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obitinenovelwhen · 25 days ago

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Obitine Week - Day One: Conversation

I Wished You’d Told Me Sooner

“You look just like her.”

Jolted from her reverie by the familiar voice, Satine glanced around to see Obi-Wan standing just behind her. She was at first shocked that she hadn’t heard him approach—but after her initial surprise faded, she recalled that this wasn’t out of the ordinary for him, She wasn’t certain if it was a Jedi skill or simply his own quirk, but he could be surprisingly light on his feet when he wanted to.

He looked down at her, then dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She wondered at first if he was referring to his taking her by surprise. Then she remembered his words, what he’d said to first grab her attention, and she knew: Like her, Obi-Wan had been studying the tiny hologram in her hand, the image blue and wavering and yet unmistakable in the twilight.

It was a hologram of Satine’s mother, taken days before she had died.

Satine looked back at the holo, as if simply gazing at it could take her back to that time and place. “People often said I took more after than my father.”

“You have her eyes,” Obi-Wan commented softly.

“So I was told. I didn’t know her very long in this life—but you’re already aware of that.”

She looked up in time to catch him dip his head. “As I said, I don’t wish to intrude.”

“After three months of living hand-to-mouth together,” she said with a small smile, “I believe you hardly count as an intruder.”

A soft chuckle. “No, I suppose I don’t. I simply didn’t…” He paused, eyes searching the ground as if the words he sought could be found there. “I wasn’t certain if you’d rather be left alone while you’re thinking of your mother.”

“I think I’ve been alone with my thoughts enough tonight,” she replied, shaking her head. She patted the spot next to her. “Come. Sit.”

He hesitated, then again looked at the ground. “There’s something I need to tell you first—something I should have told you some time ago.”

She tilted her head to one side, bemused. “What about?”

Although his eyes remained where they were, Satine could detect a faint flush coloring his face. “About my behavior. A few weeks ago, when we…when I…”

Satine felt a flush warming her own face. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

Their kiss.

A weeks ago, she had allowed herself to give into something stirring inside her and kiss him—tentatively at first, then more deeply when she saw he wanted this as much as her. She wasn’t sure how long it had lasted; all she could remember was the sudden, heady feeling she got as their kiss become more demanding. Then suddenly, as soon as the moment had begun, Obi-Wan had turned away, face unreadable. All he’d had to say to her was a muttered “I shouldn’t have done that” before he stalked off, leaving her confused and alone and on the verge of tears.

Before he could see how the memory had affected her—how it still stung like a fresh welt on her soul—Satine turned away, looking ostensibly at her lap. “If you’re here to lecture me about that…incident…I think I’d prefer to be alone again.”

“On the contrary…I wanted to apologize.”

Satine’s head all but snapped around to stare at him. “Apologize?”

“Yes, apologize.” There was reticent in his tone, a slight unease in his posture, but he was able to meet her gaze. “I shouldn’t have reacted as I did. It was inconsiderate, and it clearly hurt you. I should have been honest with you, rather than push you away—and for that, I am truly sorry.”

Satine found herself blinking again, and had to remind herself to keep her mouth from going agape. It wasn’t that she’d thought Obi-Wan too proud to apologize; after all, she’d seen him apologize to his Master, Qui-Gon, on a number of occasions. It was more that she hadn’t expected him to be so open, so vulnerable, with her. He had always been closed off with her, never letting her in much beyond a few unguarded conversations or their extended kiss, and to have him open up to her in this way—it was practically a miracle.

And she couldn’t, for the life of her, think of how to respond. All she could think of was something inane, like “thank you” or “apology accepted.” But those didn’t really seem to fit. Nothing did. So she just sat there, studying him, waiting for him to make the next move.

Thankfully, Obi-Wan didn’t hold her in suspense for too long. After only a moment or so of silence, he gestured toward where she was sitting, and when she nodded in response, he tentatively lowered himself next to her. She noted that he didn’t actually sit; rather, he was poised on one knee, close enough that their legs nearly brushed.

“I’m not one to justify my mistakes,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But, well—I believe I do owe you an explanation of why I reacted the way I did. Contrary to how I may have made you feel, it wasn’t the kiss itself or anything you’d done that made me act in the way I did.” His gaze dropped a moment as he cleared his throat. “In fact, I rather liked it when you kissed me. And I realized a part of me had been wanting you to kiss me for some time—and that scared me.”

“Scared you?” She echoed, a hint of incredulity in her tone.

“Yes, scared. And for some time, I’ve been wondering why that was—why was I frightened of reciprocating a kiss, when I’ve had so many encounters with death? Then I had a dream from when I was younger, a memory of when I was just a youngling, and I had a realization: I’m afraid of one and not the other because death still permits me to be a Jedi.”

He paused briefly, gaze dropping to where their bodies almost touched. Satine thought for a moment that he might touch her—and, to her surprise, she found she wanted him to. She wanted to feel his hand brush her thigh, wanted his touch to send shivers up her spine…but it wasn’t to be. He only leaned closer, his eyes full of both regret and reticence.

“I’ve never told anyone this before,” Obi-Wan said, voice sounding suddenly small, “but my dream from the other night..it was of my only memory of my parents, back when the Jedi came to take me to the Temple. Both my parents were there, and they were looking at me with such sadness and pride, like they were grieving losing me to the Order but proud that I’d been granted such an honor. And I think at some point in my childhood, I began to feel as though I needed to be the perfect Jedi in order to outweigh their grief with pride—a pride in what I had become.”

He stopped again, cleared his throat, then went on. “Only there was a time when there was a very real possibility that I may never be a Jedi. I was a fairly dysregulated child, quick to anger and to lash out at others, which are precisely the opposite of what a prospective Master would look for in a student. In fact, I wasn’t selected as a padawan until after I’d passed the age at which a youngling must be chosen by a master. I was so close to never becoming a Jedi—never making my parents proud and their sacrifice worth it. And that…well, that terrified me, as much as our kiss did: because wanting you to kiss me was just as likely to result in my never being a Jedi as when I was overlooked as a youngling.”

Satine glanced down again at where their legs almost touched. “I was under the impression that padawans were permitted to have physical relationships before they became full Jedi.”

“That is true,” he confirmed, “but I’ve never been one to consider having a physical relationship with someone without having some sort of emotional connection first.” A rueful smile touched his lips. “The first person I ever considered kissing was a friend I’d known for quite some time—although even then I never acted on that desire. And I think it’s because I feared I’d always want something…more.”

Slowly, Satine met his gaze, struck by the rawness in both his voice and expression. She could see it now—see why he felt the way he did. See why he described his relatively innocent desire as frightening, why he was more comfortable with death than reciprocating someone’s affection.

“You were afraid of falling in love,” she said simply.

He nodded, looking away. “It would be the one thing that could overcome my resolve to be a Jedi—to make my parents proud and atone for the fact that they gave up their first child. And, as a result, I’ve tried averting romantic love at all costs. But, well…” He met her gaze slowly, tentatively. “I’m afraid that when it comes to you, it might already be too late.”

Satine gazed back at him, hardly daring to breathe. She wanted to tell herself that she had misheard him, or that she had simply imagined it. But as she sat there, really letting herself look into his eyes for first time, she knew she hadn’t misunderstood. The truth of it, of what he’d dared lay open to her, was right there in his gaze.

The gravity of that truth seemed to distort time around her, to both stretch it and compress it. It was hard to tell if she’d been sitting there for an hour or five seconds—both seemed easily plausible, but equally fantastical as well. It wasn’t until something shifted in Obi-Wan’s gaze, when his vulnerability shifted into embarrassment, that she realized they must’ve been gazing at one another far longer than she realized. Or at least longer than was socially acceptable.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, gaze flitting away as he moved to stand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I—“

She stopped him by placing a hand on his knee. “You have nothing to be sorry for. At least not for what you’ve said just now—not for telling the truth. I only wish…”

He suddenly seemed so young, so uncertain. “What?”

She allowed herself a smile as her eyes began to mist. “I only wish you’d told me sooner.”

@weekofobitine

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mylovingkiss · 1 month ago

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. ݁ ˖ ⌗ 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 . . .ᐟ ´-

♯ . 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 : dante sparda x fem!reader 𖤝

# 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 : 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭.

# 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 : 3.1k +

. ‿̩͙ . ݁ᛪ༙ . ‿̩͙ .

the lock sticks again. you shoulder it open, and like always, no one's there to answer.

you don't call his name. the lights are off, but the TV flickers. a cheap static staining the walls.

dante's out cold on the couch. one arm slung off the side, fingers barely hooking a can by the brim. his mouth is parted, and his soft snores were beginning to get lost in whatever dream.

he doesn't stir. not at the noise of the screen. or the creak of your boots dragging mud across the boards. not when the door shuts behind you, sealing the night's luminance back into the dark.

he looked so peaceful. it would've been sweet if you simply ignored how the world had been trying to gut you alive. clawing at your throat whenever you'd even try and breathe.

“g'night,” you mumbled tiredly, then mockingly to yourself, “oh, how am i, baby? i'm doing okay, sweet of you to ask.”

you step in. the apartment colder than you remember leaving it.

your gear settles in the armchair. gods know how the zipper of your bag managed to get caught in one of the loose threads of the cushions. sometimes it felt as if life was testing the last strings of patience you held.

but ignoring so, you took a few steps that led you to the AC. turning up the temperature to something more human. letting the warmth settle before joining your thoughts in the bathroom.

the mirror greets you, cracked through the corner, warped in age.

for someone who saves the world on a regular, dante still lives in it like it's falling apart.

not ‘one for being in debt’ he says. . . ironically contradicting the certain situation he has you both against.

the reflection replicates the impurities the previous fight brought. the hollow eyes and split lip, the ribbon of already-dried blood down your temple. not to mention the pale hues poisoning your features.

going out feels less like a mission and more like a jest at your expense. instead of being paid money and assurance, like any other hunter would love, you're left with scars and fewer bullets in your mag.

y'see, dante forgot to mention that part.

you shake your head, reaching for the rag on the sink. it's damp. maybe from before, or from him. and let the water seep.

but the blood didn't rub off. you scrub, and drag until the cloth turns dark. it's stubborn and doesn't want to let go of your skin. over, and over.

it clings—like the things he says. or the ones he doesn't.

and suddenly. . . it's not just about blood you're trying to rid off.

you should've known.

you should’ve.

he's sparda's son. born of devils' skin and a woman's tragedy. you knew what he was before he ever touched you. you knew the look of their eyes was to warn and lips to deceive.

you think of what he said.

you think of how easily he said it. . .

“you knew what this was. come on—i'm not the settling-down type.”

he made it sound like a means to an end. some one-sided bond. nothing serious. . . it always did make you feel pathetic.

you breathe out and your reflection fogs up like it's trying to spare you the sight.

“this... isn't just casual, is it?” you asked, voice softer than usual.

he didn't even mind to look.

“what's that supposed to mean?”

you frowned, shifting the strawberry delight in your hands slightly. “i mean. . . like, we've been going out and doing this for a while. i thought… y'know.”

“you're reading too much into it.” he casually said, the spoon still in his mouth as it muffled some words, “don't make this into more than it is. i'm sure everyone does it, yeah?”

somewhere between the frustration, you hadn't realized you reopened a wound. with how carelessly you've tried to clean your skin, it was quick to irritate the area, pealing back a layer of deeper red.

you want to blame him. you want to call him what he is.

a demon. . . but the word didn't sound fair.

you bite it down, feeling it rot in your throat. but with everything you held back. it was impossible take control of it all.

tears glistened in your eyes, though the voice in your mind persisted you could only blame yourself for this.

. . .he never did promised you safety, nor promise you'd be loved.

and yet, you remember the way he looked at you that first night... held heavy by rain and devil guts, grinning like the world wasn't near its end. you remember his voice, and how it dipped when he called you “hotshot.” like it meant something.

or when his fingers would ever so slightly shift to hold yours. saying “just in case something tried to drag you away.” not that he cared. he made sure to say that. but the tone of his words, or the look in his eyes never helped that cause.

maybe you were stupid to believe that tone meant more than the words that followed it.

you told yourself it was enough. that it didn't hurt. that if you just stayed long enough, maybe he'd figure it out. after all, he's the only one you had. and you his.

maybe you could teach a man made of doubt how to trust. and potentially, how to love. . .

you subconsciously drag the cloth harder across the back of your hands. you feel the sting of another cut breaking open. the warmth of blood lingers longer now, caught in the lines of your palm. your fingers start to shake. whether from the texture or from everything else, it's so hard to tell apart.

you hate how ugly it feels. you hate that it's true. you hate that calling him a demon makes your chest tighten with guilt.

maybe caring makes you naive. or worse—selfish. because you weren't in love with the devil. you were in love with the man who tried not to look flustered when he was complimented. the guy who'd gift you dead flowers because he thought you could simply plant them over again and watch them grow yourself.

could that make you worse of a person?

does that mean you're cruel?

for choosing what part of him to love and which to discard.

for extending your arms to the part of him that told what you wanted to hear, and turn your face from the one that silently begged to be held the same. . .

or does it just make you human?. . . the want for affection. being drawn to solace like any other living thing.

you drop the cloth. and it limps at the bottom of the sink with a sickening sound. the water is gentle. but your skin is raw, proliferating a rose red beneath its surface.

there's a shift. not yours. a creak—barely audible over the faucet's hum.

you don't want to meet the reflection. but the water stills. and your iris finds that familiar shade...

his hand finds the knob to turn off, and he stays there, eyes the color of winter glass, trailing patterns down the porcelain's worn down edges.

you don't greet him. you're still mending your hands. like maybe if you scrubbed harder, the ache in your chest would come off with the grime.

“...why didn't you say you were back?”

his tone tries for casual. like it's just a question.

you stare at the cloth. unsure of what to even say. so you settle with silence.

somehow, that throws him hard. his lips shift like he wants to argue, like he wants to give some dumb quip about how he's unbothered by everything just so he could at least hear your voice. but he doesn't.

“. . . you were gone all day.”

he says it quieter. maybe that's the part he actually meant to lead with.

you nod, but it's faint. your shoulders don't lift much.

he wishes there was some awkwardness, something, anything to distract from the unsettling sensation of your quietude.

he rubs the back of his neck, glancing down like he suddenly noticed how red your hands are.

“…i have some leftover pizza.”

could you even call it an effort? it's more like a life raft tossed out of habit.

it has nothing to do with the conversation. but he always does this. dismissing the main problem like he's afraid of it.

you close your eyes, pressing your palms into the edge of the sink until your knuckles pale.

he notices your distress. “it's pepperoni,” he mumbles. like that's the important part.

you almost smile. almost.

instead, you rinse your hands again. the water runs clear this time, but you still don't look at him.

he watches you for a moment too long, then shifts his weight like he's preparing for something. because he knows after you're done, you're going to leave that door and not speak to him. . . and he doesn't know if that might be the last time.

“is this about yesterday?” it's barely audible.

you don't reply. and that's an answer enough on its own.

“listen, i didn't mean it like that... what i said. . .” he trails off, like he needs the right words to give peace of mind, even if just temporary.

you move to leave slowly, not because you're hesitant, but because your limbs are aching. and along with the strain of your feelings, you can't bring yourself to listen anymore of it.

he notices, and his voice cracks halfway through.

“i was tired—and i say a lotta crap when i don't wanna think about it.” his voice is low now, almost ashamed.

you brush his shoulder on the way past. he feels it, the empty space left behind.

his hand is out before he even realizes it, reaching for your wrist. fingers clumsily closing over it.

“just—wait a sec.”

“dante.”

“i don't want to argue about—“

“nobody is arguing.”

“then let me say something!”

“i'm tired—“

“you were bein' real. and i got scared, alright?”

you pause, feeling the resignation in his voice, and how the irises of your eyes dilate. because you swear this amount of emotion had never neared his lips.

and he hates it, because to him, he looks pathetic.

instead he just stands there. a little awkward in the way some are after being caught with the truth.

“it's not that i don't care,” he finally says.

and somehow, your heart pieced together his words.

i just don't know how to.

he sucks in a breath, and trusts you enough to let go of your wrist.

then quieter, “i’ve... i can handle demons, i can handle fights, and anything my father's name throws at me, but. . .”

his eyes gesture vaguely at you, it's kind of stupid. but he can't help the words out.

“see, this ain't how i wanted it to go.”

you tilt you head, squinting your eyes. “go. . . how?”

“i had a cooler version in my head...” he huffs out a short breath. glancing away, and dragging a hand down his face. “it's not coming out right.”

but you wait. not trying to fix it.

“look, you already know i’m—” he paused, and you notice the subtle twitch in his eyes as he lowers his voice, “a fuck-up. . .” like he flinches at the thought of even being honest with himself.

he finally looks at you. really looks.

“you said 'i love you’,” he says quietly. “and i wasn't sure how to say it back.”

his fingers twitch again at his sides, curling into a fist before unclenching. “and i don't get why you stay.”

“you could be doin' literally anything else. office job. photography. bartending, get weekends off. but you're out here gettin' blood on your shoes, draggin' me home, payin' for groceries i swore i was gonna cover—” his hand lifts to gesture vaguely toward the hallway where the kitchenette resides, a little helpless motion.

“—and when i ask you why, you shut me up with kisses, tell me you chose to do this with me and—goddamn it, i swear you're more worried about me skipping meals than the 10-foot demon hound chasin' us around.” he starts to list it off-not out of mockery, but out of disbelief. out of a desperate need to understand.

he pauses.

“and that scares me.”

“. . . i don't know what to do with that.”

the silence afterward is heavier than anything he's mentioned he doesn't fill it. just stands there, heart begging to crawl out of his chest, waiting for you to answer-or walk away.

“it's reckless, and i swear, i swear—i look at you and i forget how to be the guy i was before.”

he swallows hard. trying to press it all back down. everything he's never said, and never let himself say. rising anyway, thick in his throat, crawling up behind his ribs.

“before you,” he says, almost inaudibly, shame tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“i didn't think there was anything else for me. no future, no version of me that wasn't just. . . surviving.”

then he finally trust you enough. letting go of your hand. bracing himself for you to pull away and leave. but you don't.

“. . . i found you outside that eye-sore of a tower,” he mutters, almost to himself. “firing off rounds from some busted-ass pawn shop pistol.”

you do your best not to smile. he notices.

“world's ending, demons crawling outta hell's crack, and there you were. standing on a pile of rubble.”

his voice shakes with the effort it takes to say it. “and i thought, no way she's sticking around. no way someone like you stays in this mess. 'cause seeing you in itself is a blessing—i mean, damn it.”

“you had no clue what was going on," he goes on, and there's a laugh caught somewhere in his throat. "said you were just looking for a train station. i thought—hell, maybe you'd been hit on the head. or maybe you were just that badass.”

he swallows. you can almost hear it. that tight, dry click of someone dragging emotion through grit.

“you weren't supposed to get dragged into this shit. none of it. blood, demons, cults, hell gates... me. i'm the one who was built for this. born for it, even. i got nothin' to lose here.”

his breath catches a little. he doesn't look at you. “or i didn't have it before.”

“so yeah,” he mutters, quieter now. “i'm selfish. and scared. and real goddamn bad at this.”

“but if this thing between us is the last good thing i ever get... i'm not gonna be the reason it gets ruined.”

“. . . i didn't follow you,” you murmur. “you weren't leading somewhere.”

he blinks. not quite understanding.

“you didn't drag me into anything...” you add.

your voice softens an orphic sentence.

“i wanted to be here. and you're not nothing. not to me.”

he finally looks up at you. really looks.

like he's been surviving of off the idea that you'd never say those words. that he didn't deserve them.

and maybe that's what breaks him.

his hand trembles at his side. not enough to see, but you can feel it.

“…shit,” he breathes, half a laugh and not at all amused. “you've never heard me talk this much, huh?”

you shake your head, a slow blink. “i mean... you talk a lot. but not usually things that, well, you actually have to think through.”

that gets a soft scoff out of him. his smile—worn and faint, barely reaches the line of his lips.

and you watch it fall again, just as gently.

“i just want you to be safe,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse. “and if that means havin' you away from me... then maybe that's what i should've done.”

“but i didn't. and i'm not gonna lie and say i'd do it different, 'cause i wouldn't.”

he reached for the cloth, cleaning through and rinsing off whatever blood there was left on your hands, before placing it back down. “i tried, but, guess i only ended up making things worse.”

you blink through the selcouth feeling in your chest. the way his voice cracks when he acknowledges it.

“. . . so, what are we?”

he looks up again. like you offered him mercy. and that makes him laugh, soft and disbelieving.

“anything you want me to be.”

your lips curl into the softest of smiles. then tilt your head.

he blinks, rolling his eyes. “i'm bein' serious.”

“my over-leveraged moocher?”

“babe,” he warns, and you hear the smile threatening to pair his mouth.

you squint at him like you're thinking. “a guy that actually speaks out about how he's feeling instead of leaving me out in the open thinking he never cared about me?”

his jaw drops, and he quickly gains composure, running a hand through his hair.

“see, i thought for sure you'd bail out by now.”

“how come?”

“someone like you... sticking around in my kind of mess this long?” he scoffs. “yeah, right.”

you let the silence settle again, lighter this time. not raw as before.

then quietly follow-up.

“...it's because i'm cooler, isn't it?”

and you expect him to talk back. to scoff, to playfully deflect like he always does. you even tilt your head, waiting. but he doesn't.

his eyes linger on your face—your tired but amused expression, the tiny crease forming by your nose when you try not to smile.

he exhales, low. “we're on the same level,” he mutters, and you can already hear the eye-roll in his tone.

he finally smiles, faint, boyish in that half-awkward, sheepish way of his. like he can't believe he just admitted that.

and before you can brace it, he leans in, grabbing the back of your thighs, hoisting you up against him.

you gasp, interrupted by a laugh. a real, surprised breathless bubble of sweetest undoing. “what are you doing—“

“bein' romantic,” he deadpans, but you can feel the grin against your jaw. “thought you wanted an emotionally-driven guy.”

his arms hold you firm, his hands warm through the fabric of your clothes.

you're laughing too much to argue. and he kisses you before you can even get a word out.

slow and tentative. only to break messy.

he pulls back just enough to whisper it against your lips, “you are cooler, by the way.” like it doesn't need to be louder than this.

and it's stupid, and sweet, and so unmistakably him, but it lands so softly.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

𝜗𝜚 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : hi annon and everyone <3

i hope you see this, for some reason it's not letting me reply to your inbox request so that sucks. . .

i'm going to be so honest i'm a bit of a wuss so there's fluff at the end. . . and it might be ooc but there’s not a lot of material to base this off of.

but tysm for the request! feel free to give me as many ideas or corrections as needed—sorry if this is kind of short... i didn't want for it to be obnoxiously long or boring.

also if you couldn't tell i got a bit lazy at the end, i’m so super sorry, i'll update it as soon as i can! i just wanted to post something for the meanwhile. . .

anyway, i hope this was suitable for your enjoyment. have a blessed day!

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