#which made the rope swing out of control and catch my fingers in the mechanism

[enemywasp]

Where's the line drawn between being a student and being a worker? cause currently I feel more like an unpaid worker but I have a horrible feeling any complaint would be left with "Its experience"

Rant in tags sorry I just need to complain

[capricornus-rex]

The Longing For A Familiar Feeling

Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: Cal sustains a grave injury while going against a Jotaz in the chambers of the tomb. You obliged to tend to his wounds and nurse him back to health.

A/N: This basically counts as a backlog because I eventually ended up getting requests on the fly. The outline has been in my notes since April lmao so here I am fulfilling my compulsiveness to have everything ticked off the list.

Though, I hope you guys will enjoy this fic as you enjoy my other stuff! Your support has been an awesome impact ever since I came back here just to write a single oneshot last January ;;w;; I’m emotional again, I should stop now. Please enjoy the fic! ^w^

Also posted in AO3

Other reference: This one

Tags: Soft! Cal Kestis, Affection Starved! Cal Kestis, Intimate! Cal Kestis

Masterlist

The Tomb of Miktrull was unexpectedly more crowded than either of you expected.

Not only did the Tomb Guardian preoccupied you and Cal, but so did the Stormtroopers, Purge Troopers, and Probe Droids!

This day just can’t get any worse, can it? You thought, imagining yourself saying it out loud through clenched teeth.

The now-malfunctioning probe droid closed in on you and you timed the exact second before it self-destructs and Force-pushed it towards that trio of scout troopers coming at you. They instantly die in the explosion.

Cal rushed to back you up after defeating the Guardian. The Purge Trooper may be dead, but there were still two more scout troopers remaining. The odds are even—which may not be so bad, at least for you.

“I hit her! W-Why did I do that?!” the scout seemed to have regretted his action for pommeling you in the stomach.

You sent a clean streak of lunges at the scout trooper, your strikes were strong enough to break his defenses—after all, what good’s an electro-baton if your enemy’s a Jedi?

Cal easily took down the scout commander, he winced when he tried to stand up straight but he hid his pain from you when he gestured on taking on the lead.

“Look, there’s the gate,” he pointed out, Force-pulling the rope and then latching it onto the mechanism.

“Be careful, there’s that Jotaz,”

“It seems to be too busy with the Stormtroopers,”

“There’s the Jedi!” a Stormtrooper pointed out and signaled some of his men to fire at you.

“Not anymore!” you blurted, immediately deflecting the blaster fire and sending it back to their direction, leading some of the projectiles to the Jotaz—however, the mindless animal thought that it was still those soldiers who were still hurting it.

All that’s left was you and Cal against the Jotaz. The fat creature roared and lumbered towards the both of you, springing itself with its feet positioned for a flatfooted kick at either of you. Luckily, the two of you were quick and then dodged in opposite directions. Cal attacked it from behind while you drew its attention in the front, dodging its backhanded swipes by sliding against the flooded floor and searing its fleshy legs in the process.

While hunched and still coming at you, Cal took the opportunity to run up on its back and pith his lightsaber into its skull. Just when the moment seemed right, the Jotaz suddenly retaliated, feeling for Cal’s next movement and smacked him hard with its claws when the creature spun to face him.

The boy was sent flying across the other side of the chamber, lying flat on his back and partially submerged in the water. You were taken aback about how suddenly this animal became perceptive—at least, just this particular one—and had to up your game. While the Jotaz asserted its dominance against Cal, you afforded that moment to finish it off; it was close to dying and so you had to do the deed, sending a flurry of attacks, denying it as chance to attack you, and a succeeding Force-push made it stagger—finally allowing you to use your finishing move against it.

“Cal!” you ran up to him, kneeling down and ignoring the water seeping onto the legs of your pants. “Cal, open your eyes!”

A metallic smell wafted in the water, even though the chamber was quite dim, there was a noticeable red tint swirling over the back of your hand underwater. The source was from Cal’s body, but you searched for the actual wound—the Jotaz had cut Cal’s back and he’s bleeding out fast.

Promptly, BD-1 popped a stim for you, you caught the green syringe and injected it into the flesh of Cal’s bicep. His eyelids shot open when the viscous green substance packed a punch in his bloodstreams. You helped him sit up and searched for something—anything—in your person to press against the wound to clot the bleeding.

Lying right next to you is the corpse of a Stormtrooper, underneath the armor plates the dead soldier wore a black, cotton undershirt; you scrambled towards the body, tore the arm plates off until the entire sleeve showed—you gave it a good, harsh tug for the seams to pop until you’ve torn a considerable length of cloth for a compress. You dipped it in the water before putting it on Cal’s wound.

“Here, just keep pressuring on this, okay?”

The ancient elevator was there at your disposal, you supported Cal on your shoulders, hobbling towards the large cylinder and used your joint weight to trigger the pressure plate. The tube rumbled and felt it rising back up to the surface.

“[y/n], I can… I can walk,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t any harshness in his tone, but the firmness of his voice made his point clear. The two of you managed to get out of the Imperial base and made it to the part of the cliffside where there’s a pack of Stormtroopers waiting.

Cal pushed himself, still being able to fight but only utilizing half of his power; due to his growing weakness, the most he can do in combat in banking the shots, barely engaging in melee, and he couldn’t even use much of his Force abilities even if he wanted to.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” Cal mumbled under his breath.

“Keep it wrapped then,”

The healing stim could only do so much for the wounded Jedi. Cal’s pace was slow, traversing the obstacles suddenly became strenuous for him, but he pulled himself together until both of you came out of the mouth of the cave and caught sight of the abandoned village from the top of the slope. His body felt heavy and every muscle around his wound felt like tearing, he still thinks he’s doing a good job putting up a brave face.

“Come on,” he led on, walking ahead of you.

The trooper standing by the edge was startled by Cal’s entrance, barely having a second to stance himself, the soldier was easily subdued by the boy. The trooper’s companion eventually appeared and defeated him in less than a minute.

“This way, the path’s shorter,”

The two of you circled that house and climbed up the metal bridge where two more scouts are waiting on the other side. The commander was evidently more powerful and stronger than his subordinate, but that didn’t faze either of the Jedi, another Stormtrooper heard the din of the skirmish and pulled the trigger—to which Cal had skillfully deflected and sent back to the soldier.

Cal’s deflection became a window of opportunity for the scout commander and made an underhand swipe of his baton against the redhead’s torso—submitting the boy to his knees—and when the commander was about to finish him off with an overhead swing, the Stormtrooper’s body jerked at the impact of a lightsaber lobbed his way and fell limp to the soil.

“You okay?” you extended your hand in front of Cal, he gladly takes it and you pull him up carefully.

“Yeah, I’m good,”

The sluggishness in his body was apparent, his legs dragged to the direction he wanted them to go but it’s obvious that he cannot carry himself anymore. He stumbled back on his knees again seconds after he planted his feet on the ground.

It’s not plausible, you thought. What stood between you and the Mantis is a hangar that’s probably guarded by Stormtroopers and their KX droid or Haxion Brood hunters waiting to jump on you. The only solution you can find around you is take shelter in one of the houses. You became Cal’s crutch as you led him into the bigger house in this section of the village, BD-1 spliced the door controls and the door hissed open.

The little droid spotted the fusebox and overcharged it so all of the lights in the cottage flickered to life, revealing that the house is only one, large furnished space; you settled Cal on the couch to let him relax and catch his breath, while you searched for medical supplies. For ever cabinet you rummaged, you muttered an apology—supposedly for the absent residents in the home—you’re only apologizing to the wind. You came back to the common room, dropping all the supplies you’ve collected on the table.

“It’s not much but I think it’ll be enough to get you patched up,”

Cal proceeded to undo the top of his jumpsuit, color flushed in his cheeks when he saw your eyes counting the cuts and bruises on his body. Droplets plopped back into the bowl as you wrung the towel tight, he winced occasionally whenever you carefully dabbed the towel on and around the wound.

At first, you dismissed the occasional spasms of his body as pain reactions whenever the water from the towel seeped into the wound.

“I’m gonna have to put some Bacta gel on everything, okay?”

He nodded and you proceeded to scoop a pea-sized dollop of the healing gel for each injury you see. The translucent mint green gel partially obscured the redness of the cuts and the bruises—both old and fresh. Cal flinches whenever your finger presses onto his skin, rubbing the cool substance in circling motions on his injuries, but his muscles gradually soften a few seconds later.

Her hands are so gentle… He cooed in his mind. Secretly, he wanted you to find more of the wounds just so he can continue feeling your touch.

“I’m sorry, I…” Cal stammered.

You blinked, taken aback by the apology, “What are you sorry for?”

His head hung low, his eyes jumping from one bruise to the next, his lips parted to say something.

“I’m too much trouble to bring with,” he murmured.

A somber smile curled along the line of your lips, Cal’s shoulders jolted when he felt the center of your palm press against his jaw, the muscles of his face twitched when you ran your thumb across his cheek.

“No, you’re not,” you cooed lovingly. “Besides, I like taking care of you.”

Your words somehow made all the tension in his muscles disappear, his eyebrows furrowed, and he released a big sigh as he placed his forehead against your shoulder. Initially, he hesitated but he still gave it a try—his arms snaked around your waist, locking his hold on you by clutching his wrist with his free hand, and allowing himself to savor this feeling. He buried his face on the crook of your neck and his eyelids fell when your fingernails massaged and raked his hair—this prompted him to pull you in closer to him until your thighs sat over his lap.

It was a pleasant feeling for the young redhead. All of a sudden, his courageous Jedi demeanor morphed into that of an innocent child. This was something he lacked for a long time and he was glad to find it in you—the person who cares so much about him, the same way he does for you.

[sportacringe]

Give and Take (ch 2 Up and Away)

crossposted to AO3

The boys make a decision, and get moving. Íþróttaálfurinn is a menace, Glanni cares 

*

Glanni woke much earlier than he’d have liked, and to a much emptier bed. Morning light filtered in through the room’s half-broken blinds casting the mess he’d made in twisted shadows. Across the room he heard the shower running, and light spilled out from under the bathroom door. Despite his exhaustion he smiled slightly, privately, before pressing his face into the pillow that Íþróttaálfurinn had used. If he’d been able he would have fallen back asleep right there, but the light and the sounds were too much. Instead, he stretched languidly and closed his eyes, content to relax for a few more minutes. He was sure that Íþróttaálfurinn would bother him the minute that he finished with his shower anyway. 

The hero in question exited the shower whistling and opened the door to let out a cascade of steam as he towel dried his hair. Glanni opened one eye to peer at the elf, his gaze tracing the edges of the towel slung around the other man’s waist. The view was almost worth the noises that accompanied it. Almost. It seemed like Íþróttaálfurinn liked pop music if his continued whistling was any indication. 

Rolling over, Glanni threw the pillow at the elf’s dripping back and groaned dramatically when Íþróttaálfurinn whipped around to catch the projectile. The sun danced across his face as he smiled at Glanni, and Glanni promptly decided to pull the covers up over himself and give sleep another shot.

“Ah! You’re awake!” Íþróttaálfurinn grinned, still drying himself off as he spoke. Glanni groaned again and buried himself further under the covers. 

“No I’m not. I’m asleep and this is a nightmare.”

“Fine words from the man who invited me in.” The hero flopped down onto the bed, shaking the mattress on its rickety frame and startling Glanni into sitting up. “You knew that this would happen.” 

“Maybe I didn’t mean for you to stay.” The conman’s words were as empty as his stomach. He wondered if he still had a bag of chips in his duffel bag. "You're dripping on me, you menace."

 *

They went for breakfast at an awful seedy diner less than a mile from Glanni's motel. The floors were gritty beneath their feet and the conman flirted shamelessly with their waitress over a pile of syrup soaked pancakes. Íþróttaálfurinn spent a decent portion of their meal drinking weak tea and glaring at Glanni who had somehow charmed his way into a free side of bacon. Still, it was clear who commanded most of his attention. Glanni glanced repeatedly at the hero through their meal, alternately teasing him and pulling faces at Íþróttaálfurinn's wilted fruit salad. Eventually the conversation ceased its playful ebb and flow and Íþróttaálfurinn turned the conversation once again to business.

"So will you help me catch this killer?" Íþróttaálfurinn asked, fiddling with the handle of his mug. Glanni watched his strong fingers caress the ceramic, allowing his eyes to linger on the small scars that dotted the hero's knuckles.

He knew better than to say yes. His little burglaries were dangerous, but not overly so. He knew what he was doing. It certainly wasn’t as dangerous as seeking out a confrontation with a trained sniper, someone who had already killed a number of people. But every time Íþróttaálfurinn asked him to do something it became harder to say no. The further their friendship pushed, the more willing he was to put up with the elf’s dangerous schemes. Glanni knew that, in his own awkward backwards way, Íþróttaálfurinn thought that he was helping him. But even the money—and the relative legality—that the bounty provided could not adequately compensate for the fact that the job was dangerous. Too dangerous for Glanni to risk without further incentive. 

Unfortunately, if Glanni refused, Íþróttaálfurinn would likely try to catch the killer on his own. Without Glanni’s connections it would be virtually impossible for the hero to seek out information from the criminal underground of Busy City, and more than likely Íþróttaálfurinn would end up giving himself away before ultimately getting killed. 

“I’ll do it.” Glanni tried to look sly but was anxious enough that it came out looking more awkward than mischievous. He comforted himself with the fact that the cash reward would at least mean that he’d be able to slow down for a while. The rate at which he had been taking jobs was wearing him thin, and he’d relish a few weeks to simply take off somewhere and be lazy. 

“But,” he continued, leaning across the table to be closer to Íþróttaálfurinn as he spoke, “If we’re going to do this, you need to let me work without interference. No lurking behind me and glaring at people, no trying to arrest my contacts.” That could only end badly. “Honestly it would probably be best if you let me do my part of the legwork alone while you deal with law enforcement so that I won’t have to.” Glanni felt himself frown. The less often he spoke to the cops in Busy City the better. He’d had enough run-ins with that department to fill an entire file and any interaction between him and the force was usually fraught.

“Done.” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled, and the room seemed suddenly brighter. Glanni felt himself relax slightly despite himself. If the elf was confident in their plan, then maybe he could be at least a little less paranoid. Maybe if they played their cards right they wouldn't both die horribly.

Breakfast goes quickly from that point on, their conversation vacillating between planning and cheerful banter. At one point Glanni breaks a piece of his bacon into pieces and makes a game of tossing it across the table for Íþróttaálfurinn to catch in his mouth. Eventually the hero began to egg Glanni on, until the conman rose to the challenge and threw the final piece high into the air, which in turn had prompted Íþróttaálfurinn to leap after it. The backflip had probably been unnecessary but Glanni had been the cause of worse scenes in nicer restaurants, and Íþróttaálfurinn had left the waitress a good tip on their way out. 

 *

They left Lake Avarice City at noon. Glanni had whined about taking the balloon, but when the hero unceremoniously chucked his duffle bag into the basket, the conman begrudgingly hauled himself up after his possessions and into the aircraft. Íþróttaálfurinn followed, vaulting into the basket with practiced ease and swinging his body over Glanni’s head, causing him to curse viciously. Once inside, Glanni tucked his long legs up to his chest and curled into himself like a frightened spider, glaring at Íþróttaálfurinn across the cramped rattan basket. 

“I hate you.” Glanni didn’t hate him, but he did hate heights, being trapped in small uncomfortable spaces, and methods of travel that relied almost entirely on intangible means—like wind, or magic—all of which traveling by Íþróttaálfurinn’s balloon just so happened to entail.

“Just don’t fall out again.” Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged, seemingly unbothered by his friend’s grumbling. 

“That was one time!” It had also been an unfortunate side-effect of Glanni attempting to steal the balloon during one of his many daring escapes, but neither the hero nor Glanni brought that up. The conman was sure that if he’d had a few more minutes to figure out how the aircraft’s propulsion worked, he wouldn’t have upended the basket and he’d have made a clean escape. Íþróttaálfurinn was equally sure that if Glanni hadn’t tumbled from the basket he’d have crash landed in short order. 

Taking a deep breath, Glanni felt himself relax. Talking to Íþróttaálfurinn had taken the edge off of his nerves. The two of them lapsed into silence as the wind swept up and carried them east towards Busy City. Glanni looked at his friend contemplatively, he wondered how a person who so rarely stood still on the ground could travel so frequently in such a tiny craft. The elf was seated across from him in the basket with his legs crossed in full lotus and his back facing the rattan wall breathing slowly and evenly. It was almost as though he was meditating. 

After a moment’s thought, Glanni lowered his legs from his chest and tried to mimic Íþróttaálfurinn’s position. He pulled his left foot on top of his right leg, but when he tried to force the other foot into place, fire erupted in his hip. He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, biting back a pained cry before giving up, falling instead into a more relaxed cross legged position. It was far from the sort of stretching that he was used to. Despite himself, Glanni couldn’t help but be impressed by the flexibility of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips, and wondered if there were any creative ways that the two of them would be able to make use of that.

Discarding that thought before he got too carried away, Glanni carefully opened up his senses, matching his breathing to the hero’s. The wind whipped around them, cutting through the loose weave of the basket and blowing his hair around. Glanni kept breathing, kept looking. 

Every fiber of the basket was laced with magic, every thread of the balloon, every strand that made up the ropes. It was breathtaking and subtle, ancient and remarkably elvish. It was also not what Glanni was looking for. He concentrated on the elf sitting in front of him and found what he sought; Íþróttaálfurinn’s magic was a heavy gold, and as old fashioned as the balloon. Rather than whirlpooling inward in meditation his magic was stretching out into the balloon, intertwining with the structure of the aircraft itself like an enormous marionette and steering it as surely as a hand upon a rudder. It was no wonder that Glanni hadn't been able to take control, he’d been focusing entirely upon the mechanical components of the craft. He still didn’t quite understand how to control a normal balloon, let alone this elvish monstrosity. Maybe someday he could trick Íþróttaálfurinn into teaching him.

Íþróttaálfurinn could be teaching him now, they had talked while traveling via balloon before. The elf must have been capable of multitasking, at least on short jaunts. Glanni had never accompanied him on a long trip like this. Previously, he'd only ever been brought aboard to either escape imminent peril, or in handcuffs on his way to police custody. This was just boring. He didn't even have any cuffs to try to pick his way out of. 

Instead he simply looked at Íþróttaálfurinn. Last night, in the light of the streetlamps, the elf had seemed powerful and solid, like a hero cut from stone in some ancient temple. Throughout their conversation Glanni’s eyes had lingered upon him, drawn in by Íþróttaálfurinn’s presence. He was as impressive as any myth come to life. 

Now, as he sat cross legged and still, he should have seemed even more like a statue, but the light of the sun softened his features. The hero was wearing his hat but his wavy blond hair still spilled from underneath it, brushing the skin of his muscular neck. Even his stupid mustache moved slightly in the breeze. Thin white scars criss-crossed their way along the bare skin of his arms. Some were faded until they were nearly invisible and overlaid with newer shallow marks. Íþróttaálfurinn’s armor would conjure the image of a statue no matter what kind of light shone upon it, but Glanni assumed that that was intentional. The hero’s entire costume was evocative of some kind of ancient warrior. He didn’t know enough about history to be able to tell what culture the hero had pulled the imagery from but it was classic enough to get the point across to even the lowest of laymen. 

The best feature of Íþróttaálfurinn’s appearance—in Glanni's humble opinion—was his nose. At one point it had been wide and straight, but after an encounter with Glanni, a few totally unaffiliated bank robbers, and a very clever trip wire, it had acquired a nice little bump on the bridge just beneath the hero's eyes. Glanni supposed that he ought to feel guilty about that now that the two of them were supposedly friends, but he was far too pleased with himself to regret the injury. Who else could have been genius enough to string a tripwire up at eye level, predicting that a certain hero wouldn't be able to resist leaping around like a madman? Really, the reminder of Íþróttaálfurinn’s broken nose was better than any trophy. It also made his face more distinctive.

A strong gust tipped the balloon's basket, causing it to weave back and forth slightly in the open air. Glanni's breath caught in this throat. Across from him, Íþróttaálfurinn opened one eye as if to check on him. The conman merely gulped, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall behind Íþróttaálfurinn’s head. As the hero closed his eye again, Glanni fished his pack of smokes from his pocket and somehow withdrew a pristine tobacco cigarette from the crushed box. He stuffed the box back into his jacket and pulled out his lighter with shaking hands. He lit the cigarette quickly and drew in a breath before exhaling a plume of smoke straight into Íþróttaálfurinn’s face. Rather than responding verbally, the elf merely frowned and scooted to the side, moving so that he was no longer downwind. From his expression it was clear that the hero thought Glanni’s smoking was foul. Glanni rolled his eyes and copied the hero, sliding over into a corner. Smoke still filled the basket, but it was less heavy and Íþróttaálfurinn gave him this single comfort without objection.

Foul or not the habit was calming, and Glanni figured that in a situation like this he’d take what he could get.