new wip wednesday
i wanted to get the first chapter of this done as an early bday present to me because ive been talking about this fic for foreverrrrr but its not gonna happen because im bad at measuring time and effort 😮💨 but look! hunger games au fic!
Anakin pushes his face into his neck, letting his lips press against his pulse for a moment.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, recognition and warning rolled into one tone.
But Anakin wouldn’t be who he is if he allowed the man in his arms to so easily twist away. He wouldn’t even be here now, pressed up against him with the scent of saltwater and lilacs and leather filling his nose, if he let one warning word distract him from his goal.
So instead he pushes further, wraps his hands around Obi-Wan’s hips and takes the skin beneath his lips between his teeth. The soft fabric of their pants brush together, so loud in the stillness of the kitchen that it’s deafening—that it’s almost loud enough to drown out the catch in Obi-Wan’s breathing.
But Anakin has trained himself over the past five years to listen for all the small ways that Obi-Wan Kenobi capitulates, so he hears his sigh, feels the slump of his shoulders against his own as his head sways forward and then back.
Anakin takes his time worrying a bitemark into his neck, just at the edge of his beard. On the holos that will film Obi-Wan’s face today, it’ll look like a shadow.
But Anakin will know. Obi-Wan will know.
“Anakin,” his lover murmurs, and Anakin’s hand moves from his waist up to stroke down his arm, corded with tense muscle. Fisherman’s muscle. Victor’s muscle too.
Not today, he means. It’s obvious in every line of his body. It’s obvious in the fact that he left the bed so early in the morning when neither of them must work. It’s obvious in the distance in his eyes, the frown across his lips.
Today is not a day where Obi-Wan will accept pleasure from anyone’s lips or hands, undeserving as he feels to be on the receiving end of such a kindness.
Anakin’s left hand falls to cover Obi-Wan’s, tangling their fingers together. His are rougher than Obi-Wan’s, working man’s hands now that he is twenty-one and a man of the sea like most are on Stewjon. The rough drag of his calluses over the hairy knuckles of Obi-Wan’s hand makes Anakin swallow a smile. Victors of the Hunger Games are forbidden from working laborious jobs. They’re meant to languish away in their Coruscanti-funded manors, with idle minds and idle hands, picking at paints or design stencils or any number of different government approved hobbies
Obi-Wan Kenobi is not made to be idle. He has no patience for painting or sewing, for cooking or jewelry design. Luckily for him, Stewjon is the fourth planet from Coruscant, on the edge of the inner rim, and it’s rather small, rather ordinary. In the colder months, during the few months of the star year where the galaxy is not forced to care about the Hunger Games and its Victors, he can slip away to the ocean. Fish and sail like he was born to do, Stewjoni through and through.
But Anakin is out on those choppy seas year-round now that he’s four years finished with his compulsory education. His hands are rougher than Obi-Wan’s and they always will be.
Anakin likes it. Likes the way Obi-Wan’s softness contrasts against his own rougher places. Likes that he can sneak away from Obi-Wan’s manor in the blue of the pre-dawn light, first to the sea and then to the market, and Obi-Wan will be there when he gets back. Likes that when he leaves, his lover is curled up asleep in their bed. And when he returns with the fattest fish from his haul, Anakin can cook it for him too.
He likes that he is the only thing Obi-Wan needs. He provides. He cooks for him. He feeds him. He touches him with his rough hands, to dirty him and then to clean him up. Everything that Obi-Wan needs, Anakin is the person to give it to him.
He supposes he has Coruscant to thank for that.
He’s not stupid enough to say that—ever, but especially today. Especially on the day of the Reaping.
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Ah, the hospital. Shu always hated the hospital. So…sterile, so clean. It was for the health of the patients, obviously, but it wouldn’t kill them to add some color somewhere. A nice painting would do wonders, especially in this room. He’s…not really sure why a child was in this wing, a place usually reserved for the elderly. Children’s rooms in hospitals tended to be brighter, more colorful. Everyone deserved that.
Reaping children was a hard job, even for someone immortal like himself. A life cut too short by illness, violence, or sheer accident was always a tragedy. Nobody liked to do it but Shu volunteered for it every time. It was painful, but he wanted the children to be in a comforting presence as they passed on. Something he hadn’t been granted in his own time. The girl on the bed was sick. She wasn’t due to die for a few days yet but he thought he could spend a few days with her before then. At least, for part of them. Death never waits, after all.
Shu often comes in during the early hours when visiting the sick children. If they’re awake, they may be able to see him, talk to him. He smiles and laughs at their bad jokes, listens to their woes. It is easier to move on with someone you trust by your side after all.
He comes in around 2am to visit the most recent addition to his list. She has a few weeks yet but her condition is terminal. When he makes eye contact with her, she curls up in her hospital bed. Maguro Mikejima, the name on her files read. He smiles.
“Hello, Maguro.” Children, he had realized, were more responsive to their first names. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She uncurls slightly, though still eyes him with a wary look. “W-who are you?”
He kneels by her bedside. “You can call me Shu. How are you feeling?”
“Are you one of the doctors?”
“Something like that.”
She relaxes. “My brother told me not to talk to strangers but…if you’re a doctor then it’s okay.” Shu takes note of a small stuffed toy sitting next to her on the bed.
“I just want to make sure you’re feeling okay. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“Mmm…I dunno. Sometimes I guess, like right now. It kind of hurts to breathe.”
“I see…” Shu raises a hand and looks at Maguro, waiting for a sign that he could go on. She nods, somewhat hesitantly, but it’s enough. Shu places his hand on her forehead and channels his energy into her. It was a temporary solution and his magic could only make things easier. It wouldn’t work on the underlying problem. She should be fine for the rest of the night at least. “Does that feel any better?”
“Mmm!” She hums happily.
“Good. I have to go now, but I’ll see you again soon, okay?” He held out his hand in a pinky promise, another thing he realized children liked.
“You promise?” She wraps her own pinky around his.
“I promise.”
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