials, activists and even its voters in terms of viewing racial inequality as being principally about societal problems like racism (rather than shortcomings in effort by black people). A greater focus on gender equality in the party has forced Democrats like Biden to cast aside support for limits on abortions that some of these pols had embraced in the past. Biden often criticizes the rising left wing in his party, but the former vice president’s actual campaign positions are solidly liberal — he’s against the death penalty, and supports allowing federal funding to be used for abortions, expanding Medicare to many more Americans, free community college, and decriminalizing marijuana. In many ways, Biden (and Pete Buttigieg) are essentially conceding to the rising power of the ideological left and simply offering a milder version of its ideas than Sanders and Warren.

Why do these party changes matter? First, they explain why fights between the elites and activists within both parties are so intense. Never-Trump Republicans such as Bill Kristol deeply believe they are defending the true Republican Party. Old-style Democrats such as Biden think they are defending the true Democratic Party. Secondly, these shifts explain why some seemingly-on-the rise politicians are struggling. Former House Speaker Paul Ryan was trying to find some middle course between the more ideologically conservative old-style GOP and the more identity-driven Trump version and just couldn’t. I think Harris tried both to connect with the rising activists in her party and the more traditional folks and managed to excite neither group.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, these shifts matter because America is to some extent in a partisan civil war, and we essentially have three competing views on how to end it: A Biden/Bush/Kristol style approach that downplays divisions among America’s various identity groups and reaches for more compromises; a Sanders/Warren approach of resetting America along more equal lines; and a Trump/Barr vision that is decidedly Judeo-Christian and favors maintaining traditional norms over upsetting them to expand equality.

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Perry Bacon Jr.

2 notes · View notes

lanasaved · 6 years ago

Text

sssslithers onto the scene like nagini.... hlo! i’m nai n i’m rly excited to finally return 2 rp. uni is officially Over n i’m living bk at home nw so i actually hav free time again to write. c’est une.... how do u say.... Miracle! some of u might b familiar w lana already bt if not u can find out mre abt her under the cut n feel free 2 like this or hmu fr plots!!!

p.s. this is her pinterest for those of u tht like tht kind of thing

CIS-FEMALE — ever hear people say LANA JAMESON looks a lot like KRISTINE FROSETH? I think SHE is about 22, so it doesn’t really work. The DANCE major is a JUNIOR that is from ALBANY, NEW YORK. They can be + VIVACIOUS, but they can also be - IRRESPONSIBLE. I think LANA might be SHEEP. They are living in BALTA. ( nai. 22. gmt. she/her. )

some random aesthetics: a red water pistol topped up with caribbean rum and covered in stickers of cartoon pin up girls, a vinyl record whirring silently because you got too distracted by a stranger’s hands to reach over and flip sides, giant inflatable flamingos floating in the aftermath of a pool party, smudgy lipstick kisses left like an autograph on someone else’s mirror

ic im sayin she jst got bk from going abroad w louis, this kind of sleazy older man tht manages the camgirls on the website lana works fr. he calls himself a “big exec” at “the company” n mkes it all sound a lot more professional than it is. he also owns this big house w all these different rooms/settings fr the girls to film different kinds of scenes in n is looked up by a lot of ppl bt when asked why they look up to him, nobody ever rly seems to have an answer. jst...a shady figure. lana kind of.... went off the deep end lst semester n ended up deferring her next one after missing her big graded ballet recital. it’s a whole big mess n she’s wearin horse blinders to it. truly jst.... goin on holiday to ignore hw much she’s fuckin things up at school. queen of burying her head in the sand!

frm this point on ive jst pasted her old intro bc im the laziest woman alive n that’s jst life Babey

grew up in a big house in albany, NY, bt also spent time all over the place n was in the city a lot

okay so her mum is an old money socialite / three time campaign model way back when n her dad is a big record label mogul. he owns a label called jameson records n they repped a few big rock bands back in the eighties, altho they’re mostly known for ‘poppy injects’ whose lead singer had a big heroin scandal tht brought down his career. lana p much grew up around musicians snorting lines instead of spooning down cereal fr breakfast n her parents were v much absent her whole life

they’re pretty well off obviously n bc of her relation to such a big music industry figure she’s hung out w a fair few relatively high rep ppl thru her teens. she amassed kind of an instagram following mainly fr her style (v penny lane-esque in some aspects aka lots of fur cuff trimmed jackets bt then also jst…. a wild combination of everything honestly. pastel faux fur coats, seventies style platforms, flame red cowboy boots, pastel coloured fishnet tights n glitter used like highlight Everywhere) n bc she’s undeniably very pretty

her parents always kind of jst… didn’t like her. it was v clear that she was an accident after her older brother caleb n that even when they just had him alone they weren’t cut out for parenthood. they always kind of jst… ignored her n hoped she’d go away. she had to mke herself microwave meals when she ws only like 12 bc they’d forget to get her anything. once she went like 6 days without her mum even looking her in the eyes once

despite this tho!!! she’s always been insanely close w her brother caleb. he’s her whole world. thts why when he decided to sign up to the army she ws understandably scared bt supported him regardless. bt then he wound up getting discharged under grounds of severe ptsd when he witnessed his best friend die in an explosion tht took place in a shock raid. caleb returned home n he was never the same n lana kind of felt like he’d died out there too. he’s in n out of hospital a lot n it’s rly hard on her bt she doesn’t tlk abt it to anyone rly

growing up lana was always a huge social butterfly. jst literally…. knew everyone n everyone definitely knew her. she ws one of those girls tht ws kind of impossible to ignore or forget. very animated, always made u feel like u were the centre of the universe whenever she spoke to u, always made it feel like u were best friends even if ud only spoken to her once. she has this magnetic way abt her tht is kind of hard to find in real life. it’s something ud only rly expect out of a movie character

she’s always been insatiably spontaneous n adventurous. always doing something weird n wild every weekend. she has ten thousand stories tht always earn a laugh or a gasp over how ridiculously absurd they r

anyway so after caleb got back he was rly withdrawn n depressed. he shut lana out n was kind of harsh to her a lot of the time, always telling her to leave him alone or pushing her away. it didnt help either tht lana had a rly traumatic experience w some of her dad’s colleagues at the label when she ws 16 n he was away n she cldnt even tell him abt it once he was bk bc of his own traumas. she kind of jst shut it all in n kept it to herself

this obviously?? made her spiral a lot. she was already a girl tht loved sex (she’d only rly done foreplay before tho) but since her trauma it got…. completely out of hand. it got to a point where she couldnt rly go 2 days without it, probably not even 1. her lowest point has probably been scrolling thru craiglist for anonymous encounters n meeting up w strangers on there fr a quick fuck jst for the thrill even tho it’s insanely dangerous n she cld wind up getting herself killed. it’s v clear at this point tht she has a sex addiction whether she’s ever admitted it or not. in fact she’s so… shameless in her endeavours tht she’s actually currently having an affair w her ballet instructor tanya who’s engaged to b married

she also currently? is working as a cam girl. she found this website bc she trawls… porn stuff a lot n she wound up applying to work as one bc she thought it’d b fun n wld earn her some disposal income (even tho she frankly doesn’t need it bc she’s already well off). the guy tht manages all of the girls on the site is kind of suspect n it’s a whole plot i’m gna unravel where it’s actually like the front for a cult or something wild so. stay posted ig. kgjdkgjh

new development!!!!!!!! cue me trottin around doin jazz hands. she’s actually been cut off by her dad so she’s….. living off the money she has left n has to look to find a job which is jst. a nightmare fr someone like lana bc she’s insatiably irresponsible n destined to be fired from anything she tries to hold down bt. it’ll be interesting bc this means she genuinely has to keep on camming even tho she’s starting not to want to any more bc of other circumstances i won’t elaborate on jst yet winks

personality/some fun facts: uncontrollably flirty. boundlessly confident. cld make a joke out a paper bag n her comedy is sometimes surreal / absurd. she tends to laugh when she feels like crying n has a smile brighter than a ray of texas sunshine. always dapples her fingers thru the breeze when she’s driving in a car w the window down. her fav book as a child used to b alice in wonderland n she’d fantasise abt having her own little wonderland too where everyone knew her name n asked her things n took her on adventures. at the time it didn’t rly strike her how evident it was tht that was bc she was so lonely. she almost always has some sort of sweet on her, whether it’s strawberry laces or gummy bears or cherry lollipops. she adores david bowie n prince n madonna n anyone tht’s a vintage style icon w little care fr what ppl think. wildflowers r her favourites bc they’re the brightest and u can’t buy them. she’s had like 8472493874 ‘relationships’ n none of them hav lasted beyond a month / hav been terrible / hav seen her being treated badly / she’s cheated on them. i dnt think she’s actually been w anyone she hasn’t cheated on in some form or another

plot ideas: exes tht lana’s fucked over hideously. she’d probably cheat a lot and it’d be a whole…mess. mayb someone tht flipped the switch and cheated on her? a cousin plot cld b fun too. a friend tht lana fel out w bc she slept w their significant other. someone tht’s getting lana into drugs?? she’s kind of impressionable/down for anything so tht’s a likely scenario she’d get into tbh. an unrequited crush!! (either way is cool). someone tht is just hanging out w her/using her bc she has a lot of instagram followers or they want to b signed to her dad’s label. someone in a band!! she’d probably make like penny lane n b their groupie/sleep w them all fgjkshgkh. umm a good influence too mayb? oh and a past summer romance/fling tht cld either have meant a lot or not have meant anything at all. bonus points if both of them hav a diff viewpoint on it. honestly?? anything is fine i cld ramble for days. let’s get wildt!

#livingintro #inhales fr ten minutes to muster the breath necessary to add al these tws #rape tw #statutory rape tw #only brief / touched on / not explored in detail bt stil!#abuse tw #ptsd tw #hospitalisation tw #hypersexuality tw #addiction tw #death tw #mental illness tw #drugs tw

12 notes · View notes

shestillhasherquill · 6 years ago

Text

One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty Minutes

Here's my contribution for @csmarchmadness. Thanks @xemmaloveskillianx for giving me a chance to write this doctor's AU. It's purely based on my many years of watching Grey's Anatomy, and a little bit of help from Google. So the errors are on me, and my lack of adequate research. Also, I tried a different writing style - which is to be more funny and less, ugh, dramatic and angsty and I'm not entirely happy with the result. So don't hate on me.

Summary: A day in the life of Attendings Dr. Jones and Dr. Swan, as they navigate their upcoming parenthood, their patients and their past.

Words: ~11.5K

Warnings: Mentions of past Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, my writing

AO3/FF.net

“Are you sure you want to start work again, love?” Killian meets Emma’s eyes in the mirror as he fiddles with his tie. She is sitting on their bed in her bra and her work pants, on but unbuttoned, the very picture of sexy and lazy, her now empty cereal bowl on the bed next to her.

Emma smiles at him, hoping that she looks reassuring. She knows where his concern is coming from, but there’s only so long she can stay in bed. “I have patients who need me. I’ve taken a week off already, because you and Ruby tag-teamed against me. But babe, I can’t watch another true crime documentary. I’m going stir crazy. ” Her eyes widen to emphasise her point, making Killian huff, his expression twisting into faux-sympathy, brows drawn together, and lips in an exaggerated pout. She walks up to him, turning him to face her and removing his tie. “Go without the tie. The open collar look is so in,” she teases, her blunted nails scratching his chest hair. “I also watched a lot of Project Runway,” she adds, almost as if she was talking to herself.

Killian waggles his eyebrows at her, throwing his tie on the bed absentmindedly and reaching for her wasit, pulling her closer to him. “Maybe we should play hookey and stay in today. No shirts, no ties. You can see more than just my collarbone, Swan,” he quips, sliding his lips down her neck. Emma’s breath hitches and the offer is incredibly tempting - they could just say screw it and stay in bed - but she has been stuck at home the past week, and she really does have patients to get back to. There is only so much she can push on to Blanchard’s service. It takes all her will power to push away from him. “Oh, Dr. Jones, I am not so easily seduced,” she chides, pressing a quick, apologetic kiss to his lips.

She twists out of his arms, shrugging on a floral shirt over her bra, buttoning it up swiftly. It takes a while, but she gets her pants buttoned as well, grinning up at Killian, feeling accomplished that she could still fit into her pants. But his earlier playfulness is once again replaced with concern, and he is not quick enough to school his expression. She lets out a soft sigh. “I am okay, Killian. I promise.” She holds her hand out to him, waiting patiently until he grabs them before pulling him closer. She rests her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist, trying to hug his anxiety away.

He lets loose a long breath, the tension in his shoulders leaving as he relaxes against her. “I can’t help it, Swan. Watching you collapse like that-” he cuts himself off and closes his eyes, trying to push away the bad memory. “I never want to see you like that again, love,” he murmurs against her hair. He pulls back, one hand cupping her cheek and the other resting on her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. He looks like he wants to say more, but chooses to hold himself back, trying to smile reassuringly at her.

Emma is not so easily fooled though. She can tell that there’s more to his worry than he is letting on; she can’t push him, knowing that it will just make him retreat further back. Emma cups his cheeks, trying to communicate all her love and understanding through her smile, and hopes that that is enough.

She worries about him too; he carries so much responsibility on his shoulders, it weighs him down when anything goes wrong. She worries when he forgets to take care of himself, because that leads down a very steep path. She worries that sometimes he focuses too much on protecting her, that he forgets that he needs protecting too. “Look, you need to stop worrying so much. It was just low blood sugar. I’m fine, baby’s fine. We both got a week off, and we’re good.”

Killian pulls in a shuddering breath, his hand coming to rest on her belly. She knows that he can feel the slight hardness to her abdomen, feel the smallest of curves there. His thumb rubs lightly against the curve, sending a rush of emotions through her, overwhelming her with how much she loves this man, and this baby that is theirs. “You promise to take it easy?” he murmurs, resting his forehead against her.

“I promise.” She nuzzles his nose, drawing a smile from his, almost despite himself. “There’s that handsome smile. Let’s go, Dr. Jones, we have lives to save.” In retrospect, she wishes she had taken a moment then, to see his smile fall the moment her back was turned, and his jaw clench tightly.

-/-

“Hey! You’re back!” Mary Margaret cries out the moment Emma and Killian walk - hand-in-hand - into the attendings lounge. Which just draws everyone’s attention to Emma, making her flush, brushing her hair away from her face self-consciously.

Mary Margaret Blanchard, her best friend since internship, when they were green as the grass and chanting carido, let’s go, is also extremely over dramatic sometimes.

“I was gone for a week. God.” Emma rolled her eyes, dropping her husband’s hand and going to hang up her jacket and grabbing her white coat.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mary Margaret pulls Emma into a quick hug, squeezing her tight. “I’m just glad you and the little duck are okay.” Emma meets Killian’s gaze, glaring as he stifled a laugh.

Little duck? she mouths at him, and he simply shrugs, dropping off his own jacket.

“I’m fine, B,” Emma murmurs, letting Mary Margaret get her fill of the hug.

Mary Margaret nods. She pulls back, suddenly excited as she bounces on the balls of her feet, her eyes glinting as she waves the iPad she was holding in Emma’s face. “You’re back just in time. Marco is on his way in. For his surgery.”

Emma’s eyes widen, her hands grabbing the tablet from Mary Margaret’s hands, scrolling through the patient file, just to make sure they are both talking about the same person.“What? No way.” She grins so wide, she can feel her cheeks twinge. “We got a heart?”

“We got a heart, baby! UNOS called this morning,” Mary Margaret confirms, her grin just as wide. “You think you’re ready for the surgery?”

Emma scoffs, grabbing the device. “Like I’m going to say no. I should call August.” She turns to Killian, shouting a nonsensical, We got a fucking heart!, stealing a quick kiss and rushes out the room, heedless to Killian’s call for her to be careful, Swan!

-/-

He chuckles at her retreating form, sharing an amused glance with Robin, who was lounging on the couch, a cup on coffee in hand.

“She seems to be doing fine.” Robin raises his eyebrows at Killian, when he doesn’t reply immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Killian shakes his head dismissively. “She says she’s fine.”

“And the baby?”

“Baby, too. Or so she says.”

“What, you don’t believe her? She is a doctor, you know,” Robin comments, getting up to rinse his mug.

“And yet, she didn’t realise she was having low blood sugar? Or that she was pregnant?” Killian signs, hating the bitter edge to his voice.

“You know how busy we get, Jones. She finished her fellowship year only a couple of years ago, she needs to put in the hours still. It probably just slipped her mind.”

Killian shoots him an incredulous look. Robin shrugs helplessly, patting him in an effort to cheer him up. “C’mon, Jones. Emma can take care of herself.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Killian shakes his head, plastering a smile on his face. “Yeah, mate. I know.” Killian grabs his own white coat, shrugging it on.

“Jones?”

“Yes, Locksley?”

“Listen, I know the last week was hard on you-”

Killian feels his breath catch, his heart in his throat. He feels the rage course through his blood, just thinking about it. “Don’t,” he growled. He can feel the darkness at the ebbs of his consciousness, and it must show, because Robin takes a step back. “I- I don’t want to talk about it, mate.”

“Killian.” Robin’s tone is almost a reprimand, and Killian isn’t ready to hear any of it.

“We all lose patients, mate. It happens. I’m fine.” The word tastes like the bitter lie it was. He is so far removed from fine, but he has a handle on it. He doesn’t need coddling.

-/-

“I really am fine.” Emma rolls her eyes, insisting for the third time in the past half hour, leaning against the nurse station’s desk, fiddling with her iPad, checking up on the cases she had left in Mary Margaret’s care.

“How was your staycation?” Mary Margaret asks, resting her arms on the counter.

“Ugh, so boring. Killian has been coming home late, like, all of last week.”

“Huh.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“You just said ‘Huh’ like you’re surprised that he came home late.” Emma’s gut clenches at the uncertainty on Mary Margaret’s face. “Blanchard, what’s going on? Did Killian say something?”

Mary Margaret bites down on her lip, her gaze lowering to her hands. “B, c’mon,” Emma implores, slipping into the nickname. Her tone is softer, the worry clear as day. “Tell me.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Emma apprehension multiplies tenfold by the undercurrent of concern in Mary Margaret’s tone, shaking her head ‘no’. “Emma, he lost a patient on monday. Ava Turner.”

Emma is pretty sure she gasps, or something that was pretty close to it, her hand covering her mouth. “What? I saw Ava here two months ago for her check-up. She was fine,” her voice cracks on the word fine, and with it her heart.

Mary Margaret’s expression turns somber, and almost something like regret in her eyes, that she is the one who has to tell Emma. “It wasn’t her heart, Emma. She got into a car accident.”

Emma stop listening the moment she hears that, her throat suddenly too tight. She has known Ava since her second year of residency; Dr. French might have been her surgeon, but it was a pediatric case; she had been Killian’s patient, for years. “He never said a word to me,” Emma whispers, unsure whether she should feel guilty or angry.

“Maybe he thought you had enough to worry about,” Mary Margaret tries to explain, but it sounded flat even to her, Emma can tell, by the uneasy expression on her friend’s face.

She needs to see Killian. Ava Turner wasn’t just any other patient, at least not to Killian.

-/-

Regina stops her on her way to the pediatrics floor, almost surprised to see her. “Dr. Swan! I didn’t know you were coming back today,” Regina comments with a pleasant smile.

“Chief Mills,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Yep, I’m back. I’m pregnant, not invalid,” she rolls her eyes, feeling a twinge of impatience. “In fact, I’m scrubbing in with Dr. Blanchard on Marco’s heart transplant.” And in that moment, despite her worry and anxiety and just straight up need to see her husband, she can’t keep the smile off her face at the mention of Marco’s surgery. “Finally,” she adds, just for effect.

“Good for him.” Regina pauses, as if contemplating her next words. “Is Jones in today?”

“Yeah. I’m on my way to see him now. Why?”

“I just assumed he’d want to take a couple of days off, is all. After what happened with Ava Turner.”

“Okay, what happened with Ava? Killian is fine at home. I don’t know what everyone is worried about?” Emma’s worry only increases. Is she not paying attention to her husband? Did she not notice that he was in pain?

Regina stares at her for a moment, before she purses her lips. “I think you ought to talk to him about it. All I know is he has been passing on surgeries for the past week, so I told him to take some time off. Our patients come to us for the best care, and we can’t be turning away cases. Not right now, with Dr. Weaver here to evaluate us.” She rolls her eyes when she mentions Dr. Weaver.

“Dr. Weaver? Who- How long was I gone?”

Regina smirks. “Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough. He’s here courtesy of my mother, who seems to think our standards of teaching need to improve.”

Emma huffs out a laugh at Regina’s dry tone. “Well, she does own this place,” she retorts. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Chief… I should find my husband.”

-/-

Killian has been hiding away in one of the fourth floor research rooms, trying to work on his paper. Or... maybe he should accept it for the excuse that it is, to hide away from the rest of the hospital, hoping that no one would disturb him. He has sent his resident to do his rounds on the post-op patients, knowing that Dr. Jain can hold her own. He isn’t able to bring himself to operate; he can’t bring himself to get back in the OR.

Ava had come to him when she was five years old, with a rare and complex CHD, transferred over from another hospital. She fought like hell every single day for five years, undergoing multiple surgeries, always greeting him with a big smile no matter what. Three times she almost got a new heart and three times, it fell through. It was heartbreaking for her family to see their daughter in so much pain. There were days when it was touch-and-go for Ava. No matter how many surgeries they had performed, she needed a new heart. And with her rare blood type, it took ages. After years on the list, she was finally matched with a donor, and her transplant had been successful.

She lived to see sixteen, to go to high school. To learn how to drive and to get a license. And then she got into a fucking automobile accident. Both he and Dr. French tried their best to stabilize her but the damage that was done was too much, and she bled out on the table.

He has come to accept that death was a part of his job, but that never makes it any easier to lose a kid. He has worked with tiny humans his whole career, and he knows it is hard to not form a connection with them. But Ava had been special - it astounds him even now how she never seemed to lose faith. She might have had her own moments of weakness, but she never failed to bounce back.

Killian runs his hands through his hair, his eyes closed trying to push the images of Ava bleeding out from his mind. A knock saves him from the torment, his eyes flying open.

“Hey.” Emma lingers at the door, her smile something soft. She was like the sun to all his rainy days, worming her way past the numbness that has settled over his heart. God, that was awful and cheesy.

“Hey, love.” He smiles at her, his lips pulling up automatically the moment he sees her. But even that feels exhausting. He is trying really hard to keep a calm facade around his wife, but it isn’t easy when they always share everything - the good and the bad. But Ruby had been very clear - this was a high risk pregnancy as it is for Emma, she does not need any undue stress. She doesn’t need his problems on top of everything else.

She pulls up a chair next to him, grabbing the arms of his own and pulling herself close until their knees are bumping against each other. She has a crease between her brows as she frowns at him, her head tilted to one side as if she was trying to read his mind. When he doesn’t relent to her questioning gaze, she lets out a small sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Ava Turner?” Her words come out in a barely audible whisper. The room suddenly feels like all the oxygen got sucked out of it. She isn’t supposed to know this, he never wanted her to.

He curses under his breath. “Freaking Blanchard.”

“Hey, don’t blame her. Mills told me, too. I would have found out eventually.” She drags his hands into her own, squeezing them gently. “The question is why weren’t you the one to tell me?”

“What’s there to tell, love? I lost a patient. It happens.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t believe you, babe.” Emma shrugs, dismissing his words easily. “I might not have noticed your pain, but I can still tell when someone’s lying to me. And you, Dr. Jones, are a big fat liar.” She says all this sotto voce, not even a hint of anger or hurt.

He clenches his jaw tight, his throat burning something fierce with unexpressed pain. “What of it?” he snaps instead of confiding with his love. He could have told her how much his heart aches with regret from not being able to save Ava. From fear for her and their child, for her health and her safety. He could have told her how fragile his hold on hope is right now. He could have told her that he so desperately wants a drink right now, so much so that he can practically taste the burn and the spice from the rum; that he could give a flying fuck about five years of sobriety, four of which he has spent with her. Instead, he snaps at her and she recoils, her walls threatening to fly up.

“Nope,” she grits out. “You’re not pushing me away, Killian.”

Killian refuses to burden her with his problems. She doesn’t deserve this mess, not before and most definitely not now. “Swan, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“How can I not? You’re keeping things from me, you’re refusing to confide in me - your wife. You’ve been so worried about me this past week, baby. Let me worry about you, too,” she whispers, getting up from her chair and maneuvering herself into his lap. She cards her fingers through his hard, her touch soothing and making him close his eyes on a sigh.

Just as he prepares himself to bare his soul to her, Emma’s beeper goes off. She curses under her breath, grabbing it and cursing even more.

“911 from Blanchard, I need to go,” she says on a sigh, sounding apologetic. “Killian-”

“Go on, love. I’m fine.”

She raises her brows at him, in no way or form believing him. “I’ll be fine, Swan. Go, save lives and such.

She searches his gaze for something, he wasn’t sure what. But she mustn’t have found it, by the way her face fell.

“I don’t need to be at the surgery, Killian. Blanchard can handle it,” she whispers, carding her fingers through his hair again, Blanchard’s 911 all but forgotten it seems. “I want to be there for you.”

Killian hums, pressing his forehead to her shoulders, breathing in deeply. The smell of her deodorant, clean and something mildly floral, calming him with its familiarity. “As much as I appreciate it, Marco has been waiting for that heart forever. You need to be there. August would want you there.”

Emma bites down on her lip, still uncertain. But a moment later, she nods. “Fine. I’ll go. But we will continue this conversation!” She points a finger at him. She gets off his lap, walking backwards and making his gut clench because his wife the clumsiest person when she can see where she’s walking. “Don’t think we aren’t going to circle back to this!”

And then she thankfully turns around and walks away, her parting words lingering in the air. He breathes in deeply, the scent of her deodorant still sticking to him, and gets back to working on his research - for real this time.

-/-

Killian’s day doesn’t get any better after Emma’s brief - but welcome - visit. If he was being honest with himself, in a way that he ought to be with Emma, this is about more than just Ava, or even about Emma’s pregnancy. For eight years, he was under the impression that he had a better handle on his alcoholism - but all it takes is one small misstep to send him back to day 1. The more he tries to hold on to his sobriety, the more he wants to have a drink. He has always been weak, he just got over-confident over the years, thinking he is a survivor, that he is stronger than his disease. But he isn’t.

He really needs a drink.

He opens his desk drawer, pulls out his old flask. He never threw it away, said that he kept it as a reminder of his failures. But that was never the case, was it? A part of him always knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist temptation. He runs his thumb over the engraving on the front - Milah had bought it for him at an antiques shop, back when she had still been alive and thriving. When they had just been interns, starting out in a world yet unknown to them. She had always been embarrassed about how much older she was than the rest of the class, a 40-year-old divorcee, just starting out as a doctor after years of being a nurse and putting herself through medical school. She was wild and something fierce; she had made him come out of his shell. Losing her had shattered him, and for years he had given up on love. He had given up on plenty of things, if he was being honest.

And if it had not been for Belle and her unwavering support, he would have been sacked from his job a long time ago. A high functioning alcoholic, that’s what they called him at his intervention. It took them five years after Milah’s passing to notice the signs, and a year or thereabouts after to approach him about it. In fact, it had been Emma who had brought it up first. She was scrubbing with him on a surgery, and just before they were about to go in, she turned to him, her eyes sharp and boring into his.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Jones, but I can’t let you in there.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said I can’t let you in there.”

“Dr. Swan, I know that this is your first solo surgery, but I am still your attending,” he growls, furious at the audacity.

“You might be my attending, but Mikey is my patient and I will not put his life at risk.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

She moves closer to him, almost toe-to-toe. Her words come out in an icy whisper, “You might think you’re hiding it well, under layers of cologne and mouthwash, but I know an alcoholic when I see one, Dr. Jones.”

He bristles. How dare she? “Dr. Swan, you are out of bounds-”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “You can reprimand me all you want - after the surgery,” she says firmly, and walks away, pushing the door to the OR open and leaving him speechless, shame and fury churning in his gut.

He had been tempted to write her up for insubordination, but what could he possibly say? That she had called him out for being an alcoholic? Because that would have gone well with the suits and the chief.

He started noticing the signs then, started trying to hide it. But once Emma said something, it felt like all eyes were on him. He couldn’t do his job anymore, and when Belle, Robin, Regina and David confronted him about it - he did not argue. He went to rehab, he worked the program, he accepted his suspension for what it was, and thanked God that he did not get his medical license revoked.

He had never been drunk while he was performing surgery; Emma had been wrong to think that. But if he had kept going on that path, it might have gotten to that stage. He owed her...everything.

She was on his service his first day back. It felt like some of kind of karmic justice.

“Dr. Swan, do you have a moment?” he asks, as they are both exiting the patient’s room after morning rounds.

She seems to stop short at that, clearly hesitant. “Of course, Dr. Jones.”

He tries to smile, building up the courage to tell her what he wants to. “I- uh. A few months ago, you confronted me about some- about my drinking problem. I just wanted to thank you. I’m working the program, you know, doing the steps and what-not. I would never- I’ve never operated drunk. I would never put a child’s life in danger.”

Swan remains quiet, waiting for him to continue. Her expression reveals nothing; she’s still as a stone, and closed off.

He clears his throat. “I wanted to thank you, for saying something. For confronting me.”

Swan stares at him, the silence between them stretching on for longer than he would like. He resist the urge to scratch behind his ear, knowing that would be an obvious tell about how nervous he is.

She nods, finally, a slight flush to her cheeks. “I’m glad you got the help you needed, Dr. Jones.”

He watches her walk away, and some part of him wanted to go after her. To fall in line, to get to know this resident who leaves him wanting to know more.

Over the years, he did find out more about Dr. Swan. He learnt that she was David Nolan’s younger sister, having changed her name so it did not seem like she got to where she was through anything else but her hard work. Especially, not her father, Dr. Robert Nolan’s influence in the medical community.

He learnt that she practically drowns her hot chocolate in whipped cream, adds just a sprinkling of cinnamon on top. He learnt that she has a good heart, even if she does guard it with iron walls and barbed wire.

He learnt that he could love again - because it was impossible not to fall in love with Emma Swan. She changed the narrative; she challenged him, she supported him. She was just a breath of fresh air.

It’s all these reasons why he has to stay sober now - for her. He does not want to put her through that, especially when she already has a lot on her plate.

He is pulled from his stream of consciousness by the incessant noise from his beeper, making him growl in annoyance. He is not taking any cases, and he has made that very clear to everyone, including the chief.

But when he sees the message from Blanchard, he’s on his feet and out the door in record time.

It’s Emma. OR 2. Hurry.

-/-

It had just been a routine heart transplant. Everything was going fine. They had been discussing Mary Margaret and David’s upcoming nuptials, joking about how much Emma intended to embarrass David with her speech.

The transplant went fine, and then it wasn’t.

The heart doesn’t start pumping, it does not pink up. Mary Margaret tries shocking it again, at a higher voltage.

Nothing.

She tries again, and again there’s nothing. The heart rate monitor shows just a flat line.

“Let me try massaging the heart,” Emma says.

“Emma, I don’t think-”

“It will, B. Hold on.”

Twenty minutes later, Emma is still trying to get the heart pumping. She can’t let Marco die - this is her best friend’s dad. August didn’t reach the hospital before they took Marco into surgery; he barely got to talk to his father on the phone. The last thing Emma said to him was to come and see his dad once he’s got a new heart.

God, she can’t let Marco die.

The only thing Emma can hear is the rush in her ears. The only thing that matters is to get Marco’s heart beating again. She just has to keep massaging it until it can work on its own. She doesn’t hear Mary Margaret’s voice, telling her to stop. She doesn’t hear her husband’s voice, doesn’t even realise that he is in the OR. She doesn’t feel the arms wrap around her, but she feels it when it makes her hands pull away from Marco’s chest cavity.

“NO! Stop it!”

“Swan, love. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

But she doesn’t register anything Killian says, pushing at the arms wrapped around her waist.

“Emma!” he snaps, pulling her around to face him. His hands cup her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Swan, it’s over.”

“No, Killian. He was fine, the heart-” She bites down on her lip behind her mask. She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Dr. Swan, do you want to call time of death?” Mary Margaret asks her, a warble to her voice.

Emma swallows past the lump in her throat. She nods, pushing away from Killian and turning to face Mary Margaret. “Time of death: sixteen-oh-four,” she announces clinically, keeping a firm lid on her feelings.

She can feel her heart break, but she can’t let it show. Any more than she already has, at least.

“Swan, come on, love. Let’s get out of here.”

She shakes her head. “No, I need to tell the family. I need to talk to August.” Her voice is still restrained - a facade of professional indifference.

“Love, you don’t have to,” Killian inists. She bristled at his placating tone.

“I am a doctor. I do not need you to baby me. I can handle this.” She pushes past him, taking off her gown and gloves, stuffing it in the disposal. She looks past him at Mary Margaret, feeling enraged that she told her husband. “Dr. Blanchard, I’m guessing you can close?” She doesn’t wait for a reply.

She is halfway down the hall when Killian catches up with her, pulling on her arm and forcing her to stop.

“Swan, stop. I am not babying you.”

She turns around, pulling away from his grasp, her arms crossed across her chest. “Right. Sure you’re not,” she says wryly.

“Can you blame me for being concerned?” he snaps back.

“This is not about you being concerned. This is about you being so overprotective. It’s like you think I don’t know how to take care of myself. You have my friends keeping tabs on me, letting you know every time I so much as blink too much, Killian! What - do you think I don’t care about this baby as much as you do?”

He looks stricken, but Emma can’t seem to bring herself to feel bad. “Of course I don’t think that,” he whispers, and Emma can hear his voice crack.

Emma sighs, taking off her scrub cap and bunching it in her hands. “I need to go and see if August is here, Killian.”

She can tell he wants to say more, he wants them to talk. But she doesn’t have the patience for it. If there are going to fight, they can do so at home.

“Yeah, I understand, Swan. I- I’m so sorry about Marco. I know how much he meant to you.”

She nods stiffly, which makes his shoulders sag in defeat. He looks dejected, and she might be frustrated with him - hell, she is enraged, if she is being honest. He is being an overprotective idiot-man, but he is her overprotective idiot-man.

She reaches for his hand, squeezing briefly. “I’ll come see you after?”

“Sure, Swan,” he smiles tightly. She frowns, knowing that whatever he is going through, it’s just been exacerbated by this weird tension between them.

“Babe…”

“Go, love. We’re good.” He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, his lips barely grazing her skin. He moves away before she can react or reciprocate, and is halfway down the corridor. Her eyes burn with tears, her throat tight. Everything was fine this morning - or so she thought.

Now, she has to inform her best friend that she couldn’t save his father. And her husband is keeping secrets from her.

She resists the urge to kick something, scrubbing her hand over her face, the braids she put her hair in starting to become painful, only adding to her headache.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, and prepare herself, before she walks into the waiting room. She prays that she doesn’t see August, just so she can have some time before she has to break the news to him. But she spots him the moment she enters the room, pacing restlessly, his jacket discarded next to his helmet on a seat nearby.

He looks different now, with a full beard and long-ish hair. More hardened after years on the road. God, she can’t tell him. She can’t, she can’t, she-

“Emma!” he calls out to her before she can actually run away. August is in front of her in three strides, faster than she anticipates. “How did the surgery go? When can I go see dad?”

Emma hopes that she looks more composed than she feels, because right now all she wants to do is cry. She’s known Marco since she was a kid, running away from home and just wanting to take a break. He’s one of the best people she knows...knew.

Marco’s house had been a sanctuary for Emma, ever since she was five years old. He lived right next door, and he had a son Emma’s age. August has been by her side through everything. It was not easy growing up as Robert Nolan’s daughter: there were always expectations. Her father was not cruel, but he had standards of behaviour that his children had to meet. They had to pick a path, and they were not allowed to deviate from it. Ever.

Robert had been an imposing man, a hard to please man. But he never hesitated to do everything he could to get his children where they needed to go. But growing up without a mother, with just Robert’s often times overbearing nature - Emma needed the respite that Marco’s home provided. And August is the only person who understood her for a very long time. He is practically another brother to her.

“August,” she began on a stutter. “There was a complication during surgery-”

“No,” he breaths out, stepping back from her almost unconsciously.

She wants to stop. She can’t say it. She tries to make herself stop, but the words keep coming. “-we tried everything we could. But, your father- Marco died in surgery, August. I’m so sorry.”

She’s seen enough trauma come through in her life, and she remembers this one time a man came in with his entrails practically spilling out. She would never forget the look on that man’s face - that’s how she feels right now. She feels gutted, having to watch helplessly as August breaks down.

Over all these years of being a doctor, sensitivity training included having to tell the family of the patient’s demise. She’s seen a myriad of reactions - some people go right into denial, some people react in anger. Most of them break down crying, heaving breaths and ugly sobs, as if their bodies were not able to comprehend their loss, that the heartache was too much and it just spills over. She’s not a monster, she could never become immune to this. But she’s been trained to not react in the face of such utter devastation of the human spirit. She is the daughter of Robert Nolan; she ought to be made of sterner stuff.

All she wanted to do was break down with August, to mourn the man who was like a second father to her. It was supposed to be a routine fucking surgery.

August manages to compose himself long enough to ask her what happened.

“The surgery went fine, but the heart just did not take. I- I’m so sorry for your loss, August. There was nothing more we could do.”

She is hardly in control of what she is saying; half of what she says are rehearsed lines. Never tell anyone it’s your fault; tell them you’re sorry. Use the word: tell them their loved one died. Be firm, but compassionate. Be direct. Make sure you let them know you did everything you could. God, she wants to throw protocol out the window.

“I thought you said it was a routine procedure, Em!” he yells. Emma closes her eyes for a moment, pushing the guilt down, maintaining her composure.

She opens her eyes, forcing them to meet August’s. She can see the grief and anger swirling in their glass blue depths. Fuck.

“It was, Gus. It was; but there are always risks involved with surgery, especially at an older age.”

“This is my dad, Emma! I trusted you,” he hisses, his fists clenched at his side. “You said he would be fine.”

“Gus, I- I don’t-” She has no idea what she can say right now. She fucked up. She never should have said that. He was just upset that he couldn’t be there before they took Marco in for surgery, and she wanted to reassure him.

August lets out a deep breath, his tense shoulders dropping with the exhale. “It’s- it’s my dad, Em,” he murmurs, shuffling his feet and running his hand through his too long hair.

“I know, August.” She squeezes his bicep, offering him the only comfort she can give him.

-/-

It takes over an hour before Killian sees his wife again. She slinks into the research room, freshly showered and changed, wearing a sweater instead of the shirt she had on this morning. She closes the door, pressing her back against it and resting her head on it, her eyes falling shut.

He is out of his seat before her legs start wobbling, and he catches her as she collapses against him, her hands clasping the lapels of his coat in a white-knuckled grip.

“Swan!”

She manages to stay upright, but barely, half clinging to him. He can see the blotchy red spots on her cheeks and the redness in her eyes when she opens them. He can see her eyes begin to water again, but she keeps them at bay, stubbornly refusing to shed them.

“I-I’m fine,” she says, finally. The first words she’s said to him in hours, and despite the grief that tinges her words, he can tell that she means them.

He nods jerkily, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her, instead, guiding her to sit on the chair he had abandoned. She almost groans in relief, her shoulders shagging and head dropping over the back of the chair. He resists the urge to ask her how long she’s been standing on her feet.

He takes a seat on another chair, pulling it to settle facing her, knees bumping hers. “How is August?”

“Not good,” she mumbles, her eyes fixated on a point on the ceiling. “I don’t know- I didn’t know what to say.”

He can see her struggling not to cry, and it breaks his heart. It makes his worry sky rocket, too. But before he can say anything, she speaks, her gaze trained on the ceiling still.

“I’m sorry, Killian.”

Killian startles at that, his spine ramrod straight. What could she possibly apologise for?

“Swan, you have nothing to apologise for, love.”

Emma clears her throat, brushing at the few tears that have fallen, looking at him right in the eyes. “I’m sorry I snapped. I know you don’t think me incapable.”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, the exhaustion setting in. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t.” He hesitates, before he adds. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you are.”

She lets out a watery chuckle, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater, so they hang over her hand, covering them entirely. He hates it when she does that, stretching out the knit, but he will hate it more if she stops. It’s quirks like these that he loves about his wife.

“We’re just on an apology train today, aren’t we?”

“All aboard the self-pity express,” he adds, with a half smile, drawing a chuckle out of her.

She gets off her seat, easing herself into his lap with a dramatic sigh. She places her head on his shoulder, snuggling into him when he wraps his arms around her. Neither of them speak for a long while, the silence that envelops them comforting and one that they are quite familiar with.

“Killian…”

“Yes, darling.”

He feels her take a deep breath, and he knows immediately what she’s about to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ava Turner?”

“Emma, it’s not important.”

-/-

Any other time, Emma would have exploded. She would have argued, or yelled. She would have raised her voice; angry that her husband is pretending to be so cavalier. But she is so tired - she can feel the bone deep exhaustion as it threatens to overwhelm her. She can feel the knots in her neck just as much as the metaphorical ones in her gut, telling her that something more was going on with her husband, something she ought to have noticed a while back. So, she doesn’t yell or even raise her voice. She tamps down on the urge to cry - it seems like every small thing is making her cry nowadays, and it’s already been an emotionally draining day.

She hums low in her throat, pressing her nose to Killian’s neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne. “Of course it is,” she whispers fiercely. “I have had people come up to me and express concern for you - my husband. I had no idea you were even- I know you’re worried about me, but that doesn’t mean you should keep things from me. Please, baby. Talk to me?”

She pauses, knowing that Killian needs a moment. He will talk, she knows he will. She feels his grip on her tighten for a moment before he deflated completely. “I- I tried everything to save her, Swan. She bled out on the table and I couldn’t stop it. She was lucid, when she came into the ER. She was talking to me, and she was just- Fucking dammit,” he cuts himself off, his jaw clenching as tears rapidly filled his eyes.

Emma shifts in his lap, reaching for his clenched fists and clasping them between her hands, her thumb brushing against his tight knuckles.

“She just turned sixteen, Emma. She was just a kid, and she was finally having a normal life. Her life slipped right out of my hands, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Baby, you did everything you could.”

“You don’t know that, Swan. You weren’t here,” he argued, the anger in his voice scaring her. Not because it is directed at her, but because he seems more angry at himself.

“I know you. I know you would have tried everything.” When he does not say anything in response, and when he doesn’t meet her eyes, she makes him, gently turning him by his chin toward her. “I know you cared for her a lot. She is not just any other patient. You know as well as I do, sometimes there really isn’t anything we can do. Today is an example of just that.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Swan. Just drop it.”

“But-”

“Bloody fuck, Swan. I said drop it!” he yells, startling her out of his lap and on to her feet. He immediately looks guilty for the outburst, getting up and reaching for her, buts Emma steps back, almost involuntarily, her eyes wide and mouth agape, stunned.

“Darling, I- I’m sorry.”

Emma stuffs her hands in her jacket pocket so he doesn't see them tremble. She is not scared of her husband, but she knows what’s happening with him now. This is - God, this is about so much more than Ava Turner. “No, no, you’re right. I should have dropped it.”

She starts gathering her things, and she can feel his guilt radiate off of him. She wants to go to him, comfort him. But she can’t - her own fear and guilt are eating her up alive. She just- she feel a heavy weight on her heart, and she needs a moment.

“What’re you- where are you going?” he asks, a desperation to his tone and she is certain that she’s being split into two.

“I’m going home, Killian,” she says on a deep sigh. God fucking dammit, she is exhausted.

He shuffles where he stands, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Both of them stare at each other, neither finding the right words.

“Should I - Can I come home?”

Emma is pretty sure that her heart is in pieces now. God, he looks so lost. It breaks her, and she drops her stuff, reaching him in two strides and throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him to her.

“Always,” she whispers, against his shoulder. “You can always come home.” She pulls back, her hands coming up to delicately frame his face, swiping at the wetness under his eyes. “Killian, just tell me. I know you’re not telling me something. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

-/-

Tell her, you fool. Just tell her. Tell her you are slipping. Tell her you need help, tell her you don’t trust yourself to be alone anymore. Just fucking tell her-

“Emma, I-”

But before he can say another word, the door to the room bursts open, revealing Dr. Jain, panting for breath and looking terrified.

“Dr. Jones, we need you in OR 1.”

“Jain, I told you. I’m not-”

“Now, sir,” she demanded, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Killian looked between Emma and Jasmine, feeling conflicted, not knowing if he can do this.

“Dr. Jones!”

“Okay, let’s go,” he says finally, the distress evident in Dr. Jain’s voice. She wouldn’t ask him if it wasn’t serious.“I’ll see you at home, Swan?”

She nods, and with a quick squeeze of her hand, he’s running out the door.

-/-

“Dr. Weaver, Dr. Fisher, I’m here. What��s happening?” Killian asks, walking into the OR, freshly scrubbed, and slipping into the gown and gloves.

Ariel Fisher looks up at him, panic evident in her eyes. “Dr. Jones, I’m not able to get the bleeding under control.”

Killian’s eyes widen, anger simmering in his belly. He turns to Weaver. “You let a resident operate on a kid?” he demands, pushing everyone aside to get a better visual, taking over from Dr. Fisher.

“It was just a routine surgery.”

“Dr. Fisher is a second year resident. She is not ready to fly solo on a child,” Killian grits out, trying to find the bleeder. “Clamp, clamp, now!” he barks, grabbing it from the nurse’s hand as soon as she hands it over.

“That is not how my teaching program works, Dr. Jones,” Dr. Weaver snaps back, assisting Killian.

“Your teaching program should not include operating on children, Weaver. You’re not a peds surgeon. You should have consulted with me.”

“Oh, forgive me, Dr. Jones, but you were indisposed and did not wish to be disturbed,” Weaver drones.

Killian can feel the utter disdain simmering in his gut. “Weaver, a kid isn’t like an adult. You can’t expect Dr. Fisher to be able to perform a procedure she has only practised on a adult before. I am the head of paediatrics here, and I should have been informed. Which you did not do.”

The machines around them started beeping loudly, making Killian curse under his breath. He can’t seem to find a visual still- there was just too much blood and he can’t seem to stop it.

“Dammit, her blood pressure is dropping.”

“I need to see, fuck. Lap pads, now!”

The machines were still beeping, without an end in sight. Killian knows that there is no coming back from this. The kid’s lost too much blood, and the more bleeders he clamps, the more that seem to pop up. He should have been here, he should have supervised the surgery.

He shouldn’t have handed the reins to Dr. Jain. He was the attending, and he should have been here. He should have prevented this. He can’t lose another kid, he just can’t.

-/-

Ariel is frozen, staring with wide-eyed horror as the attendings try and save the life that she was responsible for. She wants to move, she wants to do something, but from the moment Dr. Jones had pushed her to the side, she can’t look away from the result of her mistake. The kid - Maria, her name was Maria - she is going to die. She is supposed to be on a cruise with her parents now, but instead, she is going to die.

And it is all her fault. She should not have been so cocky. She should have voiced her concern when she had it - she should have told Dr. Weaver that she’s never performed this procedure on a child before. She should have listened to Jasmine when she told her to go to Dr. Jones.

She is unmoving, her gloved hands covered in Maria’s blood. She watches as Maria blood pressure drop, she watches as each blood drenched piece of cloth is discarded to the side. She made a mistake and Maria is paying for it with her life.

She swears her heart plummets to the ground when the girl flatlines, the long beep loud in the suddenly loud room. The surgeons have stopped - there’s nothing more than can be done.

“Time of death, twelve-oh-two am,” Dr. Jones calls out.

-/-

The three surgeons file out of the OR, their gowns and gloves discarded in the medical waste bin. Killian catches sight of Dr. Fisher, who was barely holding it together. He failed her - he should have been in the OR, guiding her. He is her teacher.

“I, uhhh. I- What did I do to her?” she whispered, horrified. Tears were welling in her eyes, and Killian can feel his heart constrict thinking about the little girl’s parents.

He turns to Dr. Weaver, waiting for him to answer her. But that man looks just as lost as he feels, but when he meets Killian’s gaze, he nods.

“We go and inform the family. We tell them we did everything we could, but there were some complications,” Dr. Weaver responded.

No matter how much he loathed the man a while ago, Killian respects that he did not throw Ariel under the bus.

“But I did that. I killed Maria,” Dr. Fishers stutters out, her lower lip trembling and she bites down hard on it.

“You made a mistake, Fisher,” Killian finally says. “And now, you will learn from that mistake. The next time you enter the OR, you’ll carry this memory with you and you will make sure that the next one survives. The next time, you will call me.” He tries to not sound too harsh; she doesn’t need that right now. She needs to know that she’s going to be alright.

“Ariel, Dr. Jones and I can go inform the parents,” Dr. Weaver offered, and Killian was about to protest. But Ariel surprised him.

“No, I should do it. You said it yourself, Dr. Weaver. I am Maria’s lead surgeon. I will talk to her parents.” Killian can still see her struggling to hold her tears at bay, but she has her head held up high.

It makes him realise that he needs to take up some accountability as well. He needs to make some changes.

“You got this?” he addresses Weaver, who nods wordlessly walking with Ariel.

Killian marches in the opposite direction, heading to Mills’ office. He needs to do something he should have a long while back.

-/-

Emma is struggling to keep her eyes open. She has been waiting for her husband to return for hours and it is well past midnight now. She is half convinced that he’s spending the night in the on-call room, even if he is, in fact, not on-call, just so he could avoid her.

It saddens her to feel so helpless when it comes to her husband. They’ve been together for ages, it should not be so hard. He can’t keep trying to protect her all the time; that’s not how their relationship has been. He knows that she’s strong enough to handle things by herself.

Ruby should have never told Killian anything about her blood pressure. Emma might not say it, but she is worried for the baby. She knew when they found out that they were pregnant, that it would be high risk. She’s not exactly young - she knows the complications that come with a late stage pregnancy. But she’s fairly healthy, and she can take care of herself - or so she’s trying to convince herself.

She rubs absent-mindedly at her chest, her heart heavy with worry. She does not want to think about it - she wants to believe that her husband will come to her if things really get that bad. But as the hours pass, her mind runs rampant with the worst case scenarios. She doesn’t want to think that her husband has fallen off the wagon, so to speak. But the more she thinks about his behaviour the past week, the more she starts to believe that Killian has started drinking again.

If he has, they will deal with it. She will ask him when he gets back home, whenever that is. And they will figure it out. They will be fine. She tries not to overthink, she tries to repeat over-and-over in her mind that they will be okay. She tries to remain calm, knowing that he has to be the one to come to her; that she can’t just jump down his throat.

It’s well past 2 am when she hears the locks click and their front door open. Emma sits up straighter on the couch, putting down the book she was only half-focused on, biting her lip in anticipation.

Killian is almost startled to see her, jumping a bit when he turns from locking up the door to see her sitting in the semi-darkness of the living room, the only light is from the lamp she has on.

“Swan, what’re you doing up? It’s late, love.” He sinks into the couch next to her, closing his eyes and letting out a groan as he stretches his arms above his head, his joints popping. “Gods, I’m exhausted.”

“Where were you?” She winces the moment she says those words, knowing how it might have come across.

His eyes shoot open, his lips pressed thin, she can tell that it came out exactly how she didn’t want it to. “At the hospital.” He sits up, facing her properly. “Where did you think I was?”

Emma sighs, reaching for his hand, letting him know that she didn’t mean to sound accusing. “I didn’t think you were coming home tonight.”

That seems to make the tension in his posture reduce, at least a little. “Yeah...I’m sorry we left things so, erm, uncertain.”

She smiles then, leaning against the soft fabric of the couch. “I know. Me too.” She pauses for a beat. “Let’s go to bed?”

Killian looks surprised, and she isn’t sure if he’s surprised that they aren’t continuing their conversation or because she wants him in bed with her. She doesn’t know what hurts more.

(The bed thing. Definitely the bed thing.)

“Let’s just sleep. It’s been a long day and I just want to crawl under the covers with my husband and fall asleep,” she says, almost a plea. She knows she sounds desperate to hold on to some semblance of normality but she honestly doesn’t care anymore.

She wants him to relent. She just wants them to close their eyes and pretend that everything is still fine. But he looks conflicted, and she almost groans out loud.

“Love, I need to tell you something,” he begins. The trepidation in his voice is not helping her stay calm.

“I know, Killian. Just - let’s talk tomorrow, okay?” she tries, tugging on his hand.

“Wait - You know? How?” His brows furrow, almost confused that she has figured it out. Almost as if he wasn’t sending out blaring signals.

“Killian.” She whines. She can’t help it. She’s several weeks pregnant, she’s had a long day and it’s past 2 am! Tears of frustration sting her eyes - why does he get to decide when they will and won’t talk. She has been wanting to talk since this morning and he choose now?!

“You’re not that discreet, buddy,” she snarls. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me, Killian. You could have come to me and we could have figured it out.”

“Figure- Love, what do you think I wanted to talk to you about?” She wants to slap him. She really just might. How can he still keep pretending?

“Dammit, Jones. I know you’re drinking again.”

Okay, he looks upset now. Maybe she is wrong. Shit shit shit.

Fuck.

“You think I’m drinking again?” he asks, his voice quiet. He’s hurt, she knows he is. Well, she can’t take back what she said. And maybe, she’s not wrong.

“I don’t know what to think. I’m concerned. Just tell me - are you?”

The pause between her question is the longest one she’s experienced. The heaviness in her heart just grows more and more with each passing second, and she is so close to shaking him. Her hand subconsciously reaches for her bump, rubbing it like she would a worry stone, trying to calm herself down. She’s holding her breath, waiting for the blade of the guillotine to drop on their lives.

“No, I am not drinking again, Emma.” Every word rings true, and Emma lets out the breath she was holding. But...there’s an unsaid ‘but’ at the end of his sentence that makes her heart race and her gut clench, and God, how is she expected to keep her blood pressure from sky rocketing.

“There’s more to it.”

Killian nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “I wanted to,” he confesses, staring down at their entwined hands, his thumb running over her knuckles. “Gods, I just wanted a drink so fucking bad, Swan.”

“Baby-”

“After Ava…. I couldn’t do it, anymore. I couldn’t bring myself to get into an OR and operate anymore. I can’t save these kids from the everything out there in world, how am I going to protect our kid from it?” His words break her. It breaks him, too, apparently, because he falls into her arms, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder, tears hot on her skin.

She runs her finger through his hair, her throat tight and it’s so hard to breathe, and how the fuck can this day keep giving her reasons to cry, still. She can’t bring herself to say empty words of assurance, she can’t bring herself to lie, when she’s been asking herself the same question.

How can she be a good mom, when she didn’t even know she was pregnant? How can she be a good mom, when she wants to, in equal parts, be a hands-on mom and a hands-on surgeon? How can she be a good mom, when she couldn’t even tell that her husband was struggling?

“We will do the best we can, Killian,” she whispers against his ear, pressing her lips to the side of his head.

She feels him take a deep breath, pulling away. She swipes at his wet cheeks, her mouth turned down. She feels lost, but she’s at least lost with him.

“I took a sabbatical from work,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“Yeah. For six months.”

“When did you decide this?” She’s not sure if she’s upset or surprised.

“A couple of hours ago. That’s why I’m late. I was discussing it with the chief. I had paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” she repeats, because she doesn’t know what else to say. This is fast - and unexpected. She’s not against it, per se, but, she didn’t even know he was thinking about it. He didn’t even discuss it with her.

“Swan.”

“What?”

“I’d love to know what you’re thinking,” he says, a tremulousness to him, so unlike how self-assured he sounded moments ago. It was giving her whiplash.

“You’ve taken a sabbatical - so you’re not going to the hospital?”

“No, no. I will, for consults. I’m taking a break from surgery; focus on my research with Locksley.”

She hums in the back of her throat, because what else can she say. He should have come to her, the asshole. “Cool, cool. Also, what the fuck?”

He winces, and she doesn’t blame him. He should wince. She’s annoyed. And she’s...confused.

“I should explain.”

“Yeah, that’d help,” she snaps, even if she doesn’t mean to. She rephrases. “I’m sorry. Just - yeah. An explanation would be good.”

“I’ve been sober for a while, right? And I think that just made me cocky? Or something. When Ava died, it was right after your, ah, your fainting incident, and finding out I’m to be a father. It was just all so-” He shudders and she tries not to be too offended. He notices, of course. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that… I was scared. I was fucking terrified. After what Ruby said, I just wanted to stay at home with you and never leave your side until the baby’s here. And that’s impossible, I know.”

“Yeah, you better.”

He huffs out a laugh, and the mood lightens a tad. “I didn’t want to worry you, Emma. And for that, I’m sorry.”

-/-

She is kissing him, and he is mostly surprised, but he would be a fool if you think he doesn’t respond almost immediately. He’s pretty sure he even whimpered a bit. Her lips are soft and inviting against his, and it is just that simple. It’s simple, and neither of them wished to take it further than that. It is tender and sweet, and just what the doctor ordered apparently, because he feels like he can breathe again since that evening.

She rests her forehead against his a moment later, a smile dancing on her lips. “I just needed a moment,” she says, pulling back and drawing her knees to her chest, resting her cheek on it.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I wish you had just come to me. I wish you’d talk to me. When we got married, we promised that we’d not keep things from each other,” she says softly. He knows she’s trying not to sound disappointed, but he knows her well enough to sense that she is.

“I know. I was trying to handle it myself.”

Emma hums, but he knows she’s hurt.

“Hey, it’s not that I can’t come to you,” he says.

“It’s that you didn’t want to.”

He hates that it’s the truth. He didn’t. “Yeah.”

“I know that you don’t like talking to me about your drinking. I know that you don’t want to worry me. But you not telling me things, that still worries me, Killian.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She makes a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. “So, you’re on sabbatical?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you please say something else except, ‘yeah’?” she snaps.

“I love you.”

“Charming. But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But it warrants saying. All the time, forever.” She smiles at that, and that’s all he ever wants, in an ‘all the time, forever’ kind of way.

He sucks in a deep breath. “I think I need to go back to therapy.” It’s hard for him to admit, and he knows that it’s harder for his wife to hear it.

But in all these years of being together and a team, he has never found it easy to talk to her about his alcoholism. And it’s not because he thinks Emma will be disillusioned of him. She knows all the dark and gritty parts of him, and she’s accepted them as much as the rest. It’s just - it’s unnecessary to worry her with every single detail. To make her feel helpless.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she confesses. “But this parenting thing? We’re both in it together. We will make mistakes, and it won’t always be the best. But I still need you, okay? I need you to be okay, too”

“I know. And we are in this parenting thing together.”

And he knows that they have more to talk about. This isn’t the end, it isn’t going to be rainbows and sunshine. Emma’s still having a high risk pregnancy, and he’s still an alcoholic and he still very much needs a drink. But knowing the odds that they have crossed - his alcoholism, the hospital shooting, her father passing away, her accident in her final year of residency, his father coming back into their lives - all of it, just shows that they’ve fought for their love every step of the way. They weren’t destined, real life rarely works that way, but goddammit, he’s unbelievably lucky that he gets to spend his life with Emma Swan.

He’ll be damned if he squanders it away.

“Ready to head to bed?” he asks through a yawn.

“God, yes. Can you carry me?” she requests, raising her arms at him.

“Yeah, no. That’s not happening. I’m far too exhausted. If I don’t drop you, I will probably injure you.” He pulls her up, letting her rest most of her weight on him, listening to her sleepy whining as they head to their bedroom.

Once they’re settled, her head on his chest and her bump resting lightly against his hip, sound asleep, he thinks once again about how grateful he is for having her in his life.

They’re not perfect. But they fit, they make it work.

And that’s enough for him.

#cs ff #doctor's au #i literally finished this with one day to spare #there's just so much grey's anatomy in this it's not even funny

29 notes · View notes

krakasigurdardottir-blog · 7 years ago

Text

CONUNDRUM

pairing: Ivar/Aud genre: Angst/Romance/Family warnings: Possible major character death, depression, drugs abuse, toxic behavior, parenthood, single motherhood, self-loading, anger issues, disabilities, physical and emotional pain. Words: Prologue- 2660

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365384/chapters/30605166

***

He's a spiteful and vengeful man, an outcast, alone in the labyrinth of his anger and remorse. She's a single mother of a special needs child trying to navigate the brutality of her daily reality, a daydreamer lost in a crowded room, unable to express her true desires not even to herself. He's a savage spirit, She's a kind soul. He's has nothing to lose, and she has nothing to gain.

A conundrum indeed.

***

Prologue:

S I L L A G E

***

On the day Ragnar returned to me I told him of my vision.

That I was afraid to lay with him, for I had had a dream, and I had seen if we made love on the next three nights I would bear him a monster. I do not know what made me said the things I said to him that day, I spoke them, but it seems now as if our fate was already sealed.

Of course, Ragnar -being Ragnar- chuckled softly, smirked deviously, and teased me to no end about my old hag superstitions, dismissing each and every one of my words. You see? That’s the thing about my husband, he never listens to my advise, and he doesn’t believe in my “gift”.

But right then, neither did I. At least, I didn’t want to. In his embrace, all the fears in my mind and all the sorrows in my heart were banished to oblivion, and as his arms surrounded mine, I found peace again.

My happiness wasn’t meant to last for long anyway.

I sensed this pregnancy was different from the moment it began, but Ragnar reassured me -I was overreacting, the child was fine -he told me- and I just felt anguished and strange because he was sure we where expecting a girl this time around, and surely a daughter took more energy from her mother in order to become strong. He has been hoping for a baby girl for a long time now, for even if he never talked about her anymore, I knew he missed his first daughter terribly, and he seemed so happy and joyful with the prospect of it, I did not dare to contradict him.

You can imagine his disappointment when the doctor told us waving at the black and white screen it was, without a hint of doubt, a boy. “A big, strong, healthy boy, just like his brothers” he promised looking straightly into my face.

But then again, what do the doctors know?

First came the pain… so much pain, and then the unnatural stillness… My baby was so calm back then… but nonetheless I dreaded every doctor appointment, and every time, when they told me all was just fine I plagued them with questions and concerns, I insisted Ragnar endlessly into doing all the tests possibly known. So, when finally the diagnosis was made I’m not sure why it was so much of a shock to me.

Osteogenesis Imperfecta.

Brittle bones disease.

We were absolutely devastated. The new scans showed several fractures in his legs, both of his femurs were crashed, and that was just a small glimpse of all the suffering to come… As we could not determinate the extent of his injuries, and the level of his condition, the specialist sat us down and told us to prepare ourselves for a fatal end before birth, or, being strongly optimistic, on the firsts months of his short and difficult life. From the moment of his arrival to this world our baby would endure incredible pain, and quite possibly, would never be able to walk at all. And if, by some miracle, he survived into adulthood, Terms like “probable dwarfism”, “acquired deafness” and “abnormal development” would be part of our vocabulary on a daily basis.

At this point, he advised us to seriously consider terminating the pregnancy.

It was out of the question for me. I wish I could say the same for Ragnar.

We argued day and night, we cried, we fought, we said hurtful and cruel things to each other, he told me our son would die anyway, “what is the point in pretending otherwise?” and if he survived, he told me, it would be much worse, for he would be weak and deformed, a cripple, and everyone would stare and be cruel to him. “What kind of a life could he live?” he asked me with tears on those beloved blue eyes.

I understood then, my husband was already grieving. And I hated him for it, I hated him with a passion I never knew I had within me. Because even if what he said was true, I didn’t care. That baby was already my son and I loved him just the same.

I wanted him.

I know, what a selfish bitch I am, am I not? Believe me, I’ve been told worse.

Even to Siggy, my dearest and oldest friend among those who I call family now, I couldn’t bear to listen. She told me it would be a mercy to him, but by then I would have rather died than take her advise. I felt my little boy growing inside me. He was alive, and I knew he would be a fighter, a warrior.

I have never been as fierce as my father nor yet as brave as my mother, but I stood firm on my determination, and at the end, I won. At least I felt that way at the moment.

I knew my husband resented me for taking away his choice on the matter, but I was sure, with time, his heart would warm and he could find the love to understand me and even be grateful for my stubbornness.

He did not.

Our son arrived almost one month early in this brutal and vicious world, premature and small, I knew he would need to spend months developing in the safer environment of an incubator, but I craved for a little touch, so the nurse placed the frail creature on my arms as she instructed us to “handle him with care”. That sentence would hang above our heads as a Damocles sword for the rest of our life.

I neared him to my breast and he opened his eyes, those big and bewitching eyes, and there was so much blue in them even the white surrounding his irises seemed completely cobalt-stained; and yet, they were so similar to Ragnar’s I could swear it was my husband giving me a playful grin just before starting sucking with a demanding need. I took a great comfort in that resemblance, and I wanted to show it to Ragnar, a little -yet precious- renewed joy in my heart.

I handed him the baby, and in doing so the blankets covering his little body felt down revealing a couple of thin and twisted legs. Ragnar’s eyes flew open in surprise, a repressed grimace of pity and disgust showing through his handsome face, he tried to disguise it quickly kissing our baby’s head, caressing and folding him again. But as soon as his hands placed a little too much pressure on him a horrendous and heavy “CRACK” resounded through the room.

The sound of your baby bones smashing to dust hooks to your brain as a spreading stain of oil. From that moment onwards, our lives became a living hell, I could only listen our little boy screaming in pain and fury as they took him immediately to the first of many surgeries to come. I was powerless, nothing I could do would spear him now. And it was my fault entirely.

“After all, your prophecy was right ” Those were Ragnar’s only words to me on the day our son was born, and then he left the room with tears in his blaming eyes.

I had never felt more alone.

“His name is Ivar”- I whispered into the void.

From the diaries of Aslaug Völsunga Lothbrok,

September 1985, Stavanger.

***

He runs into the mists without fear, after all, the mists are just the passage to her, and so, he knows he doesn’t need to be afraid. The Ravens will guide him like they always do. Without hesitation or pain. Without sorrow.

Without shame.

He runs fast and agile as sweat rolls down his skin in thick, salty beads. His strong long legs pushing him far away from everything, he doesn't care about his soared muscles, he pushes harder, always harder, the wild wind blowing against his face, his bare feet feeling the warm sand escaping through his fingers, his heart throbbing inside his chest at full speed. He does not mind. Not a little bit. He is free.

Ivar runs as he always does, in his dreams.

And then, as he always does, he wakes up.

A raspy and wet tongue licking his ear is not like he had imagined it will happen though.

The persistent sound of his alarm punching his sore head as a hammer reminds him is time to start his morning routine…. Gods, He’s getting older, he cannot hold his scotch like he used to. As he silences the fucking iPhone he pats the Great Dean head with parsimony.

“Ok ok! ok, old boy, come here” he throws the stuffed pillows and the sheets away to make space for Odin to jump in. He knows the old man does not allow it usually, but who cares? As he’s in the cabin visiting he will do as he pleases.

He searches inside the drawer of the bedside table until he found what he’s looking for. He opens the small travel pillbox as he evaluates for a second his pain levels on this cloudy morning. The ache in his knees worsened with all this humidity.

What a great-fuckingtastic day to be in the middle of this nothingness of mountains and lakes.

He grabs a couple of extra ibuprofens and his normal dose of painkillers and he swallows them in one gulp with the golden liquid that still remains in the glass. He’s sure he’s not supposed to mix, but frankly, he does not give a shit.

While trying to relax waiting for the medication to kick in he grabs the lighter and lazily lits a cigarette. His bare chest expanding as he breaths the familiar and shooting scent. Odin looks at him reprobatory with his big yellow eyes. Ivar chuckles and turns his head slightly to the left, mimicking the dog position.

“Now even you judge me?” The dog just raises his brows as if trying to prove he’s not impressed.

What a great day indeed.

His sight stops abruptly upon seeing where Odin’s tongue is leaving a trace of slobber on the mattress, his last night reading scattered dangerously close to the dog warm body. He quickly takes the thin black covered books away and he caresses them briefly to his heart, that has stopped abruptly for one second as he has faced the very idea of losing those diaries.

His mother diaries.

He has read them a thousand times… and yet… yet, every time, every fucking time he reads those firsts pages, an iron fist punch him hard in the stomach. She started writing a mere week after he was born… how hollow and painful was her life in those days to throw herself with such a passion into the white pages of a notebook?

He’s not prone to self-pity. There’s nothing to win from it anyway, but today he cannot hold a pressuring though from his aching mind.

That he brought her nothing but despair.

And yet, she loved him. She truly did.

And he misses her. He truly does.

He wonders if she’s resting in peace, knowing she is finally avenged.

Most probably not.

She’s either completely gone and therefore not present to have an opinion or worst, she’s sad and disappointed at what remains of her family.

He lets out the last puff of sweet smoke as he ends his cigarette.

Enough. It is enough.

With a couple of smooth moves, he pushes himself into a straight position, and then transfer into the sleek black wheelchair by grabbing on to the side of it and shifting his body over using the strength of his arms. The muscles in his upper body the exact opposite of his lower half.

As he goes on with what is needed to be done in the bathroom the soft in-crescendo beats of Apocalyptica’s cello fills the air with the last pieces of his new album. Music always soothes him, and half an hour later Ivar emerges from the scalding shower and quickly transfers again into the bed after grabbing his clothes for the day. Odin seems to be missing, and he guesses by now the giant dog will have let himself run free through the mount and fields that surround the cabin. He’s not particularly worried, after all, the back door is never locked for that same reason. The animal does as he likes for some hours every morning and sometimes even at night, but he always comes back.

As every one of them, he’s a wild soul trapped within a small mundane cage.

He carelessly – as carelessly as this process allows anyway- dresses into an all-black outfit. He feels like it fits the day mood and besides- being lost in the middle of nowhere is no reason to be tatty.

After giving it a quick thought he decides to risk it with the braces for the day. The old man doesn’t seem to be awake yet and he can use some good breakfast for once. And as Ivar have experienced recently his old shabby kitchen is not too wheels-friendly. So, KAFO and crutches for the day it seems.

***

The sun is already high in the grey sky when Floki finally makes an appearance into the kitchen guided by the delicious smell of crackling bacon and sizzling eggs.

“Happy Bi-“ He has no time to finish as his godson interrupts him quite rudely.

“Don’t mention it” He barks, heavy annoyance sounding like a threat in the suddenly tense atmosphere.

For once the older one seems taken aback by the vivid anger that comes off the bitter young man in front of him. He’s used to Ivar’s outburst – even when with time he has mastered theme and is less prone to lose his temple in front of others- but is on rare occasions when he finds himself the target of that overflowing fury.

He has no time to elaborate an answer as Ivar shrugs and drops his face into the palm of his hands. His crutches resting on the kitchen island as he leans into a high stool for stability.

“Sorry, really bad morning” The voice comes muffled through his fingers as Ivar slides his hands with a nervous gesture that he tries to conceal by adjusting the strands of hair behind his ears. The young man tries to smile dismissively. “Can we pretend is just another stupid cold day in this stupid cold place?”

The older one nods silently, there’s no more explanation needed. He takes a glimpse for a brief second of the three smiling faces frozen forever on the small wooden frame on the shelve. His sweet Helga, his little Borda, and his own young reflexion smiling freely for the camera as they play in the snow.

Some days are harder than others. And that he understood quite well.

The realization struck him like a thunder then, and suddenly he is painfully aware that today is not only a birthday for his godson.

Today marks a dividing line on Ivar's life.

Today he becomes 33 years old, and therefore, from this day onwards, he will have lived more than half of his days without parents in this world.

“Come on, move your lazy ass to the table and let’s enjoy whatever you’ve managed to left unburned by now” He says as he grabs the plates and starts crossing the room to the small circular kitchen table. After a few seconds, he hears a soft sight and the familiar sound of his accurate and slow movement as the metal bars of his braces scratches the wooden floor.

The boy will be alright. Floki will make sure of it.

He will have a family again, and he will be ready when the time comes.

And then the old and lonely Floki will be allowed to rest in peace, he will go back to his family knowing he has fulfilled his promises.

And finally, all will be alright.

#ivar's heathen army #ivar vikings #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings fanfic #history vikings #alex hogh andersen #aud the deep minded #modern setting #alternate universe #disability #drugs abbuse #toxic behavior #lots of angst

55 notes · View notes

roxy-davenport · 8 years ago

Text

Supernatural Preferences- TV Shows

A/N: I tried to include everyone’s man or woman even if I’m currently not a fan of that character.

CROWLEY (got pic from Google, played around with lighting and tint)

Crowley to me is a dichotomy of dark and light. He can be cruel and evil; after all, he’s the King of Hell…duh. But he also has a loving, gentle side. At his core, he just wants to be loved. That dichotomy would also be present in his TV show habits. He would naturally gravitate towards darker shows, horror shows if you will like: “American Horror Story,” “Channel Zero,” “Penny Dreadful,” “Jekyll,” “Hannibal,” “Gotham,” “Freddy’s Nightmare,” “Boardwalk Empire,” and “Utopia” to name a few. He would love darker horror, the more twisted the better. But at the same time, he would also gravitate towards soap operas like he did when he was hit with purified blood. He would be caught up in the drama of it all hoping the two characters find the love he can’t. He would love a good love story where the characters are happy in the end and have a family. He would gravitate towards characters that had a dark past but were able to rise above it and find love. He would love, “House,” since House is as sarcastic as Crowley is. He would find the character almost a kindred spirit.

BENNY

Benny wants to live a normal life but can’t get away from his vampire urges, which he struggles with daily. He might watch shows like: “True Blood,” curious to see why people like the show and how humans portray his kind. He might also like shows with a character that’s struggling with an addiction or a horrible choice of some kind, or a flawed character that is trying to survive in the crazy world around him like: “Rectify,” “Justified,” “Californication,” “Breaking Bad,” “Elementary,” “Ray Donovan,” “Shameless,” “Mom,” “Mad Men,” He would identify with the characters and the struggles they go through. He might even find in the characters the strength to keep fighting.

DEAN

Dean is a very closed off person preferring to avoid emotions and relationships but everyone needs to be loved and cared for so I imagine in his spare time he would have eclectic tastes. Sometimes, he’d gravitate towards action, preferring to get lost in a fantasy world, grumbling about how that’s not the way you kill a witch. Since the rules of the world would be so different from the real life, he would consider it an escape where he doesn’t have to fee l… he can just watch. When he wants to feel, he would see soap operas like, “Doctor Sexy MD.” That would be his guilty pleasure. He would feel ashamed at needing such exaggerated emotions to bring out his own but glad at the same time to be able to feel something real. He would look on it as an escape from his tough exterior, a safe way to let his emotions out. Maybe he’d also secretly watch romcom TV shows like “Pushing Daisies” or chick flicks like “Gossip Girl” or “Pretty Little Liars,” but this secret he would take to his grave. No one would ever know.

SAM

Sam loves to use his brain so the shows he watches have to make him think. He loves cop procedural dramas and tries to figure out the case before the episode finishes. If he can’t, he is frustrated with himself and reads up on crime scene analysis and killers in general to do better next time. He watches all the cop procedural dramas on every station. He also loves dramas that make him think like “Sherlock” or “Doctor Who.” He has a geeky side as well so he may like comic book TV shows like “Lucifer”, “Gotham”, and “Smallville,” and so on. He would also like cult classic TV shows. He would be able to quote his favorite TV shows.

GABRIEL

He’s big on drama, the bigger and more grandiose the better. So that would mean comedies at times, “How I Met Your Mother” and “Seinfeld,” “Modern Family,” “Family Guy,” the more contrived the better. He’d like reality TV shows, soap operas (all of them), dramas like “Empire” or “Vampire Diaries.” He may even enjoy, “Dear White People.” He LOVES human drama, the more heightened, the better.

CHARLIE

She is a geek at heart who has a particular fondness for fantasy. She loves the “Big Bang Theory,” seeing herself as Penny. She would also enjoy: “Doctor Who,” “Roswell,” “Smallville,” “Gotham,” “Blacklist,” “Quantum Leap,” “Silicon Valley,” “Buffy,” “Angel,” “Charmed,” “Torchwood,” “Firefly,” “Warehouse 13,” “Star Trek,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “Orphan Black,” “Lost Girl” and “Farscape,” to name a few.

MEG (got the gif from Goggle)

She may be all-tough on the exterior but she’s just looking for her soulmate, her unicorn…Cas. So romance for this girl, all kinds of romance whether it be in crime shows or horror. She’s fascinated with the idea of tragic love stories. She loves a good cry and some feels. “Nashville,” “Parenthood,” “Dead Like Me,” “Our Miss Brooks,” “Ace Lightning,” “Doctor Who,” “Skins,” “Buffy,” “Lost Girl,” “Cupid,” “Pushing Daisies,” the Cole and Phoebe arc on “Charmed,” “The Handmaid’s Tale,” “Orange is the New Black,” “Catastrophe,” “Veronica Mars,” “You’re the Worst.”

LOTS OF CHARACTERS UNDER THE CUT!!!!

RUBY (got the pic from Google)

She would gravitate toward stories that feature strong female characters but, unlike Abaddon, not strong women who fought against impossible odds and won or struggled to win in whatever way that would mean for the show. Ruby liked women who were darker, women who manipulated their male counterparts, or evil witches, women she could identify with – “Salem,” “Penny Dreadful,” “Bitten,” “Lost Girl,” “Deadly Women,” “Gotham,” “Once Upon a Time,” “American Horror Story,” “True Blood.”

ABADDON (got the pic from Google, edited it and brightened it)

She’s the Queen bee and used to getting what she wants so she gravitates towards strong female characters who take charge and take the world by storm. She only sees shows where there are strong female characters: “Dear White People,” “Orphan Black,” “Orange is the New Black,” “How to Get Away With Murder,” “Hex,” “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” “Dark Angel,” “Tru Calling,” “Haven,” “Revenge,” “Scandal,” “Lizzie Borden Chronicles,” “Madame Secretary,” “Strange Empire,” “Rebellion,” “Ashes to Ashes,” “Rectify,” “Jessica Jones,” “Bomb Girls,” “Cable Girls,” “Bletchley Circle,” and “Rita” to name a few. She might watch Buffy and find it amusing that a short waft of a girl can take on the world and stop an apocalypse. She’d chuckle every time she saw Buffy throw down a huge foe.

ROWENA (got the pic from Google)

She’s a strong female character in her own right and one hell of a witch so naturally she would gravitate towards shows with strong female characters like Abaddon does. Rowena would also watch all the witch dramas she could get her hands on. She would want to see how her kind is portrayed on the show, only to get exasperated that the show didn’t explore the characters fully or used contrived cliches when referring to witches. Each time, she would be hopeful that this new show would get it right. Some shows got some things right and others didn’t. She found “Bewitched,” rather humorous.

CAIN (got the pic from Google)

Cain has been around and has seen it all. He isn’t much for electronic devices of any kind. He doesn’t even have a TV or a CD player. He has a gramophone to play old records. He hates technological advances thinking the past is simpler and holds more magic. So he would gravitate towards movies played at retro theaters. He’d hang around town for film festivals especially film noir. I don’t think he’d watch any television programs.

CASTIEL (got the gif from Google)

His goal is to understand humans better so to meet that need, he would be interested in sitcoms and period dramas because they would offer glimpses into the human condition. He would study the facial expressions, the emotions, the clothes, the choices they make, and the constant drama they find themselves in. He would start to draw patterns and conclusions. He might watch, “Downton Abbey,” “Z: The Beginning of Everything,” “How I Met Your Mother,” “Seinfeld,” “Cable Girls,” “Dear White People,” “Bomb Girls,” “Rebellion.” “Strange Empire,” “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” “The Tudors,” “How to Get Away With Murder,” and “Big Bang Theory,” to name a few.

JOHN WINCHESTER (got the gif from Google)

He’s a man’s man so he’d enjoy any show with explosions and tons of action, the bigger the better. He’s not too savvy on TV shows, preferring movies but he’d love the old “Hulk,” and serials in general, featuring loners going into town and saving people, mirroring his own life. Maybe he’s watch to make himself feel better for leaving the boys and sacrificing everything for the greater good, for revenge or maybe just to see something familiar. Maybe he’d even enjoy “Game of Thrones,” and get lost in the action and drama of it all.

LUCIFER

At his core, Lucifer is a prideful being so he would gravitate towards what we would consider referential shows about himself, big surprise. He would love to see how humans portray the devil – think “Lucifer,” “the Exorcist,” episodes of “Tales From the Darkside,” episodes of “Tales of the Crypt,” as well as “666 Park Avenue.” He would be delighted to see his character on the TV – only growing frustrated and angry every time they get him wrong, which might end up with Lucifer requesting a TV producer to sell his soul to him for fame. Lucifer would happily honor this deal by feeding him an accurate portrayal of the devil in a TV show. He would get a kick out of “Damien,” wishing he had a son to pass on his legacy.

Tagging a couple of peeps to get the word out

Forevers @purgatoan, @killerofthesouth, @charliebradbury1104, @chaos-and-the-calm67, @chelsea072498 @everyday-supernatural-af @kalliravenne @toogardenenthusiast @winchesterprincessbride @one-shots-supernatural @take-me-tonirvana @hellsmother @ellen-reincarnated1967 @faegal04 @deals-with-demons @mamaredd123 @atc74 @hamartiamacguffin @donnaintx @love-kittykat21 @impala-dreamer @evansrogerskitten @lucifer-in-leather @hiswickedkitty @riversong-sam @rosie-winchester

Assorted Peeps: @webcricket @faegal04 @faith-in-dean @ruprecht0420 @jesspfly @donnaintx @nothin-after-79 @faegal04 @faith-in-dean @bennyyh. @ruprecht0420 @supernatural-jackles. @jesspfly@donnaintx. @amanda-teaches @salvachester, @mrswhozeewhatsis @jayankles @sis-tafics, @idreamofhazel, @skybinx-blog @whispersandwhiskerburn @notnaturalanahi @for-the-love-of-dean, @deansleather, @deandoesthingstome, @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious, @babypieandwhiskey, @deantbh, @pinknerdpanda, @wayward-mirage, @luciisthebest, @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, @nichelle-my-belle, @plaidstiel-wormstache, @kittenofdoomage, @sunriserose1023, @wheresthekillswitch, @envydean, @raspberrymama, @ravengirl94, @bcr36, @crowley-you-sinnamon-roll, @talesmaniac89, @scheherazades-horcrux, @ajacentlee, @chelsea072498

@bkwrm523, @whispersandwhiskerburn, @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname, @wi-deangirl77, @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki, @fandommaniacx, @mysaintsasinner, @winchester-writes, @vintagevalentinexx, @itsemmyb, @crzcorgi, @deerlululucy, @growleytria, @faith-in-dean, @for-the-love-of-dean, @gadreelsforbiddenfruit, @trenchcoats-and-bees, @curliesallovertheplace, @winchester-writes, @thebunkerismyhome, @feelmyroarrrr, @winchesters-princess, @tia58, @katnharper, @winchestersmolder @howmanytuesdaysdidyouhave, @babypieandwhiskey, @marasficrecs, @damalseer @nixie-ravenwillow, @karlamoriarty, @revwinchester, @whydoyouwantmetosaymyname, @wayward-mirage, @klaineaholic, @hexparker

#supernatural preferences #crowley preferences #benny preferences #dean preferences #dean winchester preferences #sam preferences #cain preferences #rowena preferences #charlie preferences #sam winchester preferences #spn preferences #john winchester preferences #lucifer preferences #castiel preferences #meg preferences #ruby preferences #gabriel preferences #abaddon preferences

77 notes · View notes

thesims4blogger · 8 years ago

Text

The Sims 4: New Game Patch (May 25th, 2017)

Update: 05/25/2017 – PC Version 1.30.103.1010 / Mac Version 1.30.103.1210

Hello Simmers,

Welcome to the base game release for Parenthood! Which is all about those quiet family moments. Taking time to enjoy when things settle down. When all becomes quiet, and you can just take it all in, reflecting upon life…

..er, wait sorry. That’s like 20-30 years after parenthood begins (results may vary).

I meant to say, this is a hectic time. A time of crazy, noise filled chaos, where the concept of quiet exists for only 3 hours between 2 and 5 am. And where tension is worn like a badge of honor! So wear yours with pride, and let’s start with just a little bit of what’s new in this release…

What’s New?

The Load / Save menu has been updated to be… modern.

Save slots now use household thumbnails instead of a text list

Save backups can now be restored via this UI by clicking on the Recover Save option from the Load Game dialog.

Users can now see where on disk a particular save file exists by hovering over the File icon in the Load Game dialog.

You can now rename your save from the Load Game dialog.

The auto-save feature has been removed as it was not functioning properly.

The Save As dialog has also been modified to show thumbs.

The first option in the Save As dialog is to be used to create a brand new save, but you can also choose to overwrite existing saves.

No more will you have to remember which save your Goopy-Gilscarbo household was in – it’s all visual now!

Thumbnails however will be blank until the save is opened, and re-saved post patch release.

You can also click the button to copy the path to your clipboard.

The feature as originally implemented was confusing and did not function as expected by users.

Save now occurs explicitly at the players request either by choosing to save when exiting to the Main Menu, Manage Worlds, or Quitting. Or by choosing Save or Save As from the ESC menu.

New Lights in Buy Mode.

Three new lights can be found under Ceiling Lamps in the Object by Function, Lighting sort.

Round Confection Ceiling Light

Square Confection Ceiling Light

Campanulate Ceiling Lamp

And today I learned that campanulate is a real word…

And then on to what issues did we address…

General Issues

Children can now smash a dollhouse that is currently in use by another child…

Sims will no longer get a whim to get married if they are already married.

The Successful Lineage aspiration (within the Family category) will no longer fail to recognize if a child had previously completed the skill and aspiration requirements of the 3rd and 4th step.

Babies will no longer change skin tone when they are picked up.

The Georgina Outdoor Lamppost With Double Hanging Planter can now be turned off by the player.

Silence phone once again will silence your phone…

Along those lines (the texting part)… Children should no longer receive inappropriate text messages from adults.

The Connections reward trait will no longer prevent your Sim from purchasing career rewards unlocked by career levels earlier than the boosted connections career level.

The Cu Cu Cachoo display skull now costs 175 Simoleons.

Performance improvement: Movement level 1 toddlers should no longer contemplate the use of objects on floors they can't reach.

Toddlers will now also visually drink from their sippy cup when seated on the ground.

Fixed a Sim reset issue that could occur when one Sim chose to autonomously tell a story to another Sim.

Sims are swimming laps again.

Sims with the masculine preference for clothing will no longer randomize into feminine full body swimsuits while in Create a Sim.

We fixed an issue that could cause a toddler to inherit the emotional whim of nearby adult Sims after loading into a lot, which could result with the toddler acquiring a flirty emotional whim.

Sims facial features should no longer adjust after selecting a different eye color swatch.

Young Adult and Adult lifespans have been increased by 4 days each to accommodate the addition of Toddlers.

Industrial Reinforced beams will no longer appear through the ceiling when placed on the floor below.

With cheats turned on, you should now be able to modify NPCs in Create a Sim by shift clicking on them and choosing "Modify in CAS".

Lights that have had their color and intensity modified, and then set to auto-light, will no longer revert to their default color and intensity setting.

You should no longer have to reload your lot or travel in order to get fresh cuttings to properly function from within your inventory.

We fixed an issue with how the stats panel appeared…

We have adjusted the hairstyles for our premade Sims (such as the Goths) to not change drastically during outfit changes, where it would not make sense for their hair to change.

PlantSims are now able to sleep in tents.

You should be able to once again share to Twitter from the game.

…because frustration is best served shared.

It’s simple folks, “Happy spouse, happy house.”

Getting a child to do “work” once is tough enough, getting them to do it a second time… I’d suggest hitting up the kid exchange for a trade in.

Um, you still receive the calls, you just won't hear them.

Well, you can hear the call of course, just not the ring, beeping, or musical stylings of Lorde Swift von Iggy-Flay …

Of course, I guess you don’t really hear, it’s more of a read…

Kind of a one way thing, with a yes no response mechanism.

Who invented this type of phone anyway?

We have fixed various possible ways in which children might receive inappropriate text messages… if you are still seeing this issue, please let us know.

In addition , care was leveled upon the career levels in order to carefully level the rewards in care of the connections.

The walrus is not for sale.

Highly intelligent toddlers may still contemplate their place in the universe.

Toddlers with high wisdom may still contemplate their daily movements.

High strength toddlers may move in contemplation.

Toddlers with unusually high charisma may seek contemplation of others.

And highly dexterous toddlers may contemplate how they might also be like Mike.

Previously they would only drink it through some sort of liquid teleportation behavior that defies explanation.

Blue eyes? Of course sir, let me just push your nose this way a touch. No? Then brown eyes? Yes, wonderful choice sir. Let me just pull your jaw out a bit. No? But sir, no need to raise your voice, you chose brown, not me. If you wanted your jaw to stay chiseled you should have chosen green!

Unless you have a bad contractor… then there’s really only one thing you can do, get yourself a nice MLT.

My town? Hawaiian shirts and bunny slippers!

…the stats panel.

It's a button in the upper right of the Simology panel? Shows stats? And stuff…

…about your Sim, you, things you may have done…

It's been there since the very beginning.

Ok trust me, we fixed a visual something or other there. It’s better now.

This issue was fixed for all in tents and per pose.

Vampires

Vampire ears on the base form of a Sim will no longer disappear when the Sim enters live mode.

Fixed an issue that could prevent a Sim from gaining access to others' homes when they have the Eternally Welcome vampire power.

Sims that have been turned into Vampires should no longer have a non-functional age bar.

Toddlers born with vampire parents, will now maintain the eye color they were born with (or that the player had modified them to be) even after loading them into Create a Sim.

Eternally Welcome, except this time. And… that other time. Oh, and remember after the house warming party? Yea… definitely not eternally welcome.

City Living

A Love Guru from the Romance Festival that is married into a household will no longer remain immortal.

I’m reminded of the philosopher Socrates, when after an eventful night of revelry, he said “I married what?”

Vintage Glamour Stuff

Light from the Fiery Façade fireplace will no longer shine through the back of the fireplace.

Butlers will no longer appear on retail lots when they should be at home... butler’izing.

Asset Issues in Create a Sim

Hey folks, so along the lines of our Create a Stuff Pack program, I’m going to take a moment in this section of issues to provide a little insight into what the issue is, and who on the team might address them, so that you can see a little into how to evaluate an issue.

I’ll start by providing information about what the issue was and what was fixed, and then provide some insight into who would address the issue.

These two issues are considered tagging issues.

You can now wear necklaces with yfTop_SP08ShirtButtonOpen.

You can now apply a bracelet to your right and left wrist when wearing the level 5 business career outfit yfBody_EF01BusinessSuitMed!

Issues like these are fixed by the production team. In both of these cases, an asset was set to restrict the placement of another asset.

Production modified the tags, and now these assets no longer restrict placement.

These three issues are considered clipping issues. They generally appear to the player as one asset poking through another asset (and in some cases the character model itself).

Fixed a clipping issue with GP01BootFoldover and various pants.

ymHair_GP04Slashed will no longer poke through yuHat_GP04Toque.

ymShoes_AnkleSquareToe will no longer clip with ymBody_EF04ShirtSkull.

These issues are fixed by the art team. And are generally addressed by modifying one of the offending asset’s geometry (moving stuff around), or addressing something like weighting (how an asset lays against other assets).

The highlight issue fixed here, turns out is also a clipping asset issue.

Fixed a broken highlight issue that would occur when hovering over yfHair_ShortShave and yfHair_BuzzCutNatural while in Create a Sim.

It could be engineering, since highlights are handled by code, however in this case, it was a geometry issue with the hair assets that created the highlight issue.

This is a character layering issue.

Female Sims with a masculine frame should no longer have two belly buttons when in Create a Sim.

Keeping this short, but Sims have layers (like an Ogre). And if the wrong layer is added to the stack, you get issues like this. This issue is an engineering fix that required a different layer to be used in order to properly create the Sim.

This is a geometry vertex issue.

Fixed an issue that could cause some eye presets to stretch the geometry of various hair assets improperly.

This issue is addressed by an artist, and in this case was caused by a single vert (the angular point of a polygon) that was being incorrectly shared with a part of the face that caused the hair to stretch.

This is a texture issue.

We fixed an issue with a visible seam on the torso of female Sims.

This issue is addressed by an artist, and required the artist to modify the texture of the base Sim model. The texture being the paint over that makes a Sim look like a Sim, and not a wire mesh. And the base Sim model being the bare Sim without any assets.

Hope that provided just a little insight into some issues, and who fixes them. I know this focused primarily on asset issues, but I just wanted to dip our toes into the waters of development…

…wow, that sounded really cheesy.

Many apologies, and thanks again for your patience and time!

-SimGuruGnome

#news #the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 #game patch

89 notes · View notes

13luecloud · 8 years ago

Text

Clichés - Vernon

Title: Clichés

Member: Vernon

Genre: Fluff, childhood friend!au

Summary: Ironic how one person can make your most hated thing as your favorite. The credits go to your childhood friend, Chwe Hansol.

Word count: 2.2k

Notes[!!]

After a long while, another piece I’m quite satisfied with the outcome with.

One of the few continously pushed back ideas on my memo. ((Yeah, just “one” of the few.))

I do hope you’d come to like this one too. :D

You hated clichés. You despised and loathed them to the moon and back. In addition to being everywhere, their predictable nature murdered potential interesting plotlines for you. A poor character does not marry a rich personality for love–social classifications existed since who-knows-how-long. Love at first sight? More like infatuation at first sight, because people don’t have the whole of their selves plastered on their fashion sense. Individuals by now should do better than to glance at mirrors or to even step in comfort rooms in a horror setting. Your peers never murmured the words “successful childhood love” whenever you stood nearby, after first handedly experiencing how earful your rant was the first time they slipped. You tried, yes you tried considering their little bitty possibilities, but in the end you jerked away from retrying. They were too farfetched for reality’s hard slapped truths.

And you hated that they–both cliché and reality–jabbed you.

“Good morning!”

“What’s so good in the morning?” you groaned as you rubbed the drowsiness off of your eyes.

“Ohhh~” your younger sister sang as if amused. “Looks like someone is grumpy.”

“Do not get me started, kid,” you warned with a pointed finger aimed at her.

Kyungcha shrugged. “Well anyways, you’ll have to wash that grumpy mood off of your pretty face by noon. Today is the day after all.” She took a final slurp of her hot chocolate before jogging up the staircase.

You groaned in irritation as your face scrunched. The reminder was not necessary as that was exactly why you had a bad start of the day. Today’s celebration belonged with the many events you wished you didn’t need to celebrate.

The wall’s hanging digital clock displayed red digits of ten and five. An hour and fifty-five minutes later, your attending family members would depart to this year’s party’s venue. Flashbacks of your failed protests from years before came to mind, and inferring that this year won’t be anything different, you lead yourself back upstairs, your heavy feet almost stomping.

Your mother, being extroverted as her mother was, made good friends with the mothers of the neighborhood. Occasionally, they’d gather and chit chat for hours about general parenting concerns, such as their children’s education, the rent, and the hardships of parenthood. Thing were normal, not to mention tolerable, until then; however, the adults took their bodings to a higher level with a grand annual gathering. Every year an appointed host would lead the event and the mothers’ families were strongly invited to join. You called the husbands fortunate because they had good reasons not to join, leaving the children whining inwardly for rescue–one of them being you.

Around 12:15pm you had left for the party (credits went to your sister for the fifteen-minute delay). The thirty-minute drive was worth it as the event hall waited right in front of a lake. And, although the party was a little over ten minutes from starting, attendees, along with the buzzing staffs, packed the huge cabin-like setting.

Your eyes skimmed over everyone’s faces to spot your handsome friend, relieved and joyed to not seeing him around. This way, you thought, your beating heart will behave, because he was your cliché.

But Kyungcha tugged your sleeve then pointed somewhere, “Hey look, your prince charming is over there.”

You whipped your head to the direction. She was right–Hansol stood there, speaking to a boy of your age. He flashed his gums, laughing at whatever they spoke of.

THUMP! THUMP! the pounding of your now excited heart went. You numbed in place. It was his mother’s turn to host the event, and that you knew well. Yet still, he had you betting that he won’t attend, because he failed to in the previous years. You can never be too sure, as an old saying did say.

Hansol spotted you and your sister and waved at you. He excused himself from his friend, striding your way after.

However, you took one, two, three steps backwards, eventually turning your back on him to walk elsewhere.

That made him tilt his head. “What’s wrong with her?” He looked down at your short sister.

She shrugged, puzzled as much as he was. “Beats me, but I think we best leave her for now.”

You headed mindlessly to nowhere specific, being a new visitor to the place, and simply found yourself by the rim of lake. You pulled out a pair of earphones from a pocket on your jeans, inserted the plug into your phone, and ignored the world with music playing on your ears, while seated on the green grass, staring aimlessly at the lake and beyond.

With or without you, not that many noticed anyway, the party started the fun. Lunch came first in line in the long list of activities, much to everyone’s delighted stomachs. The attendees participated in the set of prepared games that included Musical Chairs, the Boat is Sinking, and Charades. About or two to three parents spoke speeches as contribution to the sharing portion of the program. Consistent laughter, added with participation and enjoyment, continued to float on the atmosphere inside the venue while you sat outside. Soon, the clock chimed “snack time!”, giving soft effects to the entrance of a variety of delectables from the kitchen.

Was it two or three of your playlists that had finished? You had not counted, but it felt that way when a snack came into view. Hansol had finally approached you with two sandwiches in hand. He offered one and said, “Here. You should at least eat something.”

You shot him daggers before you stood up from your spot, declining, “I’m not hungry.” However your stomach protested an audible growl.

“I don’t know what ticked you off to be this upset, but you better eat if you know what’s best for you,” he said as he claimed a spot and pulled you back down to the space next to his. “And my mom made these.”

“I can’t refuse this if you put it that way.”

“All the better then.” He took a big bite of his share.

Hesitation flashed in your stare while pride whispered to your ears. Nevertheless you followed him soon, just nibbling bits of the food. The snack tasted good–exactly how you remembered them to be back in the good old days.

Hansol had finished his snack first and leaned back, his elbows supporting his body. “So,” he started. “What’s the matter with you today?”

“Nothing.” You swallowed the last piece of sandwich. You brought your knees closer and embraced them.

“No, you sounded upset back there; spill it.”

“Not gonna.”

“Tell me what’s wrong instead of being passive like this.” He snapped his head towards you, scowling.

“Why do you care anyway?” you retorted, your expression mirroring his.

“Should I not?”

“Can’t you tell that you should not?!”

Realizing the rising tension, your friend paused and bit his response back. That counter argument of yours took him by surprise too. Things were going the wrong way and he was sensing that. He exhaled a long sigh, head dipped down. He looked back at you, eyes now calmer, shifted in position, crossing his legs as he faced you. Hansol took a moment peering into your fazed pupils before apologizing. “I just wanted to help. I was hoping to enjoy today with everyone I haven’t been with for a long time, and within that everyone is you. But you’re too upset to even join us back there. It kind of saddens me, you know…”

You felt guilty. His eyes were clear and his words were sincere. How could you resist that honesty of his? Somehow, your everything said it couldn’t, urging you to speak without another moment delayed. “I like you. But I hate that I do.”

“… And?” His response threw you off guard.

“And? And? AND?!” you echoed louder than the last, feeling offended all of a sudden. “I just confessed to you and all you could say is ‘and?’?!”

“Well, I can’t see what’s wrong with liking someone.”

“Hansol, I don’t just like ‘someone’. I like you–my childhood friend.”

“So…?”

It took much of your self-control not to raise your voice loud enough for the city to hear. “Hansol, this is a cliché! You’re my cliché! And I know how clichés work: they never do..!”

Despite your obvious distaste, he could only chortle. “In short: you’re upset that you like me because it’s a cliché story plot, making you believe that we won’t work out in the end, right? Wow, how cute of you.”

You sighed. “Yeah. And don’t call me cute–my issue isn’t cute at all.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t.” He raised a hand as promise.

“Thank you.”

“But what if I show you that dreamy clichés are not as unrealistic as you believe they are?” Hansol said as he suddenly leaned towards your face. The distance was too small for your liking that you went the opposite way. “Hmm?” He raised a brow while smiling, waiting for your response.

“Your point is?” It hurts to assume, and you didn’t want to, but his words made you to. The spark of little hope in your instincts didn’t feel good.

“My point is that I like you back. However…” Hoping was a bad omen after all. Not that you weren’t expecting it as an anti-cliché fan, but that anchored your heart to the bottom of the lake, a flood of ache filling the inside your fragile chamber of feelings. “The company does not allow and also discouraged us from dating within the first two to three years of our career. We’re barely in our second anniversary still.”

Ahhh, right, you realized, Idol stuff. So much for a happy ending. The splash of disappointment pushed your head down, hanging low in a bow.

“Hey,” he drawled as he hoisted your chin back up and locked his eyes with yours again. “It’s not that long. I mean, look, we’re almost there, just a little over twenty months.”

That number did not sound short to your ears as he expected it to be. Your eyes drifted away elsewhere.

Seeing your reaction, Hansol sang an “awwhh” and brought you into his embrace, then swayed left to right, just like he would whenever you wept your concerns to him, years back. “Someone is playing baby again.”

“Am not.” Your mumble failed to convince him.

He continued cradling you for a minute before he spoke again, “Would it be too much to ask you to wait for me? To wait until things would go smoother than they would now?”

You sniffled, “Why are you doing all this?”

“Like I said, I wanted to show you that clichés aren’t seated next to impossible like you believe they do.”

“You know I can’t refuse if you put things that way, right?” You raised the white flag in defeat. “It’ll be a challenge, I admit, but I’ll do my best.”

It was hard to see his face from where yours was, but you felt his lips extending wider.

You two sat in position longer, but remembered a nosy kid by the name Kyungcha would scream out loud to everyone if she found you both. Hansol got on his feet first and offered you his hand. You were both laughing on your walk back to the venue, and neither stopped smiling for the rest of the day. Little did you know that everyone had their guesses why.

“Hey Y/N.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sleepy,” he whined in a drowsy murmur, wrapping you tighter. “Let’s go to bed already.”

You shifted in position to glance over your shoulder. “Is the sofa uncomfortable for you?”

Hansol slowly nodded, his eyelids half closed. “My neck will hurt here, and we have a concert tomorrow so I can’t have a stiff neck.”

The drama on screen continued. “Fifteen minutes.” You patted his hands around your waist. “The show will finish in fifteen minutes, so bear with me for a while. Please?”

Your fiancé said nothing, but whimpered as he buried his face on the crook of your neck.

You pecked his forehead and whispered your gratitude.

Ten long years went by since the day he asked you to wait. Within eight years you had celebrated seven anniversaries as an official couple. Five years back, the paparazzi led the revelation of his taken status, receiving the public’s divided reaction of hot and cold. Two years ago Hansol got on his knees, confessed the most cringe-worthy speech you had ever heard, inviting you into matrimony. And tonight you lied down on the sofa of your apartment–bodies against each other in a spoon with fingers intertwined and feet tangled.

Nevertheless, do you still believe in clichés being impossible? You’d smile to anyone and say that no, you no longer do. Because he proved that with exerted efforts, patience and trust, even the most bizarre clichés can happen. You both did.

A hand of yours was in sight and your attention drifted to the round accessory on your ring finger. The mere recollection of his proposal coaxed a smile from your expression. Clichés weren’t too farfetched after all.

Bonus GIF ‘cause I had a struggle between choosing this and the precious one for the intro’s GIF.

#seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen oneshot #vernon #hansol #chwe hansol #seventeen

79 notes · View notes

ultralifehackerguru-blog · 8 years ago

Photo

New Post has been published on http://www.lifehacker.guru/why-new-parents-need-to-take-a-break-from-the-news-and-what-they-should-do-instead-2/

Why New Parents Need to Take a Break From the News (and What They Should Do Instead)

In the months after my kids were born, the news cycle would send me into tailspins of anxiety and fear. The Penn State sex-abuse scandal and the Newtown shootings paralyzed me for days—I wept while changing diapers, wept in the bathtub, wept while pushing the stroller down the street. What might have been (merely!) horrifying pre-kids was now incapacitating. For my own mental health, I had to stop reading the news and looking at social media.

Take a Media Fast

Judging from the conversations in my moms’ groups, these feelings aren’t at all unusual. New parents are especially vulnerable to anxiety, says Laura Venuto, a New York City therapist specializing in postpartum mental-health issues. “Sleep deprivation and hormones exacerbate mood and anxiety symptoms. With new parenthood comes a heightened awareness that you’re suddenly not only responsible for yourself, but also a small child in what sometimes seems like a dangerous world.”

Dr. Venuto suggests a total news-media fast or at least a major reduction, corralling your news into 10 or 15 minutes (“In the morning! Not before bed!” she says), and then doing something pleasurable, like playing with your baby or calling a friend. For those worried that being out of touch means slacking off in their political activism, she gently suggests cutting yourself some slack: “If you’re a new parent, you’re not going to be making changes on a global scale. You’re in survival mode. You can put in a call to your representative, and that can be enough.”

Practice ‘Containment’

Lissa Hunsicker Kenney, a social worker in Brooklyn who counsels trauma survivors, also recommends “containment”—the first line of treatment for anxiety—as a first step. “Turning off your iPhone is containment—because it’s so easy for it to become uncontained. It just scrolls and scrolls, and it’s endless.”

So what are we supposed to do, instead? (Besides take care of our kids, I mean.) I asked Lifehacker readers, and my own new-mom friends, what media they turn to for good escapist distraction. I didn’t vet all the answers (though I did nix anything that had “horror” in its IMDB description—what about “non-disturbing” did these people not understand?) so do your own research before leaping into something totally unknown. They’re a good mix of classics, favorite sitcoms and adventure shows, a few kids’ shows and books, comics, and pretty much the entire oeuvre of the BBC.

Ideally, this list will remind of you of beloved books, TV shows, and movies that you’ve enjoyed in the past and will be soothing entertainment now, while you’re still in the sensitive new-parent stage. I read all of Jane Austen at night instead of mindless smartphone scrolling; others swear by sitcoms: “When my son was born we very quickly figured out we had to stop watching Breaking Bad and Walking Dead and just ended up re-watching Parks and Rec on a continuous loop for like three years,” one commenter wrote. Check out the original comments here, and please add your favorite comforting (no child-in-peril, no dead parents, no rapes or murders) media below.

TV & Movies

30 Rock

All Creatures Great and Small

Alias (a spy thriller spanning five seasons, so there are murders and occasional child-in-peril plotlines, but it’s a pretty campy show, so I didn’t find it especially distressing)

The Andy Griffith Show

Flip This House (or any fixer-upper/DIY type shows)

Any stupid Adam Sandler movie

Archer

Arrested Development

Black Adder

Black Books

Bob’s Burgers

Boondocks

Borgen

Buffy the Vampire Slayer (skipping “The Body” and maybe the second half of season five)

Catastrophe

Community

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend

Critical Role on Geek and Sundry

Doctor Thorne (almost comically predictable, appropriate for anyone with only half a functioning brain, but any costume drama will do in a pinch. Check out this terrific resource for period dramas, but I strongly urge you to skip Call the Midwife if you have a newborn.)

Drunk History

Ed, Edd ‘n Eddy

Elimidate

Everybody Loves Raymond

Farscape

Father Ted

Friends

Futurama

Get Smart

Ghostbusters

Gilmore Girls

Gravity Falls

The Great British Bake-off (or any cooking show)

Grey’s Anatomy (I can’t believe this is still on the air; I have like 10 years to catch up on. Warning: it’s a hospital show, so people do die. Deeennnnnnny!)

Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Laaaaaaaaaw

Hogan’s Heroes

How I Met Your Mother

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Jeeves and Wooster

Kids’ shows and movies, like Adventure Time, Reading Rainbow (the awesome 80’s-90’s version), A Dragon’s Tale, Out of the Box, Teen Titans GO, Rocko’s Modern Life, Hey Arnold!, Rocky & Bullwinkle, Babe, the Narnia movies, Nanny McPhee

Kiki’s Delivery Service (“Miyazaki in general is a great way to escape into a different realm. The colors, the music, the gorgeous inventive artwork and the great characters in all his films makes him a master illusionist and conductor into a whole new world..” “…but not Grave of the Fireflies,” says another commenter.)

Broad City (“It’s hilarious and my life feels like a complete financial success by comparison.”)

King of the Hill

Last Man on Earth

Lucha Underground

M*A*S*H

The Mary Tyler Moore Show

Midsomer Murders (“While there are murders, everyone is so provincial and charming, it’s like coming home where you know everyone except for that darned stranger that got themselves killed.”)

The Mindy Project

Mr. Bean

MST3K

Any terrible reality TV (“I watch The People’s Court or Judge Judy, which I DVR in case I need them.”)

News Radio

Northern Exposure

Office Space

Only Fools and Horses

Over the Garden Wall

Parks and Rec

Party Down

Real Genius

Real Housewives (“Oddly enough, RHOC comforts me in that I always feel smart, competent, healthy, and sane afterward.”)

The Simpsons

SlowTV “Right after the election, my wife and I started watching a lot of SlowTV on Netflix. Things like Norwegian knitting competitions.”

Smallville

South Park

Space: 1999

Star Trek

Steven Universe

Supernatural

Taxi

The Blues Brothers

The Eagle Huntress (“a thoroughly enjoyable documentary”)

The first three Muppet movies

The IT Crowd

The Office

The Simpsons

The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt

The West Wing

The X Files

Top Gear

Trainwreck

Veep

Veronica Mars, season 1

The Vicar of Dibley

Waiting for Guffman

What’s Up, Doc?

Books

A Suitable Boy

The Age of Innocence, or really anything by Edith Wharton

Alexander Hamilton

All Creatures Great and Small

Anne of Green Gables (really anything by L.M Montgomery)

Born Standing Up

Bossypants

Bridget Jones’s Diary (good escapist movie too)

Calvin and Hobbes

Circle of Friends, or really anything by Maeve Binchy

The Code of the Woosters, or anything by P.G. Wodehouse

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

The Grand Sophy or anything by Georgette Heyer

the Harry Potter series

I Capture The Castle

I’m Your Biggest Fan

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?

Jane Eyre

The Last Days of Night

Love in a Cold Climate

Maisie Dobbs

Ms. Marvel (comic)

My Family and Other Animals

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency

The Other Boleyn Girl, or anything by Philippa Gregory

Pride and Prejudice, Emma, or really anything by Jane Austen

The Pursuit of Love

A Room With a View

Restoration, or anything by Rose Tremain

Sir John Mortimer’s Rumpole books

Sherlock Holmes

Today Will Be Different

Tom Jones

Unbeatable Squirrel Girl (comic)

Washington Square

West With the Night

Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

Yes Please