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cno-inbminor · 4 years

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inpetus

a/n: watched ‘burlesque’ today and got an idea stuck in my head!! this is the unedited result of it.

warnings/genre: mature settings, ft. kuroo & fem!reader who’s an exotic dancer/stripper, unedited, some angst

wc: ~3.0k

What am I doing here?

That’s the first thought that runs through Kuroo’s mind when he walks down the concrete steps, his coat fluttering at the ends from the draft that breezes through. A small, neon arrow bolted to the brick wall offers the path to what many would consider as indulging in sin, an uncontrollable desire and want. “It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen,” his co-worker had expressed to him with wonder in his voice, one that he preferred keeping at arm’s length. “Take advantage of your bachelor days,” he had been told while clapped on the shoulder. “Being married is only fun for the first two years and then it goes to shit.”

Disgust had coursed through his veins at those words – they were greedy men who held the financial world in their hands, convinced into a delusion that nothing in the world could measure to their expectations. Constantly complaining about how their partners were never good enough, weren’t pretty enough, didn’t have the right body type, were too busy bitching at them for leaving their sock strewn around the house, their list of demands went on and on. Kuroo, only 25 years of age, felt lucky to be a consultant at a world-renowned investment firm in Tokyo where every morning, he rides an elevator 45 floors up through a fiberglass and steel skyscraper in one of his many tailored suits and sits at a desk by the window. At any point, he can stand from his chair and gaze out towards a wonderous view of the city with a cup of tea in hand, ignoring how ironic it seems to be when the higher the floor, the more entrenched they are in the smog.

Kuroo hadn’t meant to reveal that he might have been feeling a little lonely. He had some sake running through his veins when his co-workers pressed on as to why he didn’t have a partner or someone to go home to every night, and after kindly but vehemently refusing their offers to set up blind dates for him, they had spoken to him of the place. An environment underground that made you feel alive, that reminded you of the unspoken beauty in the mundane of everyday life, that left your soul winded at the fact that such a place could exist on this earth. “You should go when you’re feeling down, if you catch my drift,” the main proposer of this new adventure had snickered, elbowing the man on the other side. “It’ll be worth the money.”

Part of him felt shy once he had slipped through the metal door, coming to a stop at a stand with a woman, a guard, a red velvet rope, and blackout curtains. Kuroo took a cursory look at the sign and pulled out the exact cash he needed for the cover fee, a heftier one than usual, according to his co-workers. The woman thanked him sultrily, nodding to the guard to grant him access. When the velvet rope was unhooked and the curtains pulled back, Kuroo stepped into a new world.

The dark shadow from the entrance had been replaced with soft lights of crimson and chateau rose, blending in with icy hues of blue. Faux-crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling in the faintest royal yellow, yet they were second to the harsh colors on the stage before him. Granted, there were numerous round tables before him, but with no desire to be seen as the poor, nervous newbie, he sat at one that wasn’t directly by the stage, but wasn’t too far from it either.

Part of him had expected the air to be filled with smoke and fumes of alcohol, yet instead, there was a hint of something floral. Whatever it was, it had instantly relaxed his nerves and put him at ease. He had only been sitting for a few minutes when a waitress came into his view to take his drink order. Naturally, she was gorgeous, her outfit shaping her curves sensuously and slightly revealing, yet leaving just enough skin covered to be desired. He gives a side-thought on how his co-workers would have commented on her being an ultimate tease, but wipes it from his brain as he orders a glass of cabernet sauvignon. She scribbles it down on a notepad before giving him another look, slightly tilting her head to take him in.

“Is it your first time here?” She enquires in a genuinely curious tone. Kuroo is thankful that it’s too dark for her to see the faint blush on his face as he nods. At first, he’s worried she’ll poke fun a little bit, but instead he’s given a warm, inviting smile. “In that case, welcome to the Covet Noir. You’re in luck today, one of our best dancers is showing her new routine tonight. When she’s done, I’ll let her know to give you a special visit. It’s something we do for any new clients.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Kuroo immediately replies. “I’m just…observing today?”

“Very well then. She’ll want to come, but you have every right to refuse. Though, after you watch her…I’m sure you won’t want to,” she says cheekily, sending him a quick wink before weaving between the tables towards the bar. Kuroo focuses on the stage again where a few men and women seem to be freestyling to some faint jazz over the speakers, some by poles and others with just the floor. They seem to be at varying stages of nudity, though none were fully nude. Their styles of dancing seemed to cater specifically to the audiences nearest them, accepting the tips given.

The waitress returns with his libation, silently setting it before him with a square napkin. He pulls out a couple large bills and hands it to her, to which she thanks him for and pockets it in her waist apron he didn’t notice last time. As if on cue, the jazz ends and the dancers saunter off stage, their hips swaying as they disappear into the darkness. A soft tenor speaks into a microphone somewhere off-stage.

“Ladies and gentleman, thank you for joining us this evening. I hope you enjoyed our wonderful dancers just now – aren’t they absolutely riveting?”

His pause leaves enough time for the patrons to give a polite applause, though some were more bold in their praise with short ‘whoops’ and affirmations. “We’re glad to hear that,” the tenor continues. “Now, with a new performance she’s been working on, please welcome our one and only, Camellia.”

The overhead lights are shining on the stage once again, though the red seems more harsh and daring. He and the other clients give a small applause as the sound of heels clicks against the stage, and everybody seems to be waiting with bated breath. The anticipatory air overwhelms him as the clicks come to a stop and suddenly, a bright spotlight is cast center stage.

You, Camellia, stand just inches away from another male – while the male is rigid and muscular in all the right places, you are more soft and highlighted in curves, body in a knee-length dress the color of Kuroo’s wine that possesses a slit that’s dangerously close to the top of her right thigh. Even from Kuroo’s distance, he can see your lipstick in the very shade of the blood that runs through their veins and the dark, winged eyeliner.

Low string instruments creep into the speakers in a familiar tune, followed by the sharp entrance of a contrasting soprano note played by a violin. Your movements are quick and crisp, yet your body seems to always be moving, sensuous and delicately smooth. Kuroo is absolutely enraptured already, his body already leaning forward and wine forgotten. As much as he despises his co-workers’ lustful habits and thoughts, they were right about one thing: the beauty in everyone’s dancing is unlike anything he’s ever seen.

His eyes never leave your figure, subconsciously encoding every movement into his brain. It isn’t until about halfway through your routine that he feels his mouth is dry, and even as he lifts his glass to his lips to let the bitter liquid slide down his throat, he makes an effort to never miss a second. At one point, you are facing his direction and Kuroo finally understands the meaning of the waitress’s words: your eyes, the shape of them, the color, the intensity and fire in them, he feels as if he’s ready to jump into them, willing to be consumed by the flames. But you are turned away and spun into your partner’s arms, hands splayed over his shoulders as his own creep down the arch of your back.

El Tango de Roxanne, Kuroo finally recalls the name of the song playing, though it’s a slightly altered instrumental version of it. He had been roped into watching Moulin Rouge many years ago by an ex-girlfriend in high school, who had showered praises on the scene for this song. While he couldn’t match her enthusiasm at the time, he had understood her reasons. Yet with the current performance before him, he would argue that this is more beautiful, even without all the aesthetic cinematic cuts.

Before he knows it, the routine is done and he’s clapping along with the other clients. It’s almost thunderous, and Kuroo takes a quick look around him, only to notice that the space had filled up significantly since he had arrived. Yet many were beginning to trickle out as the lights dim again and an ambient jazz song washes over them. Kuroo contemplates on leaving, the waitress’s words echoing in the chambers of his brain. He’s so focused on his decision-making that he doesn’t notice the star of the show making their way to his table.

“I’ve been told you’re new here,” you interrupt his thoughts, donned in a silk robe and hair undone from the bun it had been in. Kuroo startles and looks up towards you incredulously, a whirl of shock and embarrassment and being caught off-guard stewing in his gut. Your eyes seem frozen on him and somewhat mirror his emotions, but they quickly soften. Kuroo watches you slide into the seat next to him, your robe slipping off a shoulder and revealing the black lacy bralette you’re wearing. He finds himself gulping as inconspicuously as possible, directing his gaze towards your face that’s currently grinning at him.

“Do you need help speaking?” You ask with a teasing lilt. Your voice strikes triggers a feeling of déjà vu within him.

“I’m sorry, I suppose I was still thinking about your performance,” he musters out, desperate to save some reputation he believes he has. “Am I allowed to buy you a drink? As a way of saying thank you?”

“Normally, yes,” you reply, your tone now gentle and calming. “I’m not quite in the mood for a drink right now, but maybe next time. You came on a good night.”

“The waitress told me the same thing,” he chuckles, fingers sliding his wine glass in a circle against the tablecloth. “You’re a wonderful dancer. Do all of you have stage names as flowers?”

“Most of us, but some others wanted a different stage name.”

“Do you dance here full time?”

You shake your head. “Only part time. Something I like doing, as well as earn some extra money on the side.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence falls over you two. However, you sigh and begin to stand from your chair. Of course, Kuroo would rather you not leave, but you have other clients to visit, and this was only a one-time special conversation for a new visitor.

“Will you be coming again?” You ask gently, as if you’re worried this’ll be the last time you see him. Your tone surprises him – he feels wanted, he feels like you, specifically, want him to return to this underground escape. But he knows he’s not special, that it’s just business for people like him to fall to your siren calls.

“Maybe,” he smiles. You step closer and into his personal space, causing him to twist slightly so he’s more directly facing you. Even though he’s sitting, with his height, you’re barely towering over him. He only needs to tilt his chin up a little bit to meet your gaze, trying not to flinch when you place a hand on his thigh. Once again, your eyes trigger something within him – in most circumstances, he would probably be feeling unsure of what to do. Yet now, he feels comfortable, as if this is something he normally experiences.

“I hope to see you come back then,” you murmur, in a way that’s only reserved for this job, before pulling back, your hand lingering on his thigh. Kuroo remembers his manners and hands you a few large bills, more than what he had given the waitress. You take them between your right index and middle fingers and tuck them into your bralette. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replies as you saunter away. He downs the rest of the contents in his glass before moving to pay his tab at the bar counter. Soon after, he’s greeted by the black curtains once more, the guards letting him through and past the red velvet rope. As he steps into the night air with his coat shrugged on, he feels the stark contrast between the world behind him and the one in front. The floral scent has been replaced with the city air, his nose wrinkling at the stale cigarette smell mixed with general pollution.

About an hour later, he’s in bed back in his modest, minimalistic apartment, his two-year old cat stretched out in the space between his arm and the side of his chest. Donned in nothing but briefs and gym shorts, Kuroo stares at the ceiling, reliving the memories as much as possible. Your dance, the passion, the atmosphere, it had been something he thoroughly enjoyed, much to his chagrin. He wish it hadn’t been his co-workers who introduced him, but perhaps he was somewhat thankful for them.

In sleep, he dreams vividly. He’s suddenly back in Nekoma High School, red jersey and shorts on his figure, walking a cart of volleyballs past a cheering audience. His eyes are searching the stands for someone, landing on a girl donned in his spare jersey. He feels his mouth split open into a cocky grin, but it falls when he sees the face on the girl. Your eyes, the winged eyeliner, the lips blood-red, cheering for him—

And he’s thrown into the next sequence.

This time, he’s in a café, one he recognizes to be close to his parent’s home. He’s in a casual button down and jeans, sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows. His foot taps against the ground and he feels the sensation of waiting for someone, eyes shifting between the window and his phone screen. Familiar hands cover his eyes and he finds himself playing along. “Ah, who could it be?”

“Who else would it be?”

The words are spoken in your voice, the same softness with the slight lilt, and he’s turning abruptly to look at this girl. Once again, those eyes, the makeup, your lips—

Yanked into the next sequence.

He’s sitting on the couch in front of his TV – his parents are gone, and he assumes it’s his ex-girlfriend that’s got her shoulders with his arm slung over. A movie plays on the screen as the girl munches on popcorn from the bowl in her lap.

“Tetsu, you have to pay attention to this scene, okay? It’s genius,” she says excitedly, shifting closer to him. Kuroo plants a kiss on top of her hair as he focuses on the movie, looking out for this clip that she seems so passionate about.

But his eyebrows furrow when the beginnings of El Tango de Roxanne begin to play, dancers on a large stage with Ewan McGregor’s face cutting in.

“First, there is desire. Then, passion. Then, suspicion. Jealousy, anger, betrayal! Love is for the highest bidder, there is no trust. Without trust, there is no love!”

A wave of affection for this girl washes over him as she sings along, her voice attempting to match the intensity of the man’s on the screen. Instead, it only comes off as absolutely adorable to him, and he gives her a tight squeeze. The rest of the scene passes by in a blur, but he feels impressed, the pain of Ewan’s character, the dreadful chill that ran down his body.

“That’s probably the best part of the movie,” she sighs happily. “Do you agree? How freakin’ genius it is?”

“I can see it, yeah,” he laughs, looking down at her. But for the third time, it’s your face, your features, your hair—

He sits up abruptly, startling his cat and causing it to give him a sleepy yowl. His chest is heavy and panting as his brain trudges through the visions, his dreams playing on the back of his eyelids. His body falls back and his head hits the pillow, an arm strung across his eyes. One night and you’re already haunting your dreams, but why? Why was he so comfortable with you? Why did the song take him back to happier times? Why was it that your eyes made such a deep impression on him? Why…

His eyes snap open. It hits him like a ton of bricks. The breath is removed from his lungs and he can’t believe it.

Camellia is you. You are his ex-girlfriend.

A pain wrenches his heart, twisting it horribly so. Feelings that he had long buried, memories he had long filtered and filed away, were all swimming to the surface again – he almost wanted to scream or cry, he wanted to run to a court and jump serve balls until his arm falls off and his legs fail him, he—

After all this time, he opens the lid on a truth he wishes he didn’t know: in all these years, he was still in love with you.

And even now…he still does.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#kuroo #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x reader #tetsurou #hq #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsurou x reader #it's midnight and i need to sleep #kuroo angst #i'm also hungry

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 4 years

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The Nuptial Necessity - Chapter 13

A 12xRose Human AU

Despite an unglamorous job description, Rose loves the work she does with The Thistle Foundation, a charity founded by her best friend’s great-uncle. It doesn’t hurt that her boss, her friend’s father, is easy on the eyes. With a great job, wonderful friends and a loving family, life couldn’t be better – except for having someone to share it with.

All of that is threatened, though, when the great-uncle dies – and sets a strange condition for his nephew to inherit, jeopardizing the Foundation and Rose’s future, sparking a chain of events that might just get her everything she dreamed of and more.

Chapters will be posted on Saturdays and Tuesdays. Many thanks to my beta, @stupidsatsuma

Rated: Explicit, for eventual smut

@doctorroseprompts

AO3 | Masterlist

—

Friday - the wedding, pt 1/2

“Rose. Rose? Rose!”

“Hmm?” Rose looked up, blinking, at the sound of her name. She’d been engrossed in examining her fresh manicure, and by the exasperation in her mother’s voice, it wasn’t the first time she’d been called. “What?”

Scowl firmly in place, Jackie huffed. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re in space, and not on Cloud 9. It’s your wedding day- why aren’t you happier?”

“I am happy,” Rose forced a smile, conscious of the woman behind her doing her hair. “Everything’s lovely, it’s a gorgeous day. I’m fine.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes, and Rose calmly returned the gaze; she’d learned long ago how to deal with Jackie when she got like this, and refused to flinch. Eventually the other woman nodded, though she still didn’t look satisfied. “Fine. Now, I was thinking-”

Wrapping her dressing gown tighter around herself, Rose wandered down the stairs to the first floor. With the reception only a few hours away the floor was a bustle of activity, as the catering company’s waitstaff finished setting out tables and placing settings in anticipation of the dinner to come. Trying to keep out of the way she crept into the room, standing in the corner to observe the goings-on. One long table was set for thirty in an L shape, the longer section by the windows. A DJ booth was set up in the corner near her, with a fabricated dance floor set up to avoid scratching the original wood flooring.

Keeping to the wall she made her way closer to the table, stopping behind the chair designated for her after the ceremony. When I sit there, it will be as Mrs. Malcolm Tucker, she thought. Viscountess Gallifrey.

She felt nothing.

Even standing here, the morning of their wedding, looking at their reception space, it didn’t feel real, tangible.

Her heart hurt.

“Ma’am?”

Startled, she turned to find a nervous waiter next to her, a tray of teacups in hand, clearly setting them at the places. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and they did an awkward half-dance moving around each other.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the seemingly-loud sounds of the setup, she fled.

Trailing her fingers along the shelves Rose breathed deeply, letting the quiet air of the library soothe her nervous energy. It smelled of smoke from a wood-burning burning fire, fine whisky, old books – and Malcolm.

From her very first visit to the room, way back in her first year at uni, it had been one of her favorite spots on Earth. She’s spent countless hours in the library at her parents’ mansion, but it hadn’t been until she arrived here, in a room that had served that purpose for literally hundreds of years, that it brought her the joy and comfort she’d always instinctively known she would find amongst books. Each one promised an adventure, travels through space and time, without having to leave a cosy chair.

Nothing changed; no telltale creak of the door, no footsteps on the carpet, nothing to inform her senses, but all the same, she knew suddenly that he was there, from the spark of electricity that raced across her skin.

“It’s bad luck for you to see me before the ceremony,” she murmured, not lifting her eyes from the copy of Sherlock Holmes in front of her.

“I don’t believe in luck,” Malcolm murmured, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Besides, I’m reasonably certain that only applies to the dress, not the bride. After all, I saw Missy the morning of our wedding.”

Rose’s lips twitched, and she arched an eyebrow at the shelf. “You’re divorced.”

“Exactly. If the bad luck bit was true, we would’ve been married for much, much longer than only five years.”

She laughed at that, reluctantly turning around to find him grinning just behind her, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I suppose that’s fair. If you’re not careful, though, you’ll get a reputation as a five-year husband. What will the next Mrs. Tucker think?” The idea of him remarrying was enough to make her breath catch, her heart physically aching. But she kept her smile, not wanting to go there with him in front of her.

“Oh, there won’t be another Mrs. Tucker,” he said breezily, momentarily freezing before clearing his throat. “I mean, I wouldn’t- not again. Twice is enough for me. I doubt I would ever meet anyone who could change my mind.”

It was just wishful thinking, a projection of what she wanted that to mean, but for a single heartbeat she heard a soft, wistful tone in his voice, one that said I’m not letting you go, I love you, promise me forever. “I suppose we’ll see,” she sighed. “Why’re you here, anyway?”

His brow furrowed, and she waited as he searched his memory. “Oh! Apparently you’re worrying everyone; Clara thought you might’ve done a runner.”

“I’m right here,” she shrugged, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, painfully conscious that under her dressing gown, she wore only a slip and lacy lingerie. (A girl could hope – she wanted to be prepared just in case the wedding night turned into a wedding night.) “Not even wearing my trainers.” She held a foot out for inspection, earning herself a chuckle when he saw her fluffy slippers.

“I see that. Can we…”

Rose let him guide her to the plush sofa in front of the fireplace, delicately curling her legs under her and adjusting the hem of her robe for decency, though it didn’t help when his eyes lingered on her bare thigh for a moment. “What’s up?”

Malcolm sighed, leaning back and running his hands over his face. “You don’t have to go through with this,” he said, bluntly but not unkindly. “I’m asking far too much of you, and would absolutely understand if you want to back out. You haven’t been yourself these last few weeks, and I can’t bear to be the cause of your unhappiness. Truly.”

“You’re not! You’re not.” The idea was so absurd that Rose couldn’t help but blurt it out, hurt but not entirely surprised that he’d drawn that conclusion; hadn’t Clara warned her he thought just that last weekend? “It’s just… this isn’t what I had pictured. Not that I’ve ever spent that much time planning my wedding, or my future, but…”

“I know.” He smiled wryly. “I never considered marrying again- I thought, after the divorce, that I would spend the rest of my life alone. And that… was okay.” His eyes softened, and he reached out, fingertips barely grazing over her knee before his hand settled firmly on the couch next to her, not quite touching. “I realize this isn’t ideal. I don’t want you to regret doing this. But… I promise you, I am a good husband. We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company, and… we make each other laugh, and smile, and at the end of the day, that’s what makes a marriage work. It’s not necessarily about the- the physical. They say ‘marry your best friend’ for a reason.”

Rose bit her lip to keep from smirking. “And how’d that work out for you?”

“I got Clara, so, brilliant. Come on- it can’t be any worse than your current situation,” he pointed out. “Besides, blokes seem to love married women, maybe this is just what you need. So, what do you say?”

She gave into the laughter, settling her hand on his and running her thumb over his knuckles.

“I suppose I say… I do.”

Malcolm stared critically at the reflection in front of him, tugging on the hem of the waistcoat before smoothing it down. The clock he could just see out of the corner of his eye told him he had twenty more minutes until it was time to go down for the ceremony, and the longer he was left alone with his thoughts, the more jittery he became. It was almost as if by soothing Rose’s fears he’d absorbed then, making him doubt everything.

This is the right thing, he told himself once again, narrowing his eyes at the glass. She agreed to it, and I believe her – Rose Tyler does nothing she doesn’t want to do. This will make both of our lives better- easier- and won’t change all that much. It’s a signature on the line and that’s it.

His romantic heart, usually kept buried deep inside him, locked away since before his divorce, continued to bleed all over his sleeve. Why doesn’t she love me? It was a ridiculous question, of course, his rational mind knew that- the greater question would be why she would- if she did- but at the end of the day a small boy with taped-up glasses who was a bit too much of an odd duck for the popular kids still lived in his chest, wishing people would like him while doing everything possible to keep them at arm’s length, or further. That was part of why he and Missy had gotten so deeply entrenched in each other – they’d spent most of their childhood each other’s only friend, and they’d mistaken that for love.

Sometimes he wished he could go back to his teenage self, awkward and gangly at fifteen and overly devoted to Missy, and tell him that what he felt wasn’t love, not real love, not the kind the songs and poems and books and movies were about. That he’d know it when he found it, mid-forties and utterly enchanted with his assistant. But, of course, if he did that, if he saved himself the heartbreak of an ill-fated relationship and marriage with Missy, he wouldn’t have his daughter. His beautiful, precious, wonderful, awe-inspiring little girl, who pushed him to be better just by believing that he was.

And without her, he wouldn’t have met Rose.

“Dad?”

Startling violently he spun on his heel, nearly falling over in his surprise at being yanked so thoroughly from his thoughts. “Yes?”

“All right there?” Clara asked, unable to full mask her smirk as she watched him from the door. “You should be more comfortable.”

“I’m fine.” Brushing his hands down along his coat, he crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

“Nice.” She moved inside, rearranging her expression to appear more sympathetic, but unable to fool him – her eyes still sparkled. “Now, I need to talk to you, it’s serious.”

Sitting himself down on the bench at the end of his bed, he watched her arrange herself on the loveseat across from him. “I’m all ears.”

“So, I was talking to the reverend about the ceremony,” Clara started, smoothing the skirt of her dress over her knees. “And he said there’s this rule- it’s really stupid, and it really sucks.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed, confused. Despite her attempts at appearing severe and serious, her tells of lying gave her away- what she was lying about he wasn’t quite sure, but the way she covered her elbow confirmed it. (Once of his great accomplishments as a father, in his own humble opinion, was convincing her as a little girl that when she lied, her elbow would turn green. Somehow, despite becoming a teacher, she’d never realized the truth; it was a foolproof way of fact-checking any story, which frustrated her to no end as a teenager, unable to tell how he always knew she was lying.)

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“Okay, so, he said that the best man isn’t supposed to really know the bride, or at least, not be close to her. You know, for perspective, so he can properly advise the groom, that sort of thing.”

What? “I don’t follow,” he said honestly. Clearly she had a reason for this, but he couldn’t see the point – it made no sense. Why not just say you would rather stand up for Rose? That, he could understand- he was Clara’s father, but after more than a decade of friendship, she and Rose were the sisters the other had never had. But why string him along like this, until ten minutes before the ceremony?

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I just… don’t know what to do.” Her eyes sparkled, bottom lip clamped firmly between her teeth, and when her gaze trailed behind him, he frowned, though it was the voice that made him turn to look himself.

“I may be able to help with that.”

Without thinking Malcolm rose to his feet, staring at the doorway with his mouth open wide, unable to believe his eyes.

“Brigadier?”

#bbatcfic #ficandchips #Doctor Who #doctorroseprompts #Human!12xRose #Human!Twelfth Doctor #Rose Tyler #human!au #AU #The Nuptial Necessity

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rxbxlcaptain · 7 years

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Hiraeth (Acts of Intimacy #4)

Author’s Note: And the Nonsexual Acts of Intimacy Prompts continue! Today's prompt, given to me by another lovely anon: For the intimacy meme: reacting to the other crying, please :)

How could I say no to that please? I’m just kidding, I can’t say no to any of you.

This is slightly AU in the fact that Jyn grabbed her father's holograph before escaping Jedha (Probably because I was yelling loud enough for her to hear me)

Other stories in the series: Previous Work // Next Work

Words: 2015

AO3 / FF.net / Below the Cut!

Hiraeth (n.) – A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

The Death Star is gone and the Rebellion is celebrating.

Jyn should be with them.

She was with them, in fact, up until the loud noises of celebratory cheers and the smell of cheap booze being passed from rebel to rebel became too much. The overwhelming presence suffocated her, pushing in on all sides until claustrophobia set in.

So Jyn did what she does best: she ran and hid.

Of course, she’s hiding in the room assigned to her by the Rebellion, close enough to the celebrations that she can hear music and dancing, so if anyone put half an effort into finding her, they could. So far, no one has. Jyn isn’t sure if she’s thankful for the space or beginning to feel isolated.

It doesn’t matter, because, in all honesty, there’s one person she truly wants to be with right now, but the only way to see him is through a hologram. The one Jyn currently has gripped between her fingers.

By a stroke of luck, some underlying section of her distraught brain had realized to grab the hologram as Cassian pulled her away from the soon-to-be ruins of Jedha City. Not for the tactical advantage — though being able to show Draven and the Council members the original message turned out to be useful — but to keep her father’s face, her father’s voice. The only piece of her father she has left.

The first time Jyn watched the message Saw stood right behind her; the second time, the message played for the whole Rebellion. Now, only Jyn greets her father’s glowing blue image. Only she hears the message addressed to his Stardust.

As it should be. The message is deeply personal, draws on emotions Jyn hasn’t allowed herself to feel since her mother died fifteen years ago. They’re emotions Saw discouraged, seeing them as nothing more than a tactical disadvantage; they’re emotions the Alliance doesn’t need to know she has, since they would be nothing more than a chip in her durasteel exterior, a weapon they can use against her.

All alone in the room that’s barely larger than a closet, by herself for the first time in Force knows how long, Jyn feels them. She allows them to wash over her, bathing her soul and flowing out of her eyes. Her sobs are silent, tears merely escaping her eyes of their own accord, stealthy and inconspicuous. Ever since hiding in her hatch on Lah’mu, it’s the only way Jyn has known how to cry.

After Saw abandoned her, Jyn can count on one hand the times she’s cried. Once was that first day, that sickening, smothering feeling of abandonment the sixteen-year-old had felt too many times. The second when her credits were low but her aggressiveness was high, ending with a dislocated shoulder she needed to set herself. Again when she became so desperate for food that she began exchanging nights in her bed for credits.

And now.

Now with her father looking down at her, filling the fifteen-year gap between them, bridging the space between the living and the dead. Father and daughter, reunited in the small, dark room of Alliance Base One.

A soft knock at the door punctuates her father’s words about the Death Star, and Jyn steadfastly ignores it. The triumphant rebel can leave her alone; she refuses to admit another weakness, the one spelled out in tear tracks across her cheeks, to the Alliance.

But the knock only rests for a few seconds before repeating. Words crawl under her door, their owner obviously hopeful they’ll have more success than the knocks.

“Jyn?” It’s Cassian’s voice. “I know you’re in there.”

She doesn’t respond. Her father’s message flickers for a second – almost, Jyn thinks with a half hysterical laugh, like Galen wants her to put him behind her and instead focus on the future, focus on Cassian.

But Galen Erso is dead – doesn’t have an opinion about what Jyn should do with her life – and his message replays, just like the machine is programed to do.

Cassian remains silent on the other side of her door, allowing the stillness of the room to be filled with her father again, until Jyn thinks he’s given up, gone away. Just like everyone else.

But, no, there’s another knock. “Jyn, let me in. Please.” His accent is rough on the last word, in a way she hasn’t heard since the flight to Eadu, when the prospect of assassination sat roughly on his chest. She waits.

“I’m not leaving, Jyn.”

She knows he won’t. Even if he willingly joined her on a rogue mission to Scarif, Cassian remains, at his core, a spy. And no spy lasts without an unending source of patience.

With a huff, Jyn stands. She hits the button that will open her door and returns to her spot on the floor without acknowledging Cassian at all.

“Thank you,” he says, softly now that his voice isn’t muffled by the door.

She hears him enter, the whoosh of the door closing behind him, but refuses to turn and face him. Briefly, she wonders what he sees when he looks about the room. The hologram, coming from a projector sitting atop a small, standard issue desk, provides the room’s only light. It’s more than sufficient to light up the tear tracks snaking down her face or to give her red-rimmed eyes a purple hue.

She silently begs him to comment on the former – both the projector and the data stick the hologram is saved on were stolen from Draven’s office after she was discharged from medbay – rather than the latter.

Cassian does neither. Instead, he sits down next to her, completely silent, his eyes, like hers, trained on Galen Erso’s glowing form.

They sit, only a few inches away, as message repeats again. At this point – how many times had this message just played? – the words are losing meaning to Jyn’s overwhelmed brain. The voice, so comforting an hour ago, loses its emotional draw, fading into white noise in the background. The sounds of the Rebellion’s celebration drift back under the door as Jyn sighs, leaning back against the wall.

For the first time since he entered the room, Jyn chances a glance at Cassian. Feeling her eyes on him, he turns his head to hers, meeting her gaze steadily. She watches as he maps her drying tears with his eyes.

“He would be proud of you, Jyn,” Cassian repeats his words from the beach with confidence.

“You can’t know that,” Jyn retorts, desperate to lash the pain in her chest out at someone else.

“Why?” His voice doesn’t rise to the bait, remaining even and calm in the face of her anger.

“Because I don’t know that. I didn’t know him.”

And that’s the first time Jyn admits, either out loud or to herself, what’s really truly been bothering her.

The thing that hits even harder than Galen’s death – because she had, for most of her life, imagined him dead, that he had died right along with her mother – is the idea that the man in this hologram isn’t the Papa she loved as a child. Her memories of her father are clouded by childhood innocence and ignorance. She remembers him picking her up, spinning her around, both in their apartment in Coruscant and on the fields of their farm in Lah’mu; she also remembers late night fights between her parents while she pretended to sleep. The man in the hologram spent a decade and a half entrenched in the hierarchy of Imperial life; who’s to say he’s anything like the man she remembers?

What kind of man was Galen Erso? If she had known him, if he had raised her, would she love him?

Jyn would never know.

“I’m being ridiculous,” she scoffed, more to herself than to Cassian. “I’m mourning an idea, not a person.”

Cassian stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching her face as it hardens into defiance. “Jyn,” he begins, his voice full of more understanding than she’s heard before, “Feeling the pain helps it to heal. Hiding behind anger won’t work very long.”

Jyn snorts. “I’m sure that’s advice you follow frequently.”

Cassian shrugs and lets out a small puff of air. It could almost be a laugh, if it wasn’t Cassian, if the situation wasn’t so serious. “I wouldn’t suggest following my habits of dealing with grief.”

They fall into silence again. Cassian appears casual, leaning against her wall, one leg bent to his chest and the other stretched out, but Jyn knows he’s waiting, observing. Keeping an eye on her.

The oddity of having someone watching out for her, having someone care, rushes over her. Is she grateful? Is she uncomfortable?

Vulnerable, Jyn finally decides on. What Jyn’s feeling is vulnerability. She feels peeled back, peeled open by both his words and his actions, so much so that when her father’s voice – the message repeating again – addresses her directly – Jyn, my Stardust – tears prickle her eyes again. Her attempts to stop them falling are halfhearted at best and soon the dried tear stains on her face have been recoated.

Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Cassian’s arm inch away from his side toward her shoulders. He moves like one would approach a wild animal, expecting her to bite or hiss at him.

Honestly, she can’t blame him.

Certain she’ll regret the move later, Jyn folds herself into Cassian’s chest, her face pressed into his shoulder. Hot tears still flow down her face, now soaking the collar of his shirt. He shifts away and for a second Jyn panics, sure she’s crossed a line. The room grows dark and silent around her before Cassian settled back into her embrace, his arms tight around her shoulders, his chin resting on the top of her head. He moved to turn off the hologram, not to get away from her, she realizes with a start.

How long they sit in the dark, Jyn doesn’t know, but Cassian never complains. She takes comfort in the loud, steady beat of his heart under her ear, times the speed of her breathing to the rise and fall of his chest.

Noises of the rebel’s celebration, sometimes growing louder as a drunk soldier wanders down the corridor back to their room, slip in, telling Jyn that time passes, that the world hasn’t stopped around her and Cassian.

Long after her tears dry, Cassian continues to rub circles onto her back, and she continues to cling to him. He presses his lips to her forehead, not quite a kiss, before breaking their silence. “I’m going to turn on a light, okay?”

She nods, releasing her hold on his back to let him up. When he returns, she expects him to stay a few inches away, like he did when he first came in the room, but, instead, he pulls her close, his arm back around her shoulder. His throat moves briefly, like he intends to say something, but stays quiet in the end.

“Maybe we should join the others,” Jyn murmurs into his chest after a few more moments.

Cassian nods. “Bodhi will be looking for us.”

“I just need a minute to freshen up,” Jyn says, picturing the horrific state her eye makeup must be in. Walking into the Rebellion’s biggest party of the year with red eyes doesn’t sound like a good idea to her.

“I’ll meet you out there then. Save you a drink.”

“I’ll be amazed if there’s any alcohol left on this planet,” Jyn huffs, getting to her feet.

“Jyn?” Cassian stops her, reaching his hand to her face and rubbing his thumb along her cheek bone. His voice drops several levels, his words only for her. “I do know. Your father would be proud of you.”

With that, he smiled, his eyes soft and crinkling around the edges, and Jyn, the fight drained out of her, can’t help but return it.

Just maybe, she’ll admit – silently, only to herself – that there are two people she wanted to be with tonight.

#nonsexual acts of intimacy #kat writes #therebelcaptainnetwork #rebelcaptainficrec #rebelcaptain #Jyn Erso #Cassian andor #ao3 #ff.net #galen erso

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