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simp-ly-writes · 1 month ago

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The Letter's

─────── · · Dreams of Dragons (pt.5)

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader, Cregan Stark x Reader

SUMMARY: Words are said to be the most powerful force all. And that statement continues to be truthful when letters are exchanged between the King of the North to that of the Seven Kingdoms. Eager eyes drink of the ink as you cherish your final moments in Winterfell.

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, protective!Daemon, angst, blood and gore, hurt/comfort, soulmates, time travel, targ-cest, engine-translated high valyrian, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,763 | PRIOR | NEXT A/N: i should be doing school work rn... but i my mind is HERE 😭

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DISMOUNTING FROM YOUR HORSE THE GROUND LOOKS TO BE TOUCHING THE SKY AS THE GREAT ICE WALL STANDS TALL ABOVE THE SILENT WHITE LANDSCAPE. The wooden elevator creaks with the weight of you all standing within the box. It swings slightly with every gust of wind sending your heart rate skyrocketing unlike the pace you were being brought up with.

You grip the wall tightly with your gloved hands, eyes frantic as you watch the ground become more distant before becoming minuscule to the sky. "Afraid of heights, your highness?' one of the guards asks whilst adjusting the crossbow on their back.

You offer a weary smile before adverting your eyes to the opening doors ahead of you all. "Well this is no dragon," you counter knowing that you couldn't begin to explain what an aeroplane is and you receive a chorus of humoured grunts before stepping out and on to the wall.

You first take a long look in both directions in order to try and grasp the sheer mass of the structure, your hand glides across the equal wood and ice walls with silent fascination as you pay no attention to the various men and women that stumble in seeing your presence before returning to their duties like nothing happened in the first place.

"I cannot begin to imagine how mankind created such a structure," you state while looking towards the Lord to already find his eyes upon you. Holding one another's gaze, Cregan takes his time to reply, "and so you must know why such a thing had to be created?"

You bow your head deeply, walking up a series of steps towards an outlook point and it as if all of the South fades behind you, your eyes stolen by a sea of nothingness that unsettles your bones better than the winds like a lingering dread that you cannot look away from. "I-" you are unable to respond, your mind painted in scenes of smoke and blood like your earliest dreams.

You twitch underneath your furs, leather boots creaking as you shuffle your feet at the gruesome scenes that play out in your mind. That familiar and overwhelming smell of copper laces through your nose finding its way right to your gut and suddenly a hand pulls your arm back as you squint as realities blur together.

It is a silent scream as you see red eyes and white skin appear before you, the hands move up your shoulders giving you a light shake, your name is bellowed to overcome your senses as you look into silver eyes and brown hair once more.

"You had a vision..." Cregans hands slide off your form, he takes a half step back, just far enough to give you space yet just close enough to let you know he's physically there to support you. "...what did you see?"

You swallow hard, the information you hold within yourself is dangerous in the wrong hands and in that moment you realize you are in a foreign state with men surrounding you that you fully didn't know. But the Starks saved me... surely... You take a hesitant look upwards at Cregan who tilts their head slightly in a silent ask to tell me.

Shaking your head, you step back away from the wooden raining, bumping your shoulder into an oil lantern that swings on a post before settling once more as does your heart rate. "If I speak anything on what is to come, it will change the outcome I know to be," you cryptically answer, tearing your eyes away and looking over the small group that tries hard to act like they were not listening to your conversation the whole time.

Amongst this group sits a man hunched over on a stool, his left hand gently grasps a piece of charcoal that drags across a cream coloured page. Their white eye-brows are furrowed as you raise your chin, trying to gain a clearer view of what they were sketching- two figures, you observe... one in a dress the other with a large sword- oh.

The artist looks up, offering you a smile before continuing their drawing. Cregan's arm brushes up against your own, you feel his warmth radiating out from his armour and off from his furs. "It is proof for the letter," he speaks quietly, eyes casting a stern look to the formed group that returns to their positions without another word. "You are distracting my men, princess," Cregan notes, eyes looking at the side of your face before returning to the artists hands.

You chuckle, moving a strand of fallen hair from your eye, "you are not the first to tell me that." Cregan hums in response, his hand moving to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger. A mutual silence is shared as the artist concludes their drawing, you both are presented the final image, your fingers drift over the corner as to not blur the unsettled material atop the page.

In all your studies it was rare to come across a complete drawing and now you held an original and better yet, an image of yourself. You pass the image towards the Lord, thanking the artist politely and watch as they take back the drawing and head back towards the elevators.

"It is sad that the drawing will have such a short life time," you comment, watching as people move up and down the hall with various supplies of alternating shapes and sizes. Cregan furrows his brow, "and why is that?"

You turn to face the Stark seeing as he has two cups in his hand of steaming liquid, he silently presses it into your hands before taking a sip of the dark liquid and your face lights up at the taste of hot chocolate. Yourself internally laughing at the Cold King of the North drinking the beverage with a stoic expression.

"Odds are if my mother or sister is not first to receive the letter... my father or uncle will be quick to crumple and burn it," you giggle, shaking your head as you waft the comforting smell of the drink towards your nose. Cregan watches you with an amused expression, lips turned to the smallest smile that falls all too quickly in remembering what he just heard.

Clearing his throat, he places your empty cups in a bucket of other used items before walking off with a silent expectance for you to follow along and you do so further across the wall.

You do not know how many hours you spent between the icy walls as Cregan noted the history of his ancestors to your eager ears, taking the occasional glance back to see your bright eyes lighting up with every fact you absorbed.

"Your father, grandfather and all those before you's dragons refused to pass the wall, the most ancient and deadly creates afraid of what lies beyond the horizon..." the Stark pauses, his next words seemingly hesitant in comparison to the calm even tone you were used to hearing, "...death and destruction." You misstep with your footing, a flash of red snow beneath your feet before you stabilize yourself.

Cregan adjusts the sword on his back, "I seem I guessed your visions correctly." You do not meet Cregan's gaze that provides him with enough of an answer, "And so is also why I am hesitant to continue our connection for I am not able to face two directions at once, your highness. I understand more than ever my duty to the North and I would not want to keep you from your family as other's have."

You open your mouth to outright protest but before you can speak a new face steps forwards, two swords swinging down by their hips, their hair grey and weathered yet they stand upright and at attention to their lord with their message, a small paper enclosed with a blood red seal, "a message from the Red Keep, my Lord."

The note is promptly handed over before they walk away, disappearing into the white walls. You stare at the small note in Cregan's large gloved hands with interest as he beckons you forwards, opening the small seal and rolling out the paper for both of you to read.

For the eyes of Lord Stark only...

Cregan raises a brow to you, head tilted ever-so slightly in a teasing manner in seeing that you don't even begin to look away from the note, eyes quickly skimming over the fresh ink and your fathers signature and stamp at the bottom.

I know the South and the Middle Lands by the back of my hand as you do the North and in reviewing every scar on the back of my hand that travels up my arm and past where I can view, my search is brought into your territory and so I must make a request of the North. My eldest daughter has been discovered missing, you know of her condition- of her value- and so I am lead to believe she is somewhere within your lands. If you are to find her, your reward in exchange will be grand- your name will be praised. And if it is found that you are to be withholding her- know that your blood will water the lands that will all but forget you and your people with our victory.

You watch as the letter rolls back into its original state, Cregan pockets the note as you both share a look before a smile breaks out on your face in seeing the Lords almost horrified expression. You place a hand on the Starks arm for reassurance, "Like I told you before, I will address my family and make sure you are rightly compensated for your kindness and hospitality."

"Yes, Princess, but it is but a half-lie that you have been kept here for longer than you-" You cut off the Lords anxious lecture, walking back towards the elevators, a few guards following in tow looking between you and their leader with concerned glances.

"I asked to stay, did I not? If my father is that thirsty for blood he shall drink mine as well if he strikes down upon innocent men," you counter, stepping into the shaft and spinning on your heel to face the Lord who stares at you for a long while. Eyes tracing over your schooled features before closing his eyes and taking in a long breath, releasing it as he stands beside you.

The doors shut as the cart is lowered to the ground, "you are already willing to die for a man you have just met in the name of supposed righteousness?" His tone is low, eyes having not left the doorway as your eyes cast up his frame and nod your head whilst looking away.

"I would argue the role you play is even greater than mine, even without morals it would be downright foolish of me to forgo the logic of it. Your army alone is enough to sway many battles and," you giggle to yourself, "you are a young man with great prospects and land to their name- the perfect set up for a heir," your smile leaves you with your next words, "As for my life... well... best not to think on it too heavily..."

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And yet when settling yourself back on to your saddle and trotting down the barren frozen paths before you- it was all you could think about. My life's a lie, my real parents only talk to me like I'm a pawn... and they are not wrong. My sisters going to have the throne, she will marry my uncle as the texts dictate...

The very words send a sicking feeling right down to your gut as you grit your teeth at the image of them close, of his hand caressing her cheek, of their lips connecting... your whirlwind of thoughts only continue on a downwards spiral... she will hold Dragonstone and befriend the King of the Seas while I'll be... there...

"Are you well princess?" Cregan slows his horse to a trot, his eyes cast over your face in seeing your soured expression that you try and cool. "I am fine," you respond albeit with a bit too much force that shuts down any progress you made with the reclusive lord, "I'm sorry," you breathe out after collecting your thoughts, stuffing them into a deep corner near the back of your mind as you open your eyes towards the present, "my father's words just made me see my choices differently."

The Stark nods understandingly, "fathers have a way of doing that," and you can tell by the way in which he speaks his words, they are from the heart. Your rekindling moment is soon broken as a flash of yellow snaps your attention down the path, you briefly hear as Cregan mumbles something underneath his breath before the direwolf, North comes into picture.

You lean to the side in your saddle to be closer to the Lord, "what is going on?" you ask as the party comes to a standstill.

"There is a bear on the path ahead," Cregan notes, looking over to you, amber swirling around steel in his eyes that he blinks away, cutting off his connection with the animal. You watch as he guides his horse to turn simply with his legs, his arms already directing the men and weapons are distributed.

You open your mouth to think of another way not to kill the animal before remembering that this was their way of life and the very furs that now rested upon your shoulders must have been made by a very similar situation. You swallow down your words before offering to help, "with horse riding my parents also made me do lessons in archery." A bow is soon tossed into your hands, a quiver of arrows stationed at your hip.

Your head is turned on a swivel, eyes casting wide and out towards the horizon for any signs of movement. The air is still in these quiet moments, no one dares to speak- wanting to get catch the animal off-guard for an easier kill. You adjust the arrow in your bow, cracking your neck side to side before freezing as the shadows appear to be moving in the tree line. Setting your horse parallel to the forrest you raise your bow, squinting your eye to combat the shimmering reflection of the setting sun off of the snow.

Watching where your arrow is pointed, Cregan casts his arm forwards as other men take a similar position and ready their aim. Once again you hear a mumble from Cregan and the furious growl of a bear has you jumping on your mount before taking aim once more as North darts back towards you all, a massive black bear chasing behind them.

Taking in a deep breath you pull back the arrow and watch as the animals sprint begins to falter as arrows land in its hip and torso, another shot in its neck- you don't remember letting your arrow fly. You hear its the scream of its long tail running across the plane before striking the creature in its eyes.

It's head swings side to side before you feel the force of its body fully greeting the earth. Next a spear is thrown, ensuring the animal to be dead before Cregan dismounts, walking up towards the bear and crouching down. His hands pick of the animals head, his fingers brush over the teeth before he looks over at you.

Dismounting you are quick to rush over and take a similar position. You feel as Cregan's hand pulls at your wrist, your fingers finding the softness of the black fur as you stroke one of the bears short ears with a sigh. You watch as the men that surround you lower their heads, a silent prayer is shared that you close your eyes to respect their culture.

Standing, Cregan looks to you as he unsheathes the large sword from his back, holding it between both of his hands as he takes aim to decapitate the animal. Look away now if you must, his eyes convey yet after everything you had seen today, you felt that it would be of disservice to yourself for not seeing the full practice.

You back away, seeing as red splatters onto the white carpet beneath your feet, some landing on your cheek and garbs that you pay no mind too. Cregan holds the heavy head in his arms before handing it off to another man who straps it to the back of their horse.

Next the skin and fur is stripped as thoughts are shared on how the pelt should be used when you all reached the estate. A flask is then shoved in front of your face that you silently drink from before handing it back to the Lord. "In my position I was often so far removed from these practices... the final product presented in front of my like magic with no prior thoughts," you comment, interlacing your fingers in front of yourself.

Cregan hums, taking a drink himself before storing it back at the side of his saddle, "I will have something commissioned for you when we reach back home."

You shake your head, moving to stand beside your horse seeing as the men had taken as much meat as they could, leaving the rest for nature and its predators to feast upon. "But you took the killing shot, princess, by my tradition you get first choice, often which is the head."

You bite your lip, sighing, "I have no idea what I will do with a bear head nevertheless some teeth, I already have plenty of those," you joke yet Cregan takes your words as truth and confusion clouds his features, "But I thought you did not hunt?"

It is your time to fully laugh as you hike up your skirt and mount your horse before trotting ahead, yelling back, "I meant myself, my Lord." You do not get to see or hear Cregans reaction yet you feel his gaze upon your back as you look back and smile before picking up more speed; feeling the wind in your hair and the kisses of winter burning your cheeks with its bitter attention.

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Back at the House of Stark, the gates shelter your company as you dismount once more and are welcomed by warm hugs from your staff Alexi, Eda, and Lyah. The first practically squeezing you to death while whispering in your ear, "Lady Stark yet?"

You flush sending the younger girl a glare before turning back to catch a flash of worry in Cregan's eyes that vanishes with your smile. Little did you know how hard the Lords heart was racing at the sight of it and how it ached knowing that this would be one of the last times you might see one another.

He raises the head of the bear to hear the praises from he crowd before placing it in the hands of another and from one loud moment turns to a quiet one. A sense of familiarity washes over you as you sit on the large stone fireplace once more and watch as Cregan sits at his desk, feather in hand, ink well just above, and an open page waiting to be marked.

He looks up without picking up his head, you lean your head back against the stone wall, crossing your ankles as you play with the ends of your sleeves. He props the feather back on his desk with a sigh, your head tilts to the side, eyes raking over the strands of hair that dangle over his forehead. "I have never been so worried over a mere letter before."

You do not laugh at his words as you hear the truth that lies behind the humorous tone, "words leave us when we need them most so it is no wonder we love them so much. For when we finally hear the words we need- nothing else matters."

"Usually my jokes are answered by silence or laughter, never poetry," Cregan deadpans as you crack a smile, standing and moving to the corner of his desk. Your eyes trace over the various letters, nicknacks and paperweights across its surface with utmost interest, your hand twitching to touch the dagger staked through a few notes and into the solid dark wood.

Cregan leans back in his chair, looking up at you, "I will miss you, Princess."

"And I you," you extend your hand feeling as his scared one traces over your knuckles before pressing a soft kiss, lingering before letting go. You bring your hands up to your chest, stroking your collarbone before turning your mutual attention back to the letter. "As any good letter should start, we should say hello."

"I am not saying a simple hello to the fucking king of the seven kingdoms," Cregan speaks in an even cold tone. You shrug, "thats all I've got," you say in a false sad tone, eyes gleaming with happiness as you catch yet another small smile from Cregan that makes you notice just how far your short relationship with the Lord has come since your near death in the woods at the beginning of the week.

Soon ink hits parchment as you begin to walk around the study once more, humming to yourself as the Lords eyes trail up from his note and back towards his page every time you cast your eyes back with a smile, "thought you couldn't look in two directions, my Lord," you tease to receive a grunt.

"I see your confidence grows the longer you stay, do not allow your fire to burn you from the inside out, Dragon-guide."

"I will keep that in mind, King of the North, if you promise to think of me too?" You receive no reply for Cregan knew he would think of you and your shared moments for the rest of his life with fondness. You listen as the paper is rolled and wrapped by a simple piece of twine.

You watch as a crow rattles in its cage by the Lords desk, stirring in preparation for its next job. You look to Cregan for permission to open the window, holding one another's gaze for longer than necessary knowing that this was but the first part of saying goodbye, and then he nods. The iron latch is cold to the touch as is the breeze that sneaks in before you shut it. Watching as the crow soars up into the clouds and flutters above the tree line before disappearing from sight.

"May I ask what you asked for your reward?" you do not turn to face the Lord, keeping your eyes to the outside landscape, trying to paint this scene in your memory so that you could request an artisan back in the Red Keep to paint the same scene in all its perfection.

"Do you truly wish to know?" Cregan stands, you feel as his footsteps shift the planks on the floors as he nears your side. You look at yourselves in the reflections off the glass with a nod.

"For a future Targaryen princess to marry one of my heirs." Your breath hitches, so this is how it happened, how it ends, you think to yourself before responding, "a fair ask," in an even tone, raising your chin so that the tears of disappointment do not fall down your cheeks understanding that your part of the story was only to be an observer that ensured the right story played out, nothing more.... nothing less.

You could shout at your younger self for always desiring to learn more but perhaps the excitement always came from the unknown rather than the prospect of knowing.

"I apologize for not being able to do more," Cregan whispers, eyes tracing over the side of your face with a heavy sigh, "I- you-" he closes his eyes before continuing, "I hope you find another man more selfish than I have already been with your attention."

"Nonsense, I am the selfish one, have we not already had this conversation? But thank you for your words.... maybe I will run away and marry a simple man and live a simple life with.... ducks and little fluffy cows." And the sound of Cregan's boisterous laughter filling your ears warms your heart.

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A CROW'S CAW BLEEDS THE EARS OF THE STAFF IN THE RED KEEP AS GUARDS WORKING THE TURRETS AND WALLS COVER THEIR EARS AS THE SCREAM PELTS AT THEIR EARS UNLIKE THE ROAR OF A DRAGON. And without another word, the young princess Rhaenyra takes off from a small council meeting and towards the halls, racing up a winding stair well in order to fetch the letter, an unknown force pushing her every step as she offers a few seeds to the creature, unhooking the note from its feet before watching as it takes back off into the blue horizon.

The paper is a dull yellow in colour, a simple unsuspecting twine laced around the scroll. The Princess wants nothing more than to see the occupants of the letter yet thinks otherwise of all the potential eyes around her as she tucks the paper into a pocket of her gown and walks at a more pleasant pace back to her room.

Seeing the oak frame in view, she picks up her skirts, heart pounding in her ears as her curiosity peaks, the paper burning against her side knowing that whatever was inside must have been important to have such a magnificently groomed bird drop it off.

Yet before she can twist the handle of her door open, a scream yet again sounds through the halls of the Red Keep and as she looks left and then right, she finds the source of it to be coming from herself as her Uncle Daemon grips her arms down tightly to her sides. His teeth gritted together, features sharp and eyes cutting through her weak smile.

"Uncle," she greets, feeling as bruises begin to form across her skin. "Don't think I didn't see that blasted bird as well, Niece. You know what I want so when I let go I expect that you present it to me."

The Princess blinks, mimicking innocence, "the note I hold is from Alicent Hightower, surly some mundane gossip is not of interest of the Rouge Prince?" She smiles, trying to shake out of the Princes grip that remains unwavering just like his hissed words, "you lie terribly. If you were one of my men your tongue would already be in my hand as I dare to to try again."

"Ao dare threaten se dārilaros naejot se Dēmalion Āegenko, kepus? (You dare threaten the heir to the iron throne, uncle)?" Daemons dark laugh rings through the Princesses ear drums as he releases his touch, hands clasped behind his back as he leans daringly close to her face, "Gaoman daor dare, mērī kivio, (I do not dare, only promise)."

"Only the troubled make promises for if you were a good man, people wouldn't need your word- they'd. just. know," and with that the Princess quickly turned into her room, slamming the door closes and pressing a chair to lock the handle in place. She listens to her Uncles shouts with a glee-filled expression, watching as the door vibrates with every knock and shove pressed to it as she sits on her bed and unravels the note.

Eyebrows shooting impossibly upwards with the large gasp she intakes in seeing who signs the letter. Sister, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

To the Mighty King of the Seven Kingdoms, I have received your letter, I have heard your worries and by my words and the image provided by my artisans, see that your daughter is indeed safe and has been resting under my care. She is healthy as she is well and has been learning about our culture in her stay and will be coming with a gift of our shared hunt- she by far had the sharpest eye out of all of my men. A feat not to be hidden but highlighted immensely. But in my praise, I do not wish for her hand, yet ask that in return that a future Targaryen Princess is to marry one of my heirs. May this letter find you with speed, grace, and health, Lord Cregan Stark

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A/N: back to being responsible now *heavy sigh*

─ · · DREAMS OF DRAGONS TAGLIST: @blkmystery @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @themoonlitquill @hnslchw @myownevils @vermillionwinter @r-3dlips @jubilee40 @wisdomcrys @purplecloaks

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bat-mom-writer · 6 months ago

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Rage and Redemption Part 3

Bruce Wayne X Adapted(Female) Reader

Summery: After losing your parents, staying at a unloving orphanage, you are adapted by Bruce Wayne. But you make it clear to him, that you don't want to live with him and that you plan to make him regret taking her in. While Bruce makes it clear that he's not give up on you and he'll be there to help you heal.

Rating: slight angst, cursing, flipping the finger, happy ending?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

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A week goes by and you find yourself in the back of Ms. Jenkin's car, the leather seats sticking to your skin from the nervous sweat. You don't know where you're going, only that Ms. Jenkins had told you to get dressed and pack your things. You've never been off the orphanage grounds since you arrived, and the outside world seems to buzz with a strange energy that makes you both anxious and excited.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask, your voice edged with defiance and a hint of a smirk. "Are you finally throwing me off a bridge like you threatened?"

Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. "Your humor is as distasteful as your behavior," she snaps, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

You shrug, unbothered. "So, where am I going?"

Ms. Jenkins' grip tightens on the wheel. "To your new home," she says through clenched teeth.

"As if," you murmur under your breath. "New home." The words taste sour. You've heard that before. The "new home" was just a new set of bars, a different cage with different faces.

"Do I at least get my picture back?" you spit out, the question burning on your tongue like a live coal.

Ms. Jenkins' eyes meet yours in the mirror, cold and unyielding. "You'll get it when you learn to behave properly," she repeats, the words sticking to the air like a bad smell.

You lean back in the seat, arms crossed over your chest, staring out the window as the cityscape passes by. The buildings grow taller, the cars shinier. You've never been to this part of Gotham before. It's cleaner, brighter, and a stark contrast to the grimy streets you've come to know. The sight fills you with a mix of anger and envy.

As the car approaches a massive, iron gate, it slows down. You can see the name "Wayne Manor" etched into the metal, surrounded by lush greenery and a sense of peace that feels eerily out of place in the chaos of the city. Above the gate, a camera swivels into view, the speaker crackling to life. "Name," a disembodied voice asks.

Ms. Jenkin looks to the camera, her smile forced and brittle. "Ms. Jenkins, Bruce Wayne should be expecting me," she says, her voice tight with annoyance. The gates to the Wayne Manor begin to swing open, revealing a sprawling estate that seems to breathe wealth and opulence, a stark contrast to the stark reality of the orphanage. The car glides up the winding driveway, the tires whispering over the gravel.

You find yourself captivated as you gaze out the window, your eyes wide and unblinking, taking in the breathtaking landscape that unfolds like a beautiful painting. The sprawling lawns are a lush sea of vibrant emerald green, stretching endlessly toward the horizon, their gentle undulations mimicking the waves of an ocean. Scattered throughout are perfectly manicured gardens, bursting with colorful blossoms and lush foliage, each one looking as if it has been lovingly curated from the pages of a whimsical fairytale.

Ahead of you stands the manor, a majestic edifice of weathered stone and lush ivy that appears to rise organically from the earth. Its grandeur is both imposing and enchanting, with tall, pointed gothic arches that reach skyward and intricate stonework that tells a story of bygone elegance. The windows, set like glittering jewels within the façade, catch the sunlight, reflecting it with a dazzling brilliance that transforms the whole structure into a shimmering beacon of beauty. The scene is a harmonious blend of nature and architecture, creating an inviting yet mysterious atmosphere that beckons you to explore further.

The car stops in front of the grand entrance, and Ms. Jenkins turns the engine off before turning in her seat to you, her eyes bore into yours, "I don’t want to see you again after today. You are to be a perfect child to Mr. Wayne," she says, her voice cold and unforgiving. "Because I wouldn’t be taking you back," she adds, her voice dropping to a whisper, "You can take your attitude and your brattiness to the streets, I don’t care. Just don’t come back to me."

You grin, not out of joy, but rather out of spite. "Yeah, sure," you say, mimicking her sweet tone. "I'll be as perfect as you are."

The sarcasm hangs in the air like a toxic fog, and Ms. Jenkins' eyes narrow. "This is your only chance at a real home," she says, her voice a warning. "Don't throw it away."

With a jerk, she opens the car door and stands, gesturing for you to get out. You do so with a dramatic sigh, dragging your trash bag with very little belongs, and slamming the door behind you. The sound echoes through the quiet, serene air of the manor's grounds, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city.

You approach the imposing front door, which seems to loom over you, taunting you with its grandeur. Before you can knock, it swings open, revealing a stern-faced butler dressed in a crisp, black suit. His eyes sweep over you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the tension that practically radiates from your every pore.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor," he says, his voice as cold as the marble steps you ascend. You follow Ms. Jenkins into the foyer, where the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers fills the air. It's a world away from the stale odor of the orphanage, and your nose wrinkles in an involuntary reaction to the unfamiliar smells.

The grandeur of the manor is overwhelming. The high ceilings are painted with scenes of mythological battles, and the walls are adorned with tapestries that tell ancient stories of valor and honor. The floor is made of gleaming black and white tiles that seem to stretch into infinity. You feel like an ant in a palace, insignificant and out of place.

Then, you hear the sound of footsteps, measured and precise, echoing down the grand staircase that spirals up into the heart of the manor. Your heart races as Bruce Wayne descends, his figure cast in shadow until the last step brings him into the light. He's dressed in casual clothes, but there's something about the way he carries himself that screams power and wealth.

"Hello," he says, his voice warm and surprisingly gentle. "It's nice to finally make your acquaintance properly. I'm Bruce." he extends his hand.

You look at his hand for a moment, contemplating the gesture. Then, with a smirk, you bring your hand up, not to shake his but to give him the finger, flipping him off with a twist of your wrist.

Ms. Jenkins gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. "You little-!" she starts to scold, but Bruce holds up his hand, silencing her. He smiles, a ghost of amusement flitting across his face, and takes a step closer to you, leaning down with his hands on his knees.

"I see you've got some fire in you," he says, his eyes twinkling. "That's good. You're going to need it."

You cross your arms and scoff. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bruce's smile turns into a grin. "It means," he says, his eyes never leaving yours, "that I know you're not a quitter. And I'm not either."

He stands back up, his towering presence seeming to fill the room. "Thank you, Ms. Jenkins," he says calmly. "Alfred will see you out."

Ms. Jenkins sputters, but Alfred steps forward with a nod, taking her by the elbow. "Right this way, ma'am," he says, guiding her out of the room with surprising gentleness.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving you and Bruce standing in the opulent foyer, the silence heavy with anticipation. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart thudding in your chest.

"Well," Bruce says, breaking the tension. "Why don't I show you your room?"

"You mean my cell?" you reply with a sneer.

Bruce chuckles, a warm sound that seems out of place in the cold, unfeeling world you've come to know. He leans down again, his eyes searching yours, and says, "I mean your room, where you can keep your things, sleep, and maybe even find a bit of peace." He stands back up, the smile on his face unwavering.

He starts up the stairs, his steps echoing through the cavernous foyer. The tapestries whisper secrets as you follow him, your sneakers squeaking against the polished marble. The grandeur of the place feels like a prison, each step further inward a silent confinement to a gilded cage. But something in his eyes gives you a glimmer of hope—a hint of understanding, perhaps.

As you reach the top of the stairs, he points to a long hallway lined with portraits of stern-looking ancestors. "There are rooms for each of the boys I've adopted. Dick's is there," he points to the first door, "Jason's is next to it," he indicates the second door, "Tim's is down there," he nods to the third, "And Damian's is at the end."

You raise an eyebrow. "You have more prisoners?" you say, trying to keep the sarcasm from your voice.

Bruce laughs, the sound surprisingly warm. "I like to think of them as… part of the team," he says, his smile not reaching his eyes. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. This," he opens the last door on the left, "is where you'll be staying."

He opens the door, and you step into a bedroom that's bigger than your entire old apartment. The walls are a soft blue, the color of a quiet night sky, and the bed looks like it could swallow you whole. There's a desk with books lined up neatly, a wardrobe that seems to stretch on forever, and a window that looks out over the lush gardens.

"What? No swimming pool?" You deadpan, trying to keep the awe out of your voice.

Bruce chuckles, the sound bouncing off the walls. "No, there's one right outside. But I'm sure you'll find your tub to be more big enough," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes. "Very funny," you mumble, moving to the bed and dropping your trash bag on the floor with a thud.

"But if you don't find that satisfying enough," he walks to two double doors on the opposite side of the room, "your library is right through here." He opens the doors to reveal a space that takes your breath away.

The walls of the cozy room are lined from floor to ceiling with sturdy wooden shelves, each one brimming with books in diverse shapes and sizes, their spines a kaleidoscope of colors. In the middle of the quite room a charming swing chair hangs from the ceiling, gently swaying back and forth as if inviting you to settle into its embrace. The soft creak of the chair complements the soothing ambiance of the room.

In corner, the warm glow of a crackling fireplace casts a flickering light, illuminating the space and creating a welcoming atmosphere. The dancing shadows throw whimsical patterns onto the plush, deep-colored carpet, enhancing the feeling of warmth and comfort.

A beautifully designed window seat, framed by large, arched windows, is tucked into the bay, overflowing with an array of sumptuous velvet cushions. These cushions, in rich jewel tones, beckon enticingly, inviting you to sink in and find a cozy spot to immerse yourself in the pages of a captivating book.

Overall, the room serves as a tranquil sanctuary, a perfect escape where you can lose yourself in fantastical worlds, far removed from the harsh and gritty reality of Gotham outside. It is a haven for readers and dreamers alike, nurturing the imagination and offering solace in its warm embrace.

You wander over to the swing, tentatively giving it a push. It glides back and forth with a gentle, soothing motion that feels alien to your jaded soul. The books on the shelves seem to whisper promises of adventure and solace, each one a gateway to a new life. You reach out to touch one, the spine cool and smooth under your fingertips as you pull it out, the title blurring before your eyes as you struggle to read it.

"I don't like to read," you lie, the words feeling like sandpaper against your tongue. You drop the book onto the floor with a thud that seems to echo through the vastness of the library as if you've committed some great betrayal.

Bruce watches as you leave the library, the lie hanging in the air like a forgotten echo. He knows you're lying—it's written all over your face, in the way your eyes lingered on the book, in the gentle caress of your fingertips on the spine. But he says nothing, allowing the moment to pass.

He follows you back to your bedroom, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet that muffles the sound of his heavy boots. The doors swing shut behind him with a soft click, closing out the rest of the world. The room feels smaller now, the grandeur of the manor receding into the background as he stands in the doorway, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"If you don't like to read," he asks gently, his voice a soothing balm to your jagged nerves, "then what's something you do like?"

You look at him for a long moment, weighing your words. "Why do you wanna know?" you ask, jumping onto the bed, the mattress sinking beneath your weight. You bounce once, twice, a childish act that feels surprisingly liberating in the face of his expectant gaze.

Bruce doesn’t flinch, his eyes never leaving yours. He takes a step into the room, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "Because," he says, his voice soft, "I want to get to know you. I want to understand what makes you tick. And maybe," he adds with a small smile, "I want to help you find a way to heal."

You scoff, the sound of a harsh bark in the pristine silence of the room. "Heal?" you repeat, your voice laced with sarcasm. "I'm fine." But even to your ears, the lie sounds hollow.

Bruce crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving yours. "We all have scars," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Some are just more visible than others."

You roll your eyes, the smirk never leaving your face. "Spare me the motivational speech. I've heard it all before," you reply, your voice a sneer.

Bruce's smile falters for just a moment, but he quickly recovers. "I'm not here to give you a speech," he says, his voice firm. "I'm here to offer you a home and a family."

You snort, the sound echoing in the large room. "I don't need a family," you spit out, your voice harsh. "I don't need anyone."

Bruce's eyes darken slightly, a hint of sadness flickering across his features before it's quickly masked. "Everyone needs someone," he counters, his voice firm.

"Not me," you reply, "I don't need you or your pity. I'm just fine on my own."

Bruce's gaze remains steady, his eyes piercing through the facade of anger you've built around yourself. "You may think that," he says calmly, "but I've seen the look in your eyes when you think no one's watching. I know you're hurting."

"You don't know anything about me," you spit out, your fists clenching tighter. The words are a challenge, a barbed wire fence you've constructed around your heart, daring him to try to get through.

Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know enough," he says, his voice low and even. "I know that you've been through something unimaginable. I know that you're hurting, and I know that you're scared."

You laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that fills the room. "Scared? Me?" you challenge, taking a step closer to him. "You think I'm scared of you?"

Bruce's expression remains calm, almost serene. "I don't think you're scared of me," he says, his voice steady. "But I do think you're scared of letting anyone in. Letting anyone see the pain behind that tough exterior."

You snarl, the anger burning in your eyes. "That what you think? You think I'm just this sad, little girl who's lost everything?"

Bruce doesn't flinch. "No," he says, his voice calm and even. "I think you're a survivor. You've been through hell and come out the other side. And now, you're trying to keep everyone at bay because it's easier than letting them in and getting hurt again. You act up, push people away, because you think that's the only way to protect yourself. But it doesn't have to be that way."

You stare at him, your chest heaving with the effort to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over. His words cut through the armor you've so carefully constructed, exposing the raw, tender wound beneath. You want to scream, to yell, to lash out at this stranger who seems to see right through you. But instead, you clench your fists even tighter.

"I think I should make something clear, old man," you say, your voice low and steady, the smirk on your lips growing into a full-blown grin. "I don't plan to be a sad story for you to tell at your fancy parties. I'm going to make sure your life is a living hell. You'll regret ever taking me in."

Bruce's smile never falters, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Is that so?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You nod, your smile a challenge. "You just watch me," you say, the smugness in your voice unmistakable.

Bruce leans down, his gaze locking onto yours. "I think there's something you should know then," he says, his voice a gentle rumble, "I'm a big believer in seeing the best in people. And I see something in you, something that's worth fighting for. So, go ahead, test me. I've faced worse. But want I want you to know is that no matter how much you push, I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not unless you really want to."

You glare at him, the fire in your eyes burning brighter. "I'm no quitter," you say, your voice filled with a fierce determination that surprises even yourself. You've lived on the streets, faced the Joker, and survived an explosion. You're not about to let a fancy manor and a billionaire who thinks he can save you break you.

Bruce walks to the door, his hand on the knob. "Dinner will be served in an hour," he says, his tone still calm. "I'll have Alfred show you around until then. Oh and, " he adds with a hint of mischief, "try not to cause too much trouble before then, okay?"

You shoot him a look that could set the curtains on fire. "Sure thing, pops," you say with a smirk, the words dripping with sarcasm. Bruce chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you can't help but feel a strange warmth in your chest. It's been a long time since anyone has tried to tease you, to treat you like a normal kid.

But you're not a normal kid, are you? You're a survivor of the Joker's wrath, a girl who's been through hell and back, and now you're standing in the bedroom of a billionaire's mansion. It's all too much to process.

You wander over to the bedside table, drawn by the glint of something shiny. There is a small, simple frame. Your heart skips a beat when you see your family photo inside—the same one that had been in the purse you stole.

With trembling hands, you quickly pick it up, taking it out of the frame. The glass is cool against your fingertips, the edges sharp. You bring the photo closer to your face, breathing in the scent of home that seems to cling to the fading ink. You trace the outlines of your mother's nose, and your father's eyes, memorizing the contours of their faces as if you could bring them back to life with enough willpower.

For a moment, you're lost in the past, in a time before the fire and the chaos. Before the Joker and the pain. But then the reality of your present crashes over you like a cold wave, and you realize that this is your new reality. The orphanage is behind you, and Bruce Wayne is your new...what? Savior? Father? Jailer?

Bruce watched from the gap in the doorway as the girl discovered the family photo, his smile gentle and knowing. He'd placed it there on purpose, hoping it would offer some small comfort amidst the overwhelming change. The way she held it to her chest, eyes scanning the familiar faces, told him more than any words could about the depth of her pain.

As she traced the outline of her mother's nose and her father's eyes, Bruce felt a pang of sorrow for her loss. He knew what it was like to have your world torn apart, to feel the burning rage of injustice. But unlike him, she was still so young, her wounds fresh and raw.

He stepped away from the doorway, allowing her a moment of privacy with her memories. He knew she needed it, needed to feel the pain and anger without the burden of his watchful gaze. The hallway outside was silent, the manor's grandeur a stark contrast to the quiet, personal battle playing out in the room behind him.

Part 4

#batman #bat family #dc universe #dc fandom #batfamily #bruce wayne #bruce x orphan reader #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman x little girl #orphan reader

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jetii · 1 month ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Four: Fault Lines

Chapter WC: 13,262

Chapter Tags/Warnings: this chapter is 50% awkward flirting and teasing and the other 50% is arguing and scene setting and existential dread

A/N: Point of order for military stuff that's happening in these next couple chapters: the 501st is typically referred to in canon as a battalion. I'm making some assumptions that they grow to the size of a legion by the end of the war, though they're still a battalion by the time the Umbara arc happens according to canon. Yes, it's a kids show and they play it pretty fast and loose with the terms but I can't stomach ambiguity SO! At this point, the 501st is a battalion.

A legion is the same thing as a brigade. Goldie and Booker as Senior Commander lead the 419th Brigade, which is comprised of 4 regiments or 16 battalions, or up to 9,216 troops total. Just to give you an idea of size. I spent forever building her army and naval forces, and I could keep yapping but that’s not what we’re here for lol enjoy the chapter 🫡

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Duro, 20 BBY

Duro is an industrial world, and not one you'd ever desired to visit. It's a grim, polluted planet, with few natural resources and an atmosphere thick with pollution. The factories that litter the landscape are a testament to the greed and avarice of the corporations who own them, and the few workers left to maintain them are often treated little better than slaves. The planet's only saving grace is the flotilla of orbital cities, floating above the surface, where the majority of the inhabitants live.

There's an air of desperation down here on the surface, a sense of hopelessness, and it's not hard to see why. The Duro have wrung every last drop of profit from their world, stripping it bare and leaving nothing but ruins. They're a race in decline, clinging to their fading legacy with grim determination.

The Republic has managed to maintain control of the planet with a small garrison of troops stationed at a posting called the Equatorial Communications Hub. The hub is a series of towers, each housing a relay connected to the orbital cities by a network of repulsorlift tubes. It's an ugly building that juts out like a spike amongst the ruins in the distance, its white exterior stark against the dark sky, and the Republic's flag flies proudly from the top.

You look around as your gunship flies over the factories and the crumbling buildings streaking past below. It's an eerie sight, a ghost town, and it's easy to imagine how much worse the situation could become if the Separatists gain a foothold. You can't help but think of Nadiem, the image of the burned, bombed-out buildings and the piles of rubble fresh in your mind. The same thing could happen here, if the 501st and your forces aren't successful.

"It's a damn wasteland," Wise calls out over the hum of the gunship's engines. He leans over, glancing down at the row of factories, his face pinched with distaste. "What a shithole."

"Remind me why we have to land here?" Snap asks from the copilot's seat, bracing his arm against the cockpit as the ship rocks violently. "It looks like it's gonna blow up at any secon—hey! Watch it!"

"I'm trying," Dash snaps, his eyes focused on the controls. He eases the ship around a smoking tower, narrowly avoiding a collision, and the squad lets out a collective sigh of relief. “You try flying in this mess and see how you do, okay?"

"Someone's touchy today," Screwball observes from the back of the ship. He's fiddling with his rocket launcher, inspecting the charge and checking the power level. "You get up on the wrong side of the bed, little brother?"

"Oh, fuck off," Dash mutters, and you can't help but smile as he shoots Screwball a look of annoyance that translates through his helmet. "I'm trying not to get us killed. So maybe focus on that instead of harassing me."

Screwball opens his mouth to retort, but Wise clears his throat, his voice booming over the comm.

"Enough," he commands, and the two of them fall silent. "Save it for the clankers."

Screwball nods, turning his attention back to his weapon. Dash sighs, and you reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. He's been tense since the battle on Nadiem, the strain showing in the tightness of his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes.

He's not the only soldier who's been affected, though. The rest of the men are tired too, the months spent in and out of combat without respite having taken a toll. They're all dealing with it in their own ways, but for some, the burden has been harder to bear.

Snap is usually the most laid-back member of the squad, but you've noticed that even he has become more serious, his usual jokes and quips replaced by grim silence. Wise has been snapping at everyone, and Screwball seems to be constantly on the verge of a breakdown, oscillating between bouts of manic energy and depressive moods. And Dash...well, he's just exhausted. He's been working twice as hard to cover for his brothers, and it's not going unnoticed.

“You’re doing well,” you murmur, and Dash nods, his hands tightening on the controls. You can see the faint tremors in his fingers, the result of too many hours awake, and you sigh.

You've barely had any sleep yourself, your dreams haunted by visions of destruction and death. The images are getting clearer, more detailed, and they're becoming harder and harder to ignore. You're no closer to understanding them, and it's been an exhausting effort.

But the Force is telling you that it's important. It’s giving you the tools, the warnings, and you have to trust that it will show you the way. Even if it means sacrificing your sleep and your sanity.

And, hopefully, this time, it'll be worth it.

“Really,” you insist. You squeeze his shoulder, trying to convey the sincerity of your words. "I know it hasn't been easy, but you're doing a great job. I'm impressed."

"Thanks," he mumbles, his head dipping forward. You can't see his face, but you can sense his relief. He relaxes for a moment until the ship shudders as a gust of wind buffets it, the hull groaning in protest, and his spine stiffens. “I think I'm getting better at this flying thing.”

"I'll say," you remark, watching as he guides the ship around a towering factory billowing smoke into the air. "It's been, what, two months since you've had a crash?"

He snorts, and you know he's rolling his eyes, though he’d never do that in front of you directly.

“I’m serious,” you laugh and pat his shoulder. “Keep this up, and I might even let you fly my fighter.”

“Really?”

His head snaps towards you, and his voice is so hopeful that you can't help but smile.

You've spent a lot of time with the clones under your command over the past few months, and it's a privilege to see their personalities come to the fore, to watch them evolve into individuals, rather than just identical soldiers.

Dash has been particularly receptive to your efforts. His eagerness to learn and his natural affinity for technology has made him Maelstrom Company's de facto pilot under Snap, and the responsibility has allowed him to step out of his brothers' shadows and into his own. And as he's grown, so has his confidence. You've watched him go from a nervous, shy kid to a capable soldier, and you're proud of the progress he's made.

And he's not the only trooper who's improved. The rest of the squad have made similar strides, and you've seen them all blossom, each man finding his own niche within the 419th and discovering his strengths and weaknesses. It makes you a bit sentimental, and a lot proud. They've become more than just soldiers, and you’re well aware that you’ve grown attached, far more than you probably should be.

It's something you never expected, at least not to this extent. You'd never wanted a command of your own, never wanted to be a general, content to let Obi-Wan do all the leading and all the commanding. And the idea of being responsible for so many lives had scared you, especially considering your past. You'd had no choice in the matter, and you'd accepted your role with a sense of resignation.

But as the weeks and months had passed, you'd slowly come to realize that it wasn't the burden you'd expected. It wasn't easy, not by a long shot, and the losses and the deaths weighed heavily on you. But there was something rewarding about the work, a sense of purpose and a sense of accomplishment. You were able to help people, and make friends while doing it, and that was something you could get used to.

"Maybe," you say, giving Dash a playful smile. "We'll see."

He chuckles and returns his focus to the controls, his shoulders squared with determination. The ship shudders again, and you brace yourself against the wall as the viewport fills with a haze of grey. The men curse and complain, their voices rising over the roar of the engines, and you bite your lip, fighting the urge to snap at them.

Dash guides the ship into a sharp turn, the engines whining in protest. The turbines kick in before the ship levels out again. You all breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Sir, we’ve got movement on the ground, coming from the eastern quadrant of the city," Snap reports. A squadron of droids lumbers through the empty streets in the distance, heading towards the hub. "Looks like an entire company, at least."

You study the group, watching as the droids march in formation. They're moving quickly, and you can see the blaster bolts flashing as they fire into the windows of the surrounding buildings. Your intel suggests this part of the city has long since been abandoned, but it doesn't seem to stop the droids from continuing their attack.

"There's no civilians there, right?" you ask warily.

"No sir," Snap confirms. "All civilians were relocated to the orbital platforms, and the area was deemed secure."

"I'm going to make a low pass," Dash announces. "Check for heat signatures."

You nod, and Dash pushes the controls, dropping the ship towards the city below. He's careful in his movements, weaving between the towering shells of factories and the crumbling remnants of the city's infrastructure.

The men around you lean forward, watching intently, their eyes fixed on the droids. The gunship drops lower until its belly skims the rooftops of the lower buildings, and the droids come into focus, the dim sunlight glinting off their metal plating.

“I’m not picking up any organics," Snap reports, studying the scanner. “We should—“

The radio crackles, and a voice cuts in.

“Gunship 2899, this is 501st Captain Rex, what is your location? Over.”

The men exchange a glance, and you lean over, bracing on Dash's shoulder as you activate the comm.

"This is General Anathorn," you answer. "We are inbound to the rendezvous point. What's your status, Captain?"

“Engaging enemy forces, General,” Rex replies, his voice crackling through the speakers. “Care to join us?”

You can't help but smile, and the men chuckle, shaking their heads. You feel a flutter of excitement, the anticipation of seeing Rex again causing your heart to beat a little faster. You've missed him more than you'd ever expected, and the thought of being together, fighting side by side, it fills you with a sense of relief that’s almost staggering.

It'll be good to have him back. And even better to fight beside him.

"I think we can manage that," you answer, and Rex's answering chuckle echoes through the cabin.

Behind you is a chorus of groans and gagging noises, and you turn, glaring at the rest of the men. They pretend not to notice, staring studiously out the viewport or checking their weapons. You roll your eyes, and the comm crackles, Rex's voice ringing out once more.

"Copy that, sir," he says, his voice betraying his smile.

"See you soon, Captain," you murmur.

“Looking forward to it.”

The line cuts out in a burst of static, and you step back, trying not to look too eager. You cross your arms, clearing your throat, and turn to face the men. You can feel their barely-contained amusement through the Force, and you try to ignore the flush of heat creeping up your neck.

"Don't say a word," you warn, but it’s too late. The cabin explodes with laughter and cheers, and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.

It's good-natured, and they mean well, but it's still embarrassing.

You'd thought you'd been subtle in hiding your affection for Rex, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that your efforts had been futile. More than once, the men have caught you messaging and comming him, and their reactions have ranged from concern to bemusement to downright delight. They'd always seemed supportive, even approving, but their behavior as the hours counted down until your reunion has turned their teasing from gentle ribbing into outright harassment.

They were enjoying this, and you weren't sure how to feel about it. There were so many things that could go wrong, so many ways this could end badly if you decided to actually do something about the feelings you've harbored for the clone captain. So much could go wrong.

But at the same time, there was an ache inside, a longing, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. And with the way the men were behaving, you were beginning to think it might be okay to act on those feelings. At least a little. If the opportunity arose. Maybe.

"Sir, permission to speak freely?" Screwball asks, his voice thick with laughter.

"Denied," you mutter, and the men snicker.

Snap covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter, before his shoulders finally straighten. "What's the plan, General?"

"The plan is to land, kill every single droid in our path, and save the Republic," you answer. You cross your arms, trying to hide your embarrassment, and give them a pointed look. "Any questions?"

A few hands raise. You roll your eyes.

"Any questions not about my personal life?"

They put their hands down, and you nod.

"Good."

The gunship banks, and the men brace themselves as it drops towards the street below, weaving through buildings and dodging explosions erupting from the ground. Screwball and another trooper slide open the doors before they kneel and arm their rocket launchers, two troopers poised on either side to provide cover. You can see flashes of light in the distance, and the distinctive boom of exploding ordnance echoes through the cabin.

A group of droids rounds the corner in formation, firing at the approaching gunship. The rockets launch, streaking towards the droids, and the resulting explosion is deafening, a cloud of smoke billowing out and engulfing the street. The men cheer as the ship rockets through the plume and joins two more of your gold-painted gunships, the trio descending in a wedge formation.

“Focus on the tanks,” you order over the comms. "Scramble the fighters and begin aerial strikes. Let's try to minimize the damage."

You look out the open door and watch as the three ships separate, each flying along a different trajectory. The droids in the distance are a sea of black and gray, their blasters flashing as they return fire. You can see the blue armor of the 501st slowly advancing, the clones moving in formation and using the cover of the buildings to their advantage. Your eyes roam the field, and your breath catches as you finally catch a glimpse of the one you’re searching for.

Before you can overthink your decision, you step up to the open doors and unclip your lightsabers from your belt. A cool breeze blows past your face, ruffling your hair and tugging at the sleeves of your robes, and the scent of smoke fills your nose.

"Cover me," you order.

Screwball lets out a quiet chuckle. "You got it, sir."

He readies his rocket launcher, aiming at the nearest group of droids, and fires. The missile soars through the air, and the droids are engulfed in a flash of orange and red, the explosion rocking the ship.

You take a deep breath, centering yourself, and close your eyes. And then, you leap.

The wind rushes past your ears as you plummet, your body arcing gracefully through the air. You land in a crouch and ignite your sabers, deflecting the bolts that fly in your direction before you push out, sending a shockwave that knocks the nearest droids off their feet.

You sprint forward, closing the distance, and slash through the droids, cutting them down with a flurry of strikes. The metal parts clatter to the ground, and the droids fall, their circuits sparking and sputtering.

A gunship swoops down and fires down at the droids, and you take advantage of the distraction, sprinting through the street and cutting down the machines in your path.

“You really know how to make an entrance," a voice calls from behind you as a familiar warmth blooms in the back of your mind.

A thrill runs through you, and you turn and find Rex approaching, his pistols drawn and firing rapidly. He ducks and weaves, his shots finding their targets, and the droids collapse in a heap of scrap.

"I was trying to impress you,” you shout back. "Did it work?"

"Mission accomplished," he jokes. You block another shot, and he takes a step closer, covering your flank. The two of you stand back-to-back, a familiar position, and you can't help but grin. It's good to have him at your side again.

"You seem to be doing well," you remark as your squad disembarks from the gunships, landing in the midst of the battle. They fan out among the 501st, forming ranks and returning fire. "How are things here?"

“Just another day at the office,” Rex quips, and you snort, rolling your eyes. He takes down two droids with two precise shots and tilts his helmet toward you. “Your boys been behaving?"

"As well as can be expected," you reply. You throw your blade, impaling a droid, and it slumps to the ground. You catch the blade as it returns to your hand and twirl, deflecting a blast and slicing through another droid. "Though they've been getting a little out of hand lately."

"Out of hand, huh?" he asks. His tone is curious, but you can sense the hint of worry in the back of your mind.

"Nothing I can't handle," you assure him. "They're just teasing."

"Teasing?" he repeats, and the question is heavy with implications. "What about?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. A little too quickly. "Just...nothing."

You're saved from further questioning by a sudden barrage of blaster fire. You duck and roll behind the nearest cover, Rex following suit. You both kneel, peering around the corner. A tank sits at the center of the battlefield, firing relentlessly, and you sigh, rubbing your temples. There's a headache coming on.

"What are the odds that you're going to let me deal with the tank while you stay here?" you ask. Rex shakes his head, and you huff, unsurprised. "I didn't think so."

"No, but thanks for asking this time," he retorts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Fine," you mumble. "Any other ideas?"

Rex gives a nod, tapping the side of his helmet. "Yeah. Just give me a minute."

His attention turns back to the battle, and you take the opportunity to study him, his armor and the lines of his helmet. The familiar jaig eyes emblazoned on the front of his helmet are freshly painted, the only similarity between this set of armor and his old one besides the blue pauldron.

You’ve grown used to seeing the phase two clone armor among your troops, but to see it on him feels strange. It's a reminder that the war has changed, and that the men, the clones, are evolving too.

But despite the new armor and the fresh paint, it's still him. Still Rex. You can feel his presence, his mind, his emotions. And you can feel his affection, a warmth in his aura that radiates from him and seeps into your own. He's clearly happy to see you, and the knowledge of it eases the doubts in your mind, soothing the fears you've harbored.

The war has taken its toll, but he's still here, and he's still yours.

Rex notices your stare and turns towards you, a question in the tilt of his head. You don't bother to hide the fact that you're looking him over, and he clears his throat.

"What?" he asks, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

You reach out and touch the side of his helmet, your thumb running along the line where the old fascia plating meets the new. Rex goes still with a slight intake of breath, his hands tightening around his blasters.

"This looks good," you tell him as your hand drifts down, touching the side of his chest plate over his ribs. There's another welded seam where the plastoid plates are joined, the edges smooth and polished. "Did you weld this yourself?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah. I did," he answers, his voice strained. He shifts slightly under your scrutiny, his emotions fluttering like a bird caught in a net. "Too attached to the old look, I guess."

"Well, I'm glad you're still you," you tease as your hand falls back to the hilt of your lightsaber. You shrug a shoulder and turn, looking out over the field. “I’ll miss the old pauldron, though.”

Rex lets out a huff of laughter, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“You can try to stab me again, leave your mark on this one too," he jokes, gesturing to the blue pauldron jutting out from his shoulder. "If it'll make you feel better."

"Don't tempt me."

Before either of you can say anything more, a sudden blast erupts. The ground shudders as the tank's shell explodes, sending a plume of smoke into the air. You both turn and peer around the edge of your cover, and you're surprised to find a crater where the tank once stood, its metal shell shredded and its engines smoking.

"Huh," you mutter. "Guess we don't have to do anything after all."

"Looks like the boys are enjoying themselves," Rex chuckles, nodding towards the group of 501st and the 419th as they charge the droids. "We should probably get in there."

"Right behind you, Captain," you reply, and the two of you emerge from cover.

You leap across the street, and the battle is on. The droids are already scrambling to regroup, but their efforts are futile. Your squads close ranks, firing on the enemy with practiced precision. At your side, Rex picks off the stragglers while you deflect the bolts that fly in his direction, using the Force and your blades to guide their trajectory away from his armor.

Within minutes, the field is littered with metal parts and smoking wreckage. The 501st cheer as they take down the final droid, and you sheathe your lightsabers, watching the men celebrate.

Rex holsters his blasters and leans against the pile of debris, breathing heavily. His helmet tilts towards you, and a breathless laugh escapes his lips as you join him, resting your back against the same chunk of rock. The two of you look out over the field, the silence broken by the occasional burst of cheering and laughter.

"It's good to see you," he says softly.

"It's good to see you too," you reply, your tone fond, and you reach out and lay a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he answers. He lifts his hand, his fingers curling around yours. "Just tired."

“Liar,” you tease, giving him a small smile, and he huffs a laugh.

"Maybe a little," he admits. Rex's thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand, and you lean closer, pressing your shoulder against his. "Things have been rough lately. I've missed having you around."

"Yeah," you agree. You turn towards him, and the two of you face each other, the silence heavy with words unsaid. "Me too."

The moment stretches, and Rex's free hand reaches up and removes his helmet, tucking it under his arm. His blond hair is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes are tired, but the affection in them is unmistakable. It's a look you're familiar with, and the sight of it never fails to make your heart skip a beat.

"So," he begins, his mouth curving into a smile. "You want to tell me what's going on with your boys?"

You groan and close your eyes, and Rex chuckles, shaking his head. You can feel his eyes on you, studying your face, and you can't help but flush a little under the intensity of his gaze.

"Is it that bad?" he asks, and you can hear the concern in his voice. "Is someone giving you trouble? Booker should know better."

"It's not like that," you say, opening your eyes and meeting his. He frowns, his expression thoughtful, and you sigh. "I'll tell you later. We've got work to do."

"If you're sure," he says, his brow furrowing.

"I'm sure," you insist, and you push off the wall. The rest of the troops are approaching, the 501st and 419th converging in the middle of the field. Your men greet their brothers, and a small crowd forms, the 501st exchanging handshakes and friendly ribbing with your men. Fives is among them, and he greets the members of the 419th like they're old friends, clapping them on the back and laughing.

You're happy to see the camaraderie between the two squads, and it's nice to see the 501st mingling with your troops. Rex is at the center of it all, trying to maintain some semblance of order, but his attempts are halfhearted at best. He's smiling, a wide grin, and you can't help but stare.

The 419th had never gotten much interaction with the rest of the army before, and it had made for a lonely experience. You've been in the Outer Rim for over three months, trudging through jungles and swamps and the occasional desert. But rarely have you done so with another army nearby. You'd often wondered if the isolation was on purpose, or if the 419th had simply fallen through the cracks. Whatever the case, the result had been the same, and you're grateful that the situation has changed.

You watch them all with a small smile, your thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of your nose in an attempt to stave off the headache building in your skull.

It's going to be a long afternoon.

"General!" Fives calls, catching your attention. He waves at you with a bright grin. "Over here!"

You roll your eyes, but join him anyway, the others clearing a path for you. The men stand to attention as you approach, and Fives gives a lazy salute.

"Good to see you, sir," he greets. "Been awhile."

"At ease," you tell him, and the men relax, dropping their hands. You give his shoulder a pat. "How are things? Everyone holding up?"

"We're hanging in there," Fives answers. You tilt your head, trying to get a read on his emotions, and he seems...happy, his aura calm and unbothered. You're relieved. Fives has had a rough go of things lately, and you're happy to see him looking well.

"Good. We're glad to have you," you say.

"We're glad to have you too, sir. We missed you," he replies. There's a teasing note to his voice, and his grin widens, his eyes glittering with mischief. He glances at Rex. "Some of us more than others."

There's a chorus of snickers, and you fight the urge to groan as Rex stiffens. The teasing has officially begun.

"Thanks, Fives," you mutter, and he just shrugs, unfazed by the dryness of your tone. Rex, on the other hand, is practically radiating embarrassment. It's kind of cute.

"Hey, no problem, sir," Fives replies, a cocky smirk on his lips. He steps forward, and a low, conspiratorial murmur fills the space. "He's been insufferable, by the way."

Rex's face pinches in annoyance. "Fives."

"He's been moping, sir," Fives continues, ignoring his captain. "He wouldn't stop complaining about the comm traffic."

"Fives." Rex's tone is a warning, and Fives turns, raising his hands in surrender.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help," he defends.

"Well, stop helping," Rex snaps. The 419th all exchange knowing looks, the 501st snickering amongst themselves, and he sighs. "Let's just...get back to work, shall we?"

"Yes, sir," Fives responds, and he shoots you a wink. "We'll see you later, General."

He gives a quick salute and turns on his heel, marching off with the rest of the 501st. They break apart, the clones heading towards their various squads and companies, and Rex gives you one final look before heading off to rejoin them. You can't help but watch him walk away, and the men of the 419th all chuckle, nudging each other and smirking.

"Get moving," you order, and they salute, heading towards the command post and their assigned duties. You sigh and follow after them, wondering how many times you can repeat the same words before they'll listen.

As the two armies make the trek toward the hub, the city stretches out around you, a sea of gray buildings and smoke-belching factories. The sun is low in the sky, and the air is filled with the haze of pollution, a thick blanket of smog hanging low over the buildings.

It's a depressing sight, and you can't help but notice the destruction. Broken windows and scorched walls, shattered glass and twisted metal, and the occasional skeleton of a destroyed tank or an abandoned transport. It's a graveyard, and the thought causes a sharp pang in your chest. This planet was already dying, and the war is only accelerating the process.

The Republic and the Separatists are little better than the corporations that have stripped Duro bare. They've come to pillage and plunder, to take what they can and leave nothing behind. And they're destroying a planet that was already struggling. A planet that could have been saved, had they been wiser.

But these are thoughts for another day.

You're tired, and your mind is foggy, the exhaustion of the past weeks catching up to you. You're still feeling the effects of the visions, the strain of using the Force and the toll of the sleepless nights, and it's hard to focus. Your steps are sluggish, and the ache in your head has returned, a dull throb behind your eyes.

The men notice, of course, and they give you concerned glances. Without speaking, Snap drops back and takes Booker's usual place at your side. The two of you fall in step, and he clears his throat.

"The rest of the men just arrived at the hub," he says quietly, his hand finding your elbow, steadying you. "I had Dash fly ahead. He said the comms are a mess. Apparently there was some kind of power failure earlier today, and they haven't been able to restore service. He thinks the Separatists are jamming the signal to the flotillas."

"And the fleet," you guess, and he nods. You sigh. You're starting to regret the lack of sleep. You'd been so focused on the mission, trying to compensate for Booker’s absence, and now, you're paying the price. You stifle a yawn, blinking the exhaustion away. "How are Anakin and Ahsoka?"

"Eager to get started," Snap answers. He guides you around a piece of debris, careful not to jostle you too much. "They want to start a recon mission tonight."

"Of course they do." You rub your eyes and lean further into his hold. "I don't know about you, but I could use some rest before we go chasing after any more droids."

"Agreed, sir," Snap replies, his grip tightening on your elbow. "Let's take it easy, okay?"

"Okay."

It's quiet, and you can tell the men are listening in, even as they try to pretend otherwise. Their concern is almost stifling, their auras full of worry and affection, and it's hard not to be overwhelmed.

You know that they care about you. It's not a new realization. But it's still a strange feeling, being surrounded by people who are invested in your wellbeing. You'd only just recently gotten used to Booker's constant worrying, his hovering and the way he seemed to know your moods better than you did. And now, he's not here, and the role has been passed on to Snap, who seems to have taken it upon himself to be your self-appointed caretaker.

You can't really blame him. You know you haven't been yourself lately, and the fact that you've been neglecting your own health is something you can't ignore.

It's just hard to remember, sometimes.

"Wise said he has something for you, if you want," Snap tells you. "For the headache."

"He always does," you sigh. You glance up at him, studying his expression, and he tilts his head, waiting patiently. "Is he mad?"

"He's Wise," Snap says, and you can't help but snort. That's a yes. "He'll get over it."

"He's worried about you," Screwball chimes in from behind you. "He always is. That's just how he is."

"I'm fine," you protest. They both gives you pointed looks, and you relent, sighing. "Okay. Maybe not fine. But I will be."

"You should have said something sooner," Screwball scolds, and the men around him nod. "We could have helped."

"I know," you admit.

You're not sure what else to say. They've given up so much for you already. You're not sure how to tell them that they've already done more than you could ever ask for. They've followed every order, every command. They've trusted your judgment, even though it's led to countless close calls and far too many brushes with death. They've taken your extra training in stride without complaint. And they've become more than soldiers. They're your friends, and you know how lucky you are.

"It's just a headache," you tell him. "Nothing to worry about."

Screwball doesn't look convinced, but Snap gives him a stern look, the two of them having some kind of silent conversation. They share a nod, and Screwball falls back, rejoining the others. Snap releases his grip on your elbow and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

"Come on," he mutters. "Almost there.”

Your men are quiet for the rest of the journey, and the streets are empty, save for a stray droid here and there. The clones make quick work of them without you ever having to raise a hand, and by the time you reach the command post, the sun is low in the sky.

The hub is a massive building, a spiked tower rising above the surface of the city. It's an ugly mixture of modern utilitarian architecture and the ancient style of Duro's long-forgotten civilization, a reminder of a forgotten past, and the sight fills you with a sense of foreboding as you approach. The repulsorlifts connecting the hub to the flotillas have been shuttered, and the building looms, dark and ominous, against the setting sun.

Rex leads the way up the ramp and into the building, the rest of the men following close behind. You hang back, your gaze fixed on the tower. It feels as though the atmosphere itself is holding its breath, the air heavy with anticipation.

The door hisses open, and you turn, following the others inside.

The interior of the building is dark and gloomy, the hallways lit only by dim, flickering lights. The walls are bare metal, and the floors are lined with cables and conduits snaking through the corridor. It's a labyrinthine structure of hallways and empty rooms, and it takes you a moment to get your bearings.

Snap stays close, a silent sentinel at your side as the others form up around you. The two of you keep an eye on Rex’s back as you walk, and you can see him glance over his shoulder every so often in your direction as if checking to make sure you’re still there. You meet his gaze each time and give him a reassuring smile.

You walk until the hallway branches off, a makeshift sign directing toward the medbay the Republic has set up in the lower levels. Snap slows to a stop and nudges your arm.

“I’m gonna go talk to Wise and see if he has anything for your headache," he says. He pauses and glances at the group ahead of you. "You'll be okay?"

"Yes, Snap," you sigh, and he narrows his eyes and turns his head, cupping a hand over the side of his mouth.

“Hey Rex,” Snap calls out. Rex stills, the rest of the squad following suit. "I'm going to see if the Chief has anything for our General. Think you can keep her out of trouble until I get back?"

“Snap,” you hiss. He shrugs and turns back, a smug smirk on his face. You shake your head. "I'm fine."

Rex chuckles and turns, his expression playful.

"I think I can manage," he replies, and Snap gives him a salute, disappearing down the hallway. You're left standing awkwardly in the middle of the corridor, the remaining members of the 419th giving you curious looks. You roll your eyes and start walking.

"I should be offended by that," you mutter as Rex falls into step beside you, letting Fives take the lead.

"Nah," he replies. "It's good. They're just looking out for you."

"They're treating me like I'm fragile," you grumble.

"They're treating you like a sister," Rex corrects. He tilts his head towards the men, his voice soft. "Which isn't too far off."

"You're not helping," you grumble. You give him a sidelong glance, and he shrugs. "I can't believe they're doing this."

"I can," he retorts. His voice is gentle, and his eyes are bright. "You deserve it. And honestly, I'm glad. After the last time we saw each other—"

"Let's not talk about that," you interrupt, and he gives a quiet huff. "Please."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to," you mutter. Rex gives you a skeptical look, and you sigh. "It's just...I'm not sure how to...talk about it."

"Then we won't," he agrees. He's silent for a moment, and you can feel him studying your face. "For now."

"Thanks," you whisper, and he hums.

You walk in silence after that. You're acutely aware of Rex's presence next to you, the familiarity of his mind. It's comforting, and you're reminded again how much you've missed him. Even his emotions, which are often tumultuous, are a comfort. They're warm and affectionate, and they fill the space around you, wrapping you in a soft blanket.

It's nice. But it's also incredibly distracting.

By the time the squad emerges from the hallway, you're a jumbled mess of emotion. You're tired, and your head is pounding, and the last thing you need is another round of teasing. But with Anakin, you know there's no chance of avoiding it.

The rest of the clones disperse, and you and Rex continue on through the command center, a large, open space with the ceiling extending far overhead. There are catwalks lining the upper floors, and a series of computer consoles are arranged in neat rows, each console manned by a clone or a droid.

Rex leads you towards a raised dais with a holotable in the center of the room. Anakin and Ahsoka are there, along with several other members of the 501st, including Jesse. The trooper stands to the side, his arms crossed, and he greets Rex with a curt nod before his eyes slide over to you. A slight smile touches his lips, and it only widens when he takes in how close Rex is hovering next to you.

You roll your eyes. You're not sure why you assumed he'd be any less insufferable than the others. Jesse had been the one to tell you, explicitly, that Rex was in love with you, but he'd done so with such a straight face and had been so unflappable in the aftermath that it was hard to imagine him still teasing you about the potential relationship.

But apparently his patience and self-control were only a ruse, and he was just as bad as the rest of the men. You can only imagine what Rex had to endure in your absence.

Ahsoka looks up and meets your gaze, her expression shifting from frustration to relief as you and Rex ascend the steps. You're struck by how different she looks, her blue eyes still bright and full of life, but her expression older, her features sharper, and her aura heavier. She's grown since the last time you saw her, and the war has left its mark.

Still, though, she smiles just as brightly as ever, her excitement and happiness radiating through the Force. She darts around the holotable and embraces you in a hug.

"Master Anathorn," she exclaims, her voice muffled against your shoulder. You laugh and return the hug, giving her a squeeze. "It's so good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," you reply, and you step back, taking her in. "You've gotten taller."

"Have I?" she asks, her eyes crinkling.

"You have," you confirm.

She glances over her shoulder at her master, and you follow her gaze. Anakin is leaning against the holotable, his arms crossed. His gaze is fixed on the map, but he's clearly listening to the conversation. He looks older too, his hair slightly longer, his eyes a bit more tired, but there's still a spark of mischief in his gaze. He meets your eyes and gives a small, almost imperceptible smile, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Took you long enough.”

"Nice to see you too, Anakin," you sigh.

"Glad to have you back, Goldie," he replies, breaking out into a grin. He rounds the table and approaches, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and giving you a squeeze before he steps away. You grimace, and Ahsoka snickers.

"I forgot how much I hated that nickname," you grumble. "Any chance you'll stop calling me that?"

"Not likely," Anakin replies easily. You shake your head and glance at Rex, who's watching the exchange with a mix of bemusement and annoyance.

Anakin follows your gaze, trailing down to where Rex is still hovering on the step behind you, his hand balanced on the railing next to your hip. You can't help but notice how close he is, his armor almost brushing your back. Anakin arches a brow and smirks.

"Captain," Anakin greets. "You're late."

"Sorry, sir," Rex replies, his voice tight. He hesitates, glancing down at his hand, and shifts back, clearing his throat and tucking his hand behind his back. "We were delayed."

"Oh? By what?"

Rex clears his throat. "Droids."

"We were fighting your battles for you, evidently," you add with a glare. You're not sure what game Anakin is playing, but you don't like it, and the urge to defend Rex is too strong to ignore. "You could have at least mentioned that we had a Separatist blockade to deal with. Or did you forget about us?"

"We didn't forget about you," Ahsoka interjects quickly. She gives her master a look, and he holds up his hands, his expression innocent. "We're glad you made it."

"Thank you, Ahsoka," you say. You glance at Anakin and scowl. "It's nice to know some people have manners."

Anakin just smirks. Ahsoka sighs and turns, and Rex falls into step beside you as the four of you crowd around the table. There’s a brief, featherlight touch on the small of your back, a flash of gratitude in the Force, and the contact sends a shiver up your spine. You give him a sidelong look and find his expression is carefully neutral, his gaze focused on the holomap. His fingers twitch against the hilt of his blaster.

"Okay, well, let's get started," Anakin says, turning his attention back to the holotable. He waves a hand over the display, and a series of images and data files appear. "The Separatists have managed to cut off communications from the flotilla and are jamming our transmissions to the fleet. We need to get the signals back up, and soon."

He pauses, his gaze moving over the gathered group.

"Our intelligence suggests the Separatists are using a signal jammer located somewhere in the city," Anakin continues, pointing near the hub. "We’re guessing it’s a distraction while they prepare for their assault on the shield generators. It's only a matter of time before they start launching an offensive."

"And we can't let that happen," Ahsoka adds. She crosses her arms and leans against the table, her eyes narrowed. "The shield generators are located at the north and south poles of the planet. One is in the center of the capital city, and the other is on the edge of a small farming settlement. The Separatists are planning on attacking both at the same time."

"If they manage to destroy the generators, the shields will fail," Anakin says, a scowl forming on his face. "And once the shields go down, they'll launch their ships. And we'll be in big trouble."

"We'll have to divide our forces, split up," Rex says, and Anakin nods. "One group can take out the signal jammers, and the other two can protect the shield generators."

"Ahsoka is going to lead a team to find the location of the jamming device," Anakin says, nodding to the Padawan. He turns back to you just as Snap arrives, carrying a bottle of water and a small packet. "Goldie, how many men did you bring?"

"Three regiments, sir," Snap answers for you as he passes you the water and painkillers. You give him a grateful look and down the pills, chasing them with a sip of water. "A little over six thousand. They're ready to move out, just waiting on your orders."

"That's good. We're going to need them," Anakin says, and his eyes slide to Rex. "Rex, take the rest of the 501st with Goldie to the northern generator. I'll take two regiments to the south and rendezvous with Ahsoka when she’s finished."

"Understood, sir," Rex replies. He looks over at you and tilts his helmet in your direction. "What do you think, General?"

You study the hologram, and your gaze settles on the capital city, a collection of buildings and factories arranged in a circular pattern. A thick wall surrounds the city, and the shield generator is placed in the center, the structures surrounded by a complex network of defense cannons and guard towers.

To be honest, you're not thinking much of anything. Your head is pounding, and your thoughts are slow and fuzzy. But Rex is looking at you expectantly, and the rest of the group are waiting, so you force yourself to speak.

"It's going to be difficult," you say. You lean against the table, bracing yourself. "But we can do it. My only concern is Grievous' fleet. Our ships can’t hold him off forever.”

"We can't worry about them right now," Anakin says. "Our priority is keeping the Separatists from taking the shields down."

"Agreed," you sigh. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to ease the ache in your head. "Alright. We'll go north. We should try to reach the generator before the droids arrive."

"Copy that, sir," Rex says, and he raises a hand, signaling the troops. "Let's move out."

You nod at Snap, and he does the same, passing the message on to the troopers nearby to take to the regimental commanders. You push away from the table and turn, stepping away as the room bursts into a flurry of activity. Rex is by your side instantly, his hand finding your arm and guiding you down the stairs. You don't resist, letting him lead, and his grip tightens, a reassuring squeeze.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly. You shake your head, and he sighs, a sympathetic rumble in the back of his throat. "How bad is it?"

"Not too bad," you lie.

"Liar," he accuses. You let out a soft laugh, a small, strained noise that makes his brow furrow. "What do you need?"

"Some time alone," you murmur. "It's...hard, having so many people around."

"Okay," he says. "Can you hold on a bit longer? Just until we can get somewhere private?"

You nod, and he leads you through the bustling crowd, weaving between the troopers as they gather their gear and prepare for the mission. The room is alive with movement, the buzz of voices, and the clatter of armor and weapons. But you hardly notice. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the ground beneath your feet and the feeling of Rex's hand on your arm. It's comforting, grounding, and it's all you can do not to cling to him, to use him as an anchor.

It doesn't take long for him to find a quiet corner, tucked behind a stack of crates and out of sight. It's an out of the way alcove, dark and cool, and the noise fades into a distant murmur.

Rex pulls you to a stop, and you take a deep breath, closing your eyes and letting your head fall forward. You can feel his worry, his concern, but he stays quiet, giving you the space you need.

He's always been good at that, at knowing what you need, even if you can't put it into words. It's something you've come to appreciate. Especially now, with the noise and the lights and the overwhelming press of his mind.

You let the Force flow through you, washing over you and clearing the fog from your thoughts. The painkillers kick in, and the sharp stabbing pain in your skull fades, leaving behind a dull ache. You focus on your breathing, on the beat of your heart, and the chaos around you begins to recede, replaced by a sense of calm.

When you finally open your eyes, Rex is standing next to you, his gaze fixed on your face. You give him a small smile, a slight curve of your lips that does little to reassure him.

"I'm okay," you tell him, and his jaw tenses, his brow furrowing.

"You're not," he counters, his voice low and soft.

"No," you concede. "But I will be. It's not the first time."

"It wasn't like this before," he says. "Is it—"

"No," you answer before he can finish. You know what he's going to ask, and you don't want him to. "It's not."

“Seems like it is,” Rex insists, his eyes searching yours. You sigh and rub your temples, your shoulders slumping. He's right. It's hard to argue. But the visions are still a raw, open wound. The memories too fresh, the feelings too raw.

You can't talk about it.

"I just need a minute," you whisper.

"Okay," he murmurs, and he steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. You feel his absence like a cold breeze, and a wave of frustration washes over you.

It's not fair how much you want him. It's not fair how close he is, and yet how far away. It's not fair—the war, and the rules, and the fear. You're tired of being afraid. Tired of keeping your distance. Tired of wondering if this is the moment everything comes crashing down. It's too much. You're so, so tired.

Without thinking, you close the gap, wrapping your arms around Rex’s waist and burying your face in his chest plate. You can feel his surprise, his hesitation, and the sudden spike of anxiety. But he doesn't push you away. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you closer and guiding you both deeper into the shadows, his grip tightening as the room continues to buzz with activity.

It's risky, the two of you so exposed. Anyone could see, anyone could walk by and catch you in each other's arms, but you don't care. The fear is a distant echo, buried under the exhaustion and the need to feel his body pressed against yours.

You can hear his heart pounding, the rhythm of his breathing, and the soft exhale as he rests his chin atop your head, his body molding to yours. You breathe him in, the scent of his armor, the clean smell of his skin, and the subtle spice of his aftershave. It's comforting and familiar, and it soothes the ache in your chest.

"It's not that bad," you murmur, and Rex scoffs, his grip on you tightening. "It's not."

"No. Of course not," he mutters. His cheek presses against the top of your head, his hand stroking your back. "That's why you're hiding."

"I'm not hiding," you retort, your voice muffled by his chest plate. He chuckles, and you sigh, leaning against him. "Fine. I'm hiding."

"It's okay," he whispers. "You can hide here."

"Thank you," you murmur, and his hand cups the back of your head, his thumb running over the skin of your neck.

"You're welcome," he replies. He pauses, and you can feel the hesitancy radiating through the Force, the weight of his thoughts. You wait, and eventually he speaks. "Are we okay?”

You know what he's asking. It's the same question that's been haunting you since you admitted you want more. It's the same question that's been plaguing your mind, keeping you awake, and torturing you with doubt. Are you okay? Are the two of you okay? Can things go back to the way they were? Or is this something that will change everything?

"I don't know," you admit. "I want us to be."

"Me too," he whispers.

"Then we will be," you promise. You close your eyes and rest your head against his chest, savoring the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms. "We'll figure it out."

"Yeah," he murmurs, his grip tightening, holding you close. You sigh and close your eyes, letting yourself relax. "Yeah, we will."

You stand there for a long time, just holding each other. Eventually, Rex pulls back, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“What’s going on with you? You don't seem like yourself." He tilts his head and brushes a stray hair out of your face, his voice soft. "Is this about the vision? You can talk to me, you know."

“It’s not about the vision,” you reply, and when his face turns skeptical, you sigh. “It’s not. It’s just a headache.”

“Have you talked to the Chief?"

"Of course I've talked Wise," you grumble. Rex frowns.

"Then why do I have the feeling you're not telling me the whole truth?" He tilts his head, his brow furrowed, his concern bleeding through the Force. "There's something you're not telling me. What is it?"

"Wise said that I'm probably just tired," you deflect. Rex arches a brow, his expression dubious. "It's just a side effect. And the lack of sleep isn't helping."

“A side effect of what?”

“I…”

"Side effect of what?" he repeats, lower this time. You pull away from his grasp, and Rex’s eyes narrow, his hands dropping to his sides. You can see the muscles in his jaw flexing, the frustration radiating off of him in waves. "Please don't tell me that it's nothing. Not again. Not this time."

"You're gonna be mad," you warn, and he shakes his head, his expression tight.

"Probably," he concedes. He lets out a breath and steps closer, his gaze locked on yours. "But I'm not going to stop worrying. So please, just tell me what's wrong."

You swallow and look away, biting the inside of your cheek. You shouldn't have said that. But you know that he'll see right through any lie you could possibly come up with, and, honestly, you don't have the energy for it.

You glance over your shoulder, scanning the crowd, but there's no sign of anyone paying attention to the two of you. Even so, you take his hand and lead him further into the darkness, until the two of you are hidden completely, a pile of crates blocking the view.

You take a deep breath and brace yourself, meeting his gaze.

“I healed someone on Nadiem. A child, with a serious brain injury," you confess. "It was...extremely taxing."

You watch as Rex’s expression shifts from suspicion to shock, his eyes widening. He takes a step back, his hands clenched at his sides, his mouth working, but no words coming out. After a moment, he just shakes his head and sighs.

"Of course you did," Rex says, his voice rough. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, a look of pain crossing his face. "When?"

"Not long before our last conversation," you admit. He curses, and you wince. "Rex, it wasn't—"

"It was," he cuts in, his voice tight. His jaw tenses, and he turns away, running a hand over his face. He mutters something under his breath, and the frustration in the Force is almost tangible.

You can't help but notice how tired he looks, his face lined with stress and exhaustion, his eyes heavy with dark circles. He looks haunted. Like he hasn't slept in days. Or weeks. You're not sure which, and the realization is painful.

You reach out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. His head jerks up, his eyes finding yours, and he takes a step back, his expression guarded.

"Rex," you urge softly. "Talk to me."

"I just..." he trails off, his gaze drifting away. He sighs, his shoulders drooping, and he leans back against the crates. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't put yourself in danger like that. And you...you still did."

"It was an emergency, Rex," you say, your tone a mixture of exasperation and fondness. You take his hand and squeeze, and his fingers curl around yours. "Besides, it was…different this time. Yeah, my head hurts, but the way that it felt? I've never felt anything like it. It was incredible. I felt more in control than I ever have. The pain wasn't as bad, and the drain wasn't as severe."

Rex gives you a sidelong glance and tilts his head. "Why is that?"

"I don't know. I have a theory, but it's..."

"What?" he prods, his brow furrowing. He straightens up, and the curiosity is written all over his face. "You think you might have finally learned how to control the Force, right?"

"Yes," you confirm. You smile at him and step closer, your hands moving to his shoulders. “I trusted the Force, and it guided me. And it worked. Better than it ever has. The kid just walked out of the medbay the next morning, completely healed. It was a miracle, Wise said."

Rex frowns and glances away, his brows drawn together. He's silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the ground. When he speaks, his voice is soft.

"It doesn't change anything," he says, and you scoff, dropping your hands to your sides.

"It changes everything," you argue, and he shakes his head.

"Not if it puts you in danger."

"It was worth the risk, Rex," you say, and he huffs.

"Not to me."

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to remain calm. It's hard. Your emotions are bubbling up, threatening to boil over, and you're not sure what to do. You're angry, and frustrated, and hurt, and you can feel his anger too, and his fear. But there's something else, something deeper. There's a vulnerability there, an aching loneliness, and you can't bear to let it fester.

"Why?" you ask. "Why does it bother you so much? You know what I can do, Rex. It's not like this is the first time."

He shakes his head, his eyes dark. "It's not about the Force."

"Then what?"

"You," he says. His voice is rough, and his eyes are bright, burning with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "It's about you. You're always pushing yourself too far, putting yourself in the line of fire, and not caring about the consequences. That's what bothers me. You're so focused on saving everyone else that you don't realize you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse."

You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I can't help it, Rex," you say, and his face twists, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "I can't turn it off. And I'm not going to apologize for trying to save lives. And, frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing about it. So, for once, can we not do this?"

"Not do what?" he asks, his voice rising. "Be concerned about you? Or worried about the possibility that you might not make it through the war? No, we can't not do that. Because that's my reality."

"That's not fair," you protest, and he shakes his head, pushing off the crate and stepping forward, closing the distance between the two of you in one stride.

"Neither is expecting me to be okay with the fact that you're constantly throwing yourself into danger," Rex says, his voice sharp. He leans closer, and the air between you seems to crackle, the Force rippling with energy. "Or worse, not even tell me about it."

"It's not that simple, and you know it," you hiss, and Rex shakes his head, his eyes blazing. "I can't—"

"Yes, it is," he insists, his tone firm.

"No, it's not," you retort. "You don't understand what it's like to have this power, to have the ability to help people, and not use it."

"And you don't understand what it's like to have to stand by, helpless, while the person I—" He cuts himself off, and his expression turns stricken. He takes a deep breath, swallowing hard, and continues, "The person I care about risks her life. Over and over again."

"I do," you argue. The anger coursing through you, hot and bright, burns through your veins, but you fight to keep it at bay. You fight to keep your voice down, even though the urge to do something, anything, is threatening to break free. "I do understand. Because that's what it's like for me too."

"It's different," he insists, and you can't help but roll your eyes. "It is."

"How?"

"Because it is," he snaps, his frustration seeping through the Force. "You're the Jedi. I'm just a clone."

"Don't," you warn, your voice low. The anger is replaced with a sharp pang of hurt, a deep, piercing ache that leaves you reeling. "Don't even start with that."

The two of you fall silent, breathing hard. Rex stares at you, his eyes wild, his expression a mix of frustration and pain. He looks at you, really looks, and the weight of his gaze is almost unbearable. You can't meet his eyes, so instead you stare at his chest, your heart pounding. You're shaking, and you're not sure if it's from the rage or the pain.

Rex is right, though. It is different. Your life is worth more than his, and the knowledge of it sits heavy in your chest. It's a bitter truth. An awful, painful realization that has been slowly eating away at you since the day you first met him, met all the clones. They were never meant to survive. In the eyes of the Republic, he's expendable, a replaceable cog in the machine of war.

And you hate it. You hate that the galaxy has so little regard for their lives. You hate that the Jedi Order has allowed the clones to be used like this. You hate that, no matter how much you try, no matter how much effort you put into saving their lives, it will never be as important as saving your own. And most of all, you hate that Rex knows it, too.

You close your eyes, trying to regain control, but the anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface. The ache in your chest is a physical pain, and it takes every ounce of strength not to lash out, to throw the boxes at his feet, to send them flying into the wall. To shatter the silence with a blast of power that would leave the entire room shaking.

But you can't. You can't risk it. The only thing keeping you grounded, keeping you from losing control, is Rex. The warm press of his mind, the familiar hum of his Force signature. It's the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. You cling to it, holding tight.

"Fine," Rex sighs, and he runs a hand over his head, his expression resigned. "But that doesn't mean it's not true."

"It's not true," you whisper. He raises an eyebrow, and you shake your head, the anger fading, replaced by a desperate, aching sadness. "I won't let it be true. I can't. Rex, you're—you're more than just a clone. To me. You have to know that."

"I know," he admits, his voice soft. He closes his eyes, and his shoulders slump. "I do. But that doesn't change anything."

"No," you agree. You swallow, the ache in your chest spreading. "I suppose it doesn't."

The two of you stand in silence for a moment, the air heavy with the weight of your words. You can feel the pain, the guilt, and the sorrow radiating off him. And you know it's not going to get any easier. Not anytime soon.

You're exhausted, too tired to keep the fires of your rage burning, and every second passes leaves you feeling colder than the last. You don't have the energy to keep arguing, to keep trying to convince him that you're doing the right thing. Or that it's going to be okay. The truth is, you're not sure if it is. But you have to believe.

So instead, you reach for him, and Rex lets out a shuddering breath before he meets you halfway. Your arms wrap around his neck as you pull him into your arms, his chest plate pressing against yours, his arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face in your neck. You close your eyes and let him lean into you, his body curling around yours.

"Why are we doing this?" Rex asks, his voice a rough whisper. You can feel his lips move against the skin of your neck, his breath tickling the hairs at the nape. You shiver, and he presses closer, his fingers digging into your back.

"Doing what?" you murmur.

"Arguing," he answers. "We shouldn't be doing this. Not now. We should be...we should be celebrating, or...or doing something. Anything."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," he mutters. You pull back, looking up at him, and his expression is pained, his jaw clenched. "I just know it's not what I want. Is it—is it what you want?"

"Well, you know I do enjoy a good argument," you quip, trying to lighten the mood, and Rex gives you a deadpan look. You sigh and rest your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes. "No, it's not what I want."

"Me neither," he admits, and he lets out a shaky breath, his hand cupping the back of your head. "We've barely spoken for months, and the first thing we do is fight. Why are we fighting?"

"Because we're stubborn.”

"I'm stubborn," he corrects. "You're impossible."

"Oh, come on," you huff. "I'm not that bad."

"Worse," he counters, a smile tugging at his lips. "Definitely worse."

You kick his boot with the toe of yours as you glare up at him, and he gives a small laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. You can't help but notice the way his eyes shine in the dim light, the hint of mischief and warmth, and you feel the last bit of anger fade away, replaced by a familiar sense of affection.

"Rex," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," he murmurs, his thumb moving gently near the spot by your ear. You lean into the contact, and his gaze softens, a look of tenderness settling over his features. "So much."

"So stop being mad at me," you plead. He sighs, his eyes searching yours. "Please."

"You make it very difficult not to be," Rex says, his voice laced with humor. "Especially considering your track record."

"I'm working on it," you grumble. "I'll try not to worry you so much, okay? I promise."

"Well, that's something," he says with a chuckle. You laugh, and he squeezes your waist, a playful tug. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

"You're too young for that," you tease. "Maybe an ulcer."

"Oh, well, as long as it's an ulcer," he drawls, and you snicker. He gives you a look, but it lacks heat, and he can't hide his smile. "Seriously, though. Please be careful. I have a bad feeling about this whole thing."

"I'll try," you reply. You stroke his cheek, his stubble scratching against your palm. "You too."

"Always am," he assures you.

He tilts his head, leaning into your touch, and his eyes slide shut. His forehead presses against yours, and his hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer. His scent fills your senses, his presence enveloping you, and you close your eyes, letting yourself relax.

He feels so good, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the weight of his hands on your hips grounding you. And it's only now, with the space between you closed, that you realize how much you've missed him. How much you need him. How much you love him.

You open your eyes, taking him in. He's so close, his lips inches from yours. All it would take is a shift, a tilt of your head, and you'd be kissing him.

"You should know that I...I..." Rex falters, and his eyes flicker open, a hesitant look on his face. His mouth works, but no words come out, and his grip on you tightens. "I'm..."

"What?" you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his jaw clenching.

"I'm—"

"Hey, Captain!"

Rex jerks back and yanks his hands away as if burned, and he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet and into the stack of crates behind him. You reach out, steadying him, and his cheeks burn as his eyes dart over your shoulder, his attention focused on whoever called his name. You turn to find Fives rounding the corner, and the trooper skids to a halt, his gaze darting between the two of you, his mouth hanging open.

"Fives," Rex greets, his voice strained. He straightens, adjusting his armor and clearing his throat, and his gaze lands anywhere but on the clone. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh…" Fives hesitates, his eyes flickering over to you. His face twists into an apologetic grimace, and you shake your head, a silent signal that it's fine. He nods, his expression easing, and he gestures vaguely over his shoulder. "I just...we're ready to move out. We're waiting on the two of you."

"Right. Right, of course," Rex replies, his voice thick. He glances down at you and clears his throat, his expression carefully neutral. "General."

"Captain," you murmur.

He looks at you, his eyes wide, his cheeks still flushed, and his mouth works silently. You can feel your brows rise in amusement, and his gaze darkens, a warning.

"I'll be right there," Rex says, his tone firm.

"You got it," he replies. He shoots you a glance before he turns on his heel and walks off, the bounce in his step telling you that he's enjoying this a little too much.

You sigh and turn back to Rex, his gaze locked on the crate next to you. He's avoiding your eyes, his lips pressed together and his arms crossed over his chest.

"So," you start, and his gaze snaps to yours. "Where were we?"

"Nowhere," he says, his expression pained. He shifts his weight and glances away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Absolutely nowhere. That was...nothing. We can talk about it later."

"If you're sure," you say, and he nods. You can't help but notice the flush in his cheeks, the slight tremble in his hands. He's nervous. Really, really nervous. You're not sure why. "Okay. If that's what you want."

"That's what I want," he confirms, his voice tight.

"Okay."

Rex lets out a frustrated sigh and rubs his face, his hands falling away to grab his helmet off a nearby crate. He pulls it on, the hiss of the seals echoing in the space, and his posture straightens. The change is subtle, but it's noticeable. The air around him feels more controlled, the chaos and uncertainty giving way to focus and confidence. It's like a switch has been flipped. He's Captain Rex again, not the man who was inches away from kissing you.

You shake your head, a wry smile touching your lips, and he tilts his head, studying you. His gaze lingers for a moment before he turns and walks away, his strides purposeful, and you're quick to follow.

By the time you reach the entrance to the building, it’s nearly dark, and the streets are crowded with troopers filing into transports, tanks, and gunships. The air is filled with the buzz of conversation, the steady rumble of engines, and the whine of repulsorlifts. It's a chaotic scene, and the noise is disorienting, a dull roar that seems to fill your senses.

“Sir.”

You turn to see Snap and Wise approach, the latter adjusting his medpack on his shoulders as he walks. Wise gives you a once over, his brow furrowing while his gaze roams your face, as if he could see your headache if he looked closely enough. His gaze darts to Rex, and you can feel the disapproval radiating off of him.

"You good, sir?" Wise asks, his voice low.

"I'm fine, Wise," you reassure him.

"Uh-huh," he hums, clearly not convinced, and Snap gives him an exasperated look.

"That's the fourth time today," Snap warns. Wise scowls, his lip curling. "It's not going to work. Stop asking."

"It might," Wise mutters.

"It won't," he counters, and the medic lets out a huff. "We're ready, General. All units accounted for."

"Thank you," you say, and you glance at Wise. "Both of you."

Snap salutes and heads off, and Wise lingers, his expression unreadable. He sighs, shakes his head, and adjusts the strap on his pack.

"I'll ask again later," he warns. You shake your head, a faint smile forming on your lips, and he grunts and steps closer, lowering his voice. "And about whatever that was. With the Captain."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply smoothly, and you hold Wise’s gaze with raised eyebrows, daring him to call your bluff. His expression doesn't change, and the two of you stand there for a long moment, a silent battle of wills.

Wise finally breaks first, a heavy sigh escaping him.

"Yes, sir," he grumbles, though you know better than to think he’s going to let that go so easily. "You coming?"

"No, she's riding with me," Rex interrupts, and you turn to see him standing behind you, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture is casual, but there’s a tightness to his tone that catches Wise's attention, and the medic frowns. He nods in the direction of one of the 501st's gunships. "Orders."

"Of course she is," Wise drawls. He raises an eyebrow, and you can tell he wants to say something else, but he holds his tongue, settling for a knowing smirk. "See you in a bit, sir."

Wise salutes, turns, and jogs off, his long stride quickly eating up the distance to his transport. He joins his brother, and the two of them climb inside, disappearing from view.

Rex catches your eye and jerks his head toward his ship, and you follow him, shaking your head at his blatant lie. You’re the highest ranking officer on the planet. There are no orders. But, as far as excuses go, it works, and you don't argue. You're not going to pass up a chance to spend more time with him.

"You’re giving me orders now, Captain?" you tease. "I should put you in the brig for insubordination."

"I think we're past that," Rex replies. He slows his pace, and you match him, the two of you walking side by side through the throng of troopers. He clears his throat and glances toward you. "Sorry. I just...now that you’re here, I'd rather keep you close. For everyone's safety."

"Right," you drawl. A smirk curls on your lips, and you nudge him with your elbow. "For everyone's safety."

"Yes," he says, a hint of exasperation in his voice. He gives you a pointed look that translates through his helmet. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," you laugh. "I'm just agreeing with you. For everyone's safety."

"General," Rex sighs.

"Captain."

His hand finds your shoulder, and he nudges you gently in the direction of the waiting gunship. “Just get on the damn ship, will you?"

"Alright, alright," you concede, holding up your hands. "You're getting very pushy."

"I'm trying to keep you alive," he replies, his tone flat. "It's a full-time job."

"A little dramatic, don't you think?" you quip, and he grunts in response. Rex's hand slides down your back before he gives you a light shove, and you stumble forward, biting back another laugh.

"Get going. Or I'm going to leave without you."

"You're lucky you're cute," you mumble. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he stiffens, letting out a choked noise. A wicked smirk spreads across your lips, and you tilt your head, your gaze fixed on his. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he croaks, and he gestures at the ship. "After you, sir."

"Thank you, Captain."

Rex sighs and shakes his head, his helmet tilted in a way that tells you he's rolling his eyes. But the exasperation doesn't last, and the fondness in his aura only intensifies. You can't help the flutter that passes through you at the feeling, or the smile that lights up your face as you turn and board the gunship.

It’s strange, how connected you feel to him now, as if the past couple of months have only heightened the bond between the two of you. His presence in the Force is stronger, more vibrant. You're acutely aware of his mind, his emotions. They're clearer, more defined, and the connection is easier to maintain. Rex is closer, in every way possible.

You can't help but wonder if it has something to do with the dream of the golden fields. If the two of you truly are linked in some way. That there's a future for the two of you.

Or maybe it's just the stress and anxiety of the mission, the fear that something will happen, and your other vision will come true. Maybe you're just worried. Or maybe you're just missing him.

Maybe this is how it's always been, and you've just been too blind to notice.

You don't know, and you're not sure if it matters. Not right now. As long as he's here, and the two of you are together. That's all you need.

Rex's hand finds yours as you grab onto the safety handle to steady yourself, brushing your fingers lightly before pulling away to grasp the one above his head. The gesture is small, subtle, but it's more than you could have asked for. It’s a reminder that you’re not alone, and neither is he. That no matter what happens, the two of you are in this together.

You can worry about the rest later.

taglist: @cyaretra @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @cw80831

#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #reunited and it feels so good #every time i edit this chapter it gets longer god forgive me #these two make me just want to rrAAHHH #i am no closer to finishing the other chapters in this section btw #we may have another rex pov break next week

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novaursa · 4 months ago

Text

The North Remembers Her (the winter has come)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Note: This is the last part of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence, death)

- Previous part: whispers of snow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

Winterfell’s walls buzzed with ill omen as the icy wind carried the distant rumble of an approaching army. Ramsay stood at the top of the battlements, his pale blue eyes scanning the horizon, his grin sharper than ever. His men moved with precision beneath him, assembling for the battle that loomed closer with each passing moment. Crimson banners bearing the flayed man of House Bolton flapped wildly in the stormy winds, a dread sight upon the gray and white of the Northern landscape.

One of his captains approached, bowing quickly before speaking. “My lord, the scouts report Jon Snow’s army is nearly upon us. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes brilliant with anticipation. “Good. Let them come,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll crush them under the walls of Winterfell. And when their bodies are piled high, I’ll send their bastard leader’s head back to the Wall.”

The captain nodded and retreated to relay the orders. Ramsay turned to Reek, who lingered nearby, trembling under the weight of his presence. “Reek,” he said, his tone deceptively light, “make yourself useful. See to the hounds. They’ll have a feast tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Reek stammered, scurrying away like a frightened animal.

Ramsay inhaled deeply, as though savoring the scent of blood and battle on the air. His grin faltered only slightly when another soldier approached, hesitating before speaking.

“My lord,” the soldier said, his tone cautious, “the Lady Bolton… she’s gone into labor.”

For a brief moment, Ramsay’s expression froze, the grin slipping into something unreadable. Then, just as quickly, it returned, triumphant than ever. “Well, isn’t that fortuitous?” he said, his voice laced with mock cheer. “Two battles in one day.”

Inside the castle, the sense of foreboding was no less palpable. You were confined to your chambers, clutching the edge of the bed as another wave of pain tore through you. The midwives moved frantically around you, their voices low and urgent as they prepared for the child’s arrival. The room felt stifling despite the chill in the air, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the cold reality that had settled in your chest.

Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps as you clutched the sheets, the pain almost blinding. “It’s too soon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This shouldn’t be happening now.”

The head midwife glanced at you briefly, her face tight with worry. “Babes come when they will, my lady. Focus on breathing. Save your strength.”

The door creaked open, and Ramsay strode in, his presence filling the room like a storm. His eyes swept over the scene, his smile returning as he took in the chaos.

“Ah, wife,” he said, his voice lilting with mock affection. “You couldn’t have picked a better time. While your bastard brother marches to his death, you’re giving me an heir. How wonderful.”

You glared at him through the haze of pain, your voice a low growl. “Get out.”

Ramsay chuckled, stepping closer to the bed. “Oh, but why would I miss this? My child’s birth is a momentous occasion. The future of House Bolton, born amidst the cries of battle.”

“You don’t care about this child,” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. “You care about your power.”

Ramsay’s smile faltered briefly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And power is all that matters, isn’t it? This child ensures our legacy, wife. It ensures my legacy.”

Another contraction tore through you, and you cried out, clutching the sheets tightly. The midwives murmured words of encouragement, urging you to focus, but Ramsay’s presence made it impossible to find any semblance of calm.

The soldier from before appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “My lord, Snow’s forces are nearing the gates. They’ll be here within the hour.”

Ramsay turned, his smile returning as though the news were a gift. “Excellent. Ready the men. I’ll be down shortly.”

The soldier hesitated, glancing toward you before retreating quickly. Ramsay turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Do try to hurry this along, wife,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’d hate to miss the moment. But duty calls.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and strode out, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to breathe through the pain. The midwife leaned closer, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “My lady, you must focus. The babe is coming.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as another wave of pain surged through you. The sounds of preparation outside the walls echoed faintly in the distance—Ramsay’s army readying for war, Jon’s forces drawing closer.

But here, in this room, another battle was being fought.

And you prayed silently to the Old Gods for strength, for survival, for the child you were about to bring into a world of blood and fire.

The winds howled across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, whipping the banners of House Bolton against the sky. Ramsay rode at the head of his force, his eyes alight with amusement as he surveyed the opposing army. The Stark banners—proud direwolves on fields of white—stood in stark contrast to the flayed man of the Boltons. The sight of them seemed to amuse Ramsay even more.

Jon Snow sat astride a black horse at the front of his army, his expression grim and determined. To his right rode Davos Seaworth, his gaze scanning the Bolton forces, while Tormund Giantsbane sat to Jon’s left, his wild red hair and beard bristling against the wind. Behind them, the men of the North and the Free Folk stood united, their presence a defiant challenge to Ramsay’s rule.

Ramsay grinned widely as he reined his horse to a stop just a few paces from Jon. His men halted behind him, a wall of crimson and steel. The air between the two armies crackled with animosity, the silence broken only by the whinnying of horses and the rustling of banners.

Jon’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade. “Ramsay Bolton,” he called, his tone steady but filled with restrained fury. “I’m here to give you a chance to save your men. Surrender Winterfell. Release my sister. And retreat to the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Your sister?” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You mean my wife. My lady. She belongs to me now, Snow.”

Tormund growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe. Davos placed a steadying hand on Jon’s arm, though his own expression was hard as stone.

Jon’s voice rose, cutting through Ramsay’s taunts. “Surrender now, and I’ll let you leave with your life. Refuse, and I’ll take Winterfell from you. I’ll rip your banners from its walls and burn them in the Godswood.”

Ramsay threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and grating against the tense silence. “Oh, you are amusing, Snow. Truly. Do you think you’re in a position to make demands? Look at you.” He gestured to the army behind Jon, his grin twisting into something cruel. “A ragged band of Wildlings, deserters, and broken men. Do you really think they can stand against me?”

Tormund’s horse stepped forward, the wildling’s voice a deep growl. “You’ll find out soon enough, bastard.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered briefly, his eyes narrowing. “Careful, savage,” he said, his tone cold. “I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Davos spoke then, his voice calm but firm. “This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed, Lord Bolton. You could save your men, save yourself, by walking away.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his grin returning. “Save myself? I don’t need saving, Onion Knight. I am the Warden of the North. Winterfell is mine. And no bastard, no savage, and no smuggler will take it from me.”

Jon’s voice was steady, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. “This is your last chance. Surrender, or face the consequences.”

Ramsay leaned forward in his saddle, his grin widening further. “Consequences? Oh, Snow, I think you’ll find I enjoy consequences. Tell me, have you ever seen what a pack of hounds can do to a man? Or perhaps I’ll show you what they can do to a sister.”

Jon’s hands clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. The hatred between the two men was a tangible thing, thickening the air until it seemed ready to snap.

But then Ramsay leaned back, his grin softening into something almost playful. “You’ll die here, Snow,” he said lightly. “You and your little army. And when it’s over, I’ll hang your body from the walls of Winterfell for the crows to feast on.”

Jon didn’t flinch, his voice cutting through Ramsay’s mockery like ice. “Then we fight.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Yes, we do.”

With that, he turned his horse sharply, his men following suit as they rode back toward the gates of Winterfell. The sound of their retreating hoofbeats echoed across the field, leaving Jon and his army in tense silence.

Tormund spat into the snow. “Cocky little bastard.”

Davos shook his head, his voice grim. “He’s dangerous. Too dangerous for games. We need to be ready.”

Jon turned his horse back to his men, his face set in grim determination. “He’ll pay for what he’s done. For everything.”

And as the Stark banners fluttered in the icy wind, the two armies prepared for the storm of battle that was about to descend upon Winterfell.

The clash of steel and the screams of men echoed across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, mingling with the howling wind. Ramsay’s banners of flayed men flew high above the battlefield. Below, chaos reigned.

Jon Snow led his forces into the fray, Longclaw shone as he cut through the lines of Bolton soldiers. Beside him, Tormund roared like a wild beast, his axe carving paths of destruction. Davos Seaworth commanded the left flank, his calm and strategic orders keeping the line intact against the relentless onslaught.

Ramsay sat atop his horse at the rear of the battlefield, his pale blue eyes gleaming with excitement as he watched the carnage. “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his smirk cutting as a blade. “Simply beautiful.”

Inside the walls of Winterfell, the battle was far from your mind. Your screams filled the chambers as another wave of pain tore through you, the midwives bustling around in controlled chaos. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the chill in the air, and your hands gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.

“Breathe, my lady,” one of the midwives urged, her voice steady despite the chaos. “The babe is coming.”

“I am breathing!” you snapped, though your voice wavered with the strain.

Another contraction gripped you, and you cried out, the pain overwhelming. Outside, the distant sounds of battle seeped through the stone walls, a grim reminder of the war raging just beyond the castle gates.

Reek hovered near the door, his hunched figure trembling as he watched. His eyes darted nervously between you and the midwives, his fear visible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“I-I’m supposed to stay,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “My lord’s orders…”

“To hell with his orders!” you snapped, another scream tearing from your throat.

On the battlefield, Ramsay’s forces began to falter under the relentless assault. Jon Snow’s men pushed forward with somber resolve, their cries of vengeance ringing out as they fought to reclaim Winterfell.

Jon himself was a blur of movement, his sword cutting through Bolton soldiers with precision. His focus was unyielding, his mind filled with the faces of his siblings, the memories of what had been stolen from them.

Across the field, Ramsay watched with growing irritation as his lines began to break. He dismounted his horse, his smirk replaced with a cold fury. “Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold it, or I’ll flay every last one of you!”

But even his threats couldn’t stop the tide.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives worked frantically, their hands steady despite the urgency of the moment.

“The head is crowning, my lady,” one of them said, her voice firm but encouraging. “You must push.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pain blinding as you gripped the sheets tighter. “I… I can’t,” you gasped, your voice trembling with exhaustion.

“You can,” the midwife insisted, her eyes meeting yours with determination. “One more push, my lady. For the child.”

With a scream that felt like it would tear you apart, you bore down with all the strength you had left. The sound of a baby’s cry filled the room, strong and piercing, cutting through the air like a storm.

The midwives moved quickly, wrapping the newborn in a soft blanket and placing the child in your trembling arms. Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at the tiny figure, its cries subsiding into soft whimpers.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife said softly, her voice filled with quiet awe.

For a brief moment, the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the child in your arms.

On the battlefield, the tide turned completely. The sound of hooves thundered across the plains as the knights of the Vale appeared on the horizon, their banners snapping in the wind.

Riding at their head was Petyr Baelish, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat tall and proud, her expression cold and determined as she watched the Bolton forces falter.

The knights charged into the fray, their lances gleaming as they crashed into Ramsay’s men with devastating force. The Bolton lines broke completely, their soldiers scattering in every direction as the battle turned to rout.

Ramsay stood amidst the chaos, his pale eyes wide with fury and disbelief. “No,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t how it ends.”

But as Jon Snow approached, his sword raised and his face calm, Ramsay knew the end was near.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives cleaned the room quietly as you held your son close, his tiny hand grasping at your finger. The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the muffled cheers of victory from outside.

Reek remained by the door, his trembling figure a reminder of the world you were still trapped in. But as you looked down at your child, a spark of hope flickered in your chest.

The wolf was still alive. And so was the fight.

The courtyard of Winterfell was eerily silent, the snow thick beneath their boots. The air was heavy, carrying the metallic tang of blood from the battle that had raged just hours before.

Jon Snow stood tall, his chest heaving, Longclaw gleaming in his gloved hand. Across from him, Ramsay Bolton lingered, his eyes alight with something dark and dangerous. The smirk on Ramsay’s face belied the truth of his situation; his men, those who hadn’t fled or been slaughtered, cowered at the edges of the courtyard, leaving him exposed.

The snow crunched beneath Ramsay’s boots as he stepped forward, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You’re persistent,” he said, his voice carrying a mockery that only served to ignite the tension further. “I’ll give you that.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened, his knuckles white. “Surrender, Ramsay,” he growled, his voice low but steady. “This is over.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Over? Oh, no, Snow. This is just beginning. You see, Winterfell is mine now. It doesn’t matter how many Wildlings, traitors, or Starks you bring.” His voice turned icy, venomous. “The North is mine.”

Jon’s eyes burned with fury, but he held his ground. “You’re wrong. The North belongs to the Starks. It always has, and it always will.”

Ramsay laughed, a low, grating sound that echoed off the walls. “The Starks?” he sneered. “A dead house. A memory. The North follows power, and I’ve shown them power. Fear is stronger than loyalty, Jon Snow.”

Jon took a step forward, his voice rising. “You think fear will protect you? You think it will save you from this?” He gestured around them, to the fallen men and shattered banners. “The North remembers, Ramsay. And today, they’ll see justice.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. “Justice?” he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. “Is that what you think this is?”

He raised his arms, gesturing to the empty courtyard. “Go on, Jon. Fight me. Kill me. Prove to the North that you’re just like me. That you solve problems with blood and steel. Show them that you’re no better than the bastard you despise.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened further, his rage barely contained. “This isn’t about me,” he said firmly. “It’s about everyone you’ve hurt. Everyone you’ve killed.”

Ramsay’s grin returned, sharper than before. “Oh, you’re so noble, aren’t you? So self-righteous. But tell me, Jon… how many men have you killed to get here? How many lives did you throw away to claim your precious Winterfell?”

Jon took another step forward, the fury in his eyes matched only by the resolve in his stance. “You talk about fear and power, Ramsay. But look around you. Your men abandoned you. Your banners are torn. You’re alone.”

Ramsay’s smirk flickered, a shadow of doubt crossing his face before it was replaced by defiance. “I don’t need anyone else,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Because I’ll always have Winterfell. And I’ll always have her.”

Jon’s expression darkened, the mention of his sister igniting a fire within him. He raised Longclaw, pointing the blade directly at Ramsay. “You won’t touch her again. You won’t hurt anyone again.”

For a moment, the two men stood frozen, the snow falling softly around them. Then Ramsay lunged, his dagger flashing in the light as he closed the distance.

But Jon was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, Longclaw met Ramsay’s dagger, the clash of steel ringing out across the courtyard. The force of the blow drove Ramsay back a step, but his grin remained, his movements quick and erratic as he slashed again.

Jon blocked the strike easily, his sword swinging in a wide arc that forced Ramsay to retreat. The smirk on Ramsay’s face began to falter as Jon pressed forward, his strikes deliberate and unrelenting.

“You’re nothing without your men,” Jon growled, his voice carrying over the clash of steel. “Without your tricks. Without your hounds.”

Ramsay’s breath came faster, his movements growing desperate as he tried to fend off Jon’s relentless assault. “And you’re nothing but a bastard,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury.

Jon’s blade caught Ramsay’s dagger, wrenching it from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. Before Ramsay could react, Jon’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the snow.

Ramsay scrambled to his knees, his eyes wide with shock as Jon loomed over him, Longclaw poised for the killing blow.

The courtyard was silent, every eye fixed on the two men. Ramsay’s smirk was gone, replaced by the realization of his own defeat.

“Do it,” Ramsay hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Kill me. Show them who you really are.”

Jon hesitated, his grip on Longclaw tightening as he stared down at the man who had taken so much from him. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his fury warring with his sense of justice.

Then he lowered the blade, his voice steady. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”

Turning away, he signaled to the men waiting nearby. “Take him,” he commanded, his voice firm. “Put him in the kennels.”

As the soldiers dragged Ramsay away, his laughter echoed across the courtyard, chilling and hollow. “You’ll regret this, Snow,” he called out. “You’ll regret not killing me when you had the chance!”

But Jon didn’t look back.

The halls of Winterfell were quiet now, save for the faint echoes of boots on stone. The stench of battle still lingered in the air, a reminder of the lives lost to reclaim the ancestral seat of House Stark. Jon Snow led the way, his steps deliberate as he moved through the familiar corridors with Sansa close behind him. Their men followed silently, their faces marked with the weariness of war but also the faintest glimmer of triumph.

Jon’s sword hung at his side, his grip tight on the hilt as they approached the solar where the midwives had said she was. His heart pounded with anxiety and unease, the weight of what he might find pressing heavily on his chest. He glanced at Sansa, whose expression was a mixture of worry and determination, her fiery hair stark against the low light of the castle.

As they entered the room, the sight before them made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. There she was—his sister, seated in a large wooden chair near the hearth, a bundle wrapped tightly in her arms. The midwives bustled quietly around her, their hands careful as they cleaned and tidied the room. Despite her exhaustion, there was a fierce protectiveness in the way she held the babe, her head tilted down to shield it.

And then there was Reek.

He lingered near the corner, his hunched figure trembling, his wide eyes darting to Jon and then back to the floor. His clothes hung off his thin frame, and the remnants of the man Jon once knew were buried deep beneath layers of shame and fear. Recognition flickered in Jon’s eyes as he took a sharp breath.

“Theon,” Jon said, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

Reek—no, Theon—flinched at the name, shuffling further into the corner like a beaten dog. His hands twisted nervously in front of him, and he refused to meet Jon’s gaze. “I… I didn’t… I tried to…” His words were disjointed, barely audible.

Jon took a step toward him, his expression hardening, but Sansa placed a hand on his arm. “Jon,” she said softly, her voice steady. “Not now.”

He hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides, before his gaze shifted back to the figure seated by the hearth. The weight of the moment crashed over him, and his anger toward Theon faded into the background as he took a step closer to his sister.

“Y/N,” Jon said, his voice softer now, filled with a mixture of relief and concern.

You looked up slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of your face. But when your eyes met Jon’s, something shifted. The weight you had carried for so long seemed to lift, if only slightly, at the sight of him standing there, alive, whole, and so very much like your father.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping to one knee beside you. His eyes flickered to the bundle in your arms, and his breath hitched when he realized what it was—a child. “You’re alive,” he said softly, his hand hovering near yours but not quite touching. “You’re… safe.”

Sansa moved closer, her expression a mixture of shock and heartbreak as she took in the sight of you. “Oh, Y/N,” she said, her voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you forced them back, shaking your head slightly. “I survived,” you said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to the babe in your arms, his brow furrowing. “Is it… his?” he asked hesitantly, his voice laced with anger he couldn’t quite contain.

Your grip on the child tightened, your voice firm despite the quaver in it. “He’s mine,” you said, meeting Jon’s gaze with a fierce protectiveness. “Whatever blood runs through his veins, he’s mine.”

Sansa knelt beside Jon, her hand gently resting on your arm. “We’ll protect you,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “We’ll protect both of you.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked back at you. “He won’t hurt you again,” he said firmly. “Ramsay is finished.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of their words settling over you like a balm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true.

Reek—Theon—shifted nervously in the corner, drawing Jon’s attention again. His face hardened as he stood, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stopped him once more.

“He helped her,” Sansa said quietly. “In his own way. Let it be.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes burning into Theon’s crumpled figure. Finally, he nodded curtly, turning back to you. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly. “Together. As a family.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at them—your family, your blood. For the first time in so long, hope flickered in your heart.

Winterfell was home again. And the wolf, though battered and scarred, was still standing.

The cold air bit at your skin as you descended into the dim stone corridors beneath Winterfell, the faint smell of damp earth and animal musk thickening as you approached the kennels. The torches flickered weakly in their sconces. Your footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the confined space, but you walked steadily, cradling the strength you had left after a week of painful recovery.

The midwives had protested your decision to leave your chambers, but you silenced them with a single look. This was something you needed to do yourself. Jon had offered to handle it, his rage barely contained whenever Ramsay’s name was mentioned, but this was not his task. Ramsay was your demon to confront.

Reek—or Theon, as Jon and Sansa had begun calling him—followed a few steps behind, his figure hunched as always. He hadn’t spoken much since the battle, but his presence was strangely reassuring. He understood what Ramsay had done, perhaps better than anyone else.

When you reached the iron door of the kennels, two of Jon’s men stood guard. They stiffened at your approach, their eyes flickering with concern. One of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, “are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated but obeyed, the heavy iron door creaking open to reveal the dark, narrow corridor beyond. The sound of snarling and pacing echoed faintly, and the air grew colder as you stepped inside.

At the end of the row of cages sat Ramsay Bolton, shackled and filthy, his once-pristine leather jerkin torn and stained. He was slumped against the stone wall, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet yours as you approached. The grin that curled across his lips was both familiar and chilling.

“Ah, my wife,” he drawled, his voice hoarse but mocking. “Come to visit your lord husband in his moment of need? How touching.”

You stopped just out of reach, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked, but the fire in his gaze had not dimmed.

“I’m not your wife,” you said coldly. “Not anymore.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, though it was brittle now, his pale eyes gleaming with something dark. “Oh, but you are. You’ll always be mine, little wolf. No matter what your brother or his Wildling friends think.”

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. “You’re wrong. You’ve lost everything, Ramsay. Winterfell, the North, your men—everything. And now you’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

His laugh was low and grating, echoing in the confined space. “Answer? To you? What are you going to do, wife? Lecture me? Scold me? You don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the fury burning within you. “I have more stomach for it than you think. And unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind fear or cruelty to make my point.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You think you’ve won,” he said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “But you’ll never be rid of me. You’ll see me in that child of yours. Every time you look at him, you’ll remember me. And you’ll never forget.”

Your breath caught for a moment, his words hitting their mark. But then you straightened, your voice firm. “You’re wrong again, Ramsay. He’s not yours. He never was. He’s mine.”

His laughter was sharper this time, almost manic. “Oh, little wolf, you’re deluding yourself. But go on. Decide my fate. Show me how merciful the Starks really are.”

You turned to the guard, who had followed you inside and stood silently behind you. “Bring the hounds,” you said quietly.

The guard hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “Now.”

The man nodded and disappeared, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. Ramsay’s grin returned, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze now.

“My hounds won’t hurt me,” he said confidently. “They’re loyal. More loyal than any man.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on him as the minutes stretched on. When the door opened again, the guards led the hounds into the kennel, their low growls filling the air. The beasts were lean and hungry, their eyes gleaming as they caught Ramsay’s scent.

His confidence wavered, his grin faltering as he shifted against the wall. “They won’t hurt me,” he repeated, his voice less certain now. “They know me.”

You stepped back, your voice cold. “They’re starving, Ramsay. You made sure of that.”

For the first time, you saw fear flicker in his eyes. He turned to the hounds, his voice rising. “Down! Sit! Obey me!”

But the animals didn’t listen. They crept closer, their growls deepening as they bared their teeth.

“Stop!” Ramsay shouted, his voice breaking. “No! Stop!”

You stood still, your chest heaving as the hounds lunged. The sounds of snarling and screaming filled the air, and you turned away, your hands trembling as you walked back toward the door.

The guards closed it behind you, muffling the chaos inside. You leaned against the cold stone wall, your breath shaky but steadying. It was over.

Ramsay Bolton was no more. Winterfell was yours again.

And the wolf had finally found justice.

141 notes · View notes

midnight-mourning · 5 months ago

Text

Sleigh Bells Ring (Are you Listening?)

❄️❄️Midnight's DCA December Day 16❄️❄️

Another cute fluffy fic for you all, what a surprise amiright? Anywho, really tried to capture the scenery with this one, personally a big fan of cold snowy winters mhm, and also kissing robots-WHAT WHO SAID THAT anywho, enjoy!

Prompt: Oouu bats my little eyelashes,,i have a request!!💥💥 i think going on a sleigh ride with the dca would be fun!!!

Word Count: 1796

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Your feet hit the floor with a quiet thump. You stretch, yawning as you check the time on your phone. Still early, but the smell of food cooking downstairs has made you wide awake.

You twist to look outside, seeing a white, rolling landscape looking back at you. You walk over to the window, putting your hand on the cool glass. There's a bit of snow still falling, not as hard as the past few days, but enough.

When you first thought of the idea of returning to your family's old farmhouse all those months ago, you'd been hesitant. Mainly because you weren't sure how the attendant would react to such a stark contrast in environment compared to the Plex, and then your small cramped apartment. Two very different locations in terms of size, noise level, and population.

However, after the devastation that was the fire, and the months of recovery that followed, you think a change of pace would be what was best for all of you. And, you were right.

Both Sun & Moon had seemingly loved every minute of being on the farm, cleaning things up, taking care of the animals and the land, and so on and so forth.

You walk downstairs, the old floorboards creaking with each step, the air getting just a little warmer as you enter the main floor.

You spy Sun in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He turns to you as you enter.

"Good morning, Sunbeam! Did you sleep well?'

You nod, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "Yeah. You guys been up long?"

"Just a little bit!" Sun walks over, depositing a plate of pancakes, bacon, and other breakfast goodies in front of you. You don't ignore how the food resembles a smiley face, commenting on such. His rays spin at your words.

Mid-bite you speak up. "I'm thinking after we check on the animals we clear out the back of the barn. There's a bunch of stuff back there that either needs fixed up or thrown out already. It'll be an all-day activity, if you're up for it."

"You know how much we love organizing!" Sun claps his hands.

"Great. Let me finish breakfast."

The air nips at your nose, hands in your pocket as you make your way over to the barn. Sun's ahead of you, stopping every so often to examine the snow in detail, or to drop to the ground and make a snow angel. If you weren't trying to stay warm you'd join in, you were having a competition and you were losing severely.

Upon arrival, the animals greet you. Cows mooing, goats bleating, and what have you.

Before you open up the doors a bit further and hit the lights, you watch Moon retrieve a spare carrot from his sleeve, giving it to his—supposedly not favorite—favorite horse, Opal.

"You're spoiling her." You say, unlocking the big doors and starting to push them apart.

Moon scratches the horse's head with both hands while she revels in the attention. "Nonsense. She needs it."

You scoff, but smile as the two continue to admire each other.

You allow all the animals that want to out to roam in their yards for a bit while you and Sun work on cleaning and feeding them. With the help it takes very little time at all. Allowing you the chance to get started on your project in the back.

It's as messy as you always remember it being, your grandpa wasn't a hoarder by any means, just a collector rather. Among the old farm equipment is random knick knacks and quite frankly, junk. No disrespect to the old man, but what use he saw in a five foot tall chicken statue, that was between him and the statue you supposed.

You make good progress however, getting about half of it at least organized in piles before lunch time.

You're about to head back inside and shut the barn up again for a bit when Sun calls you to the very back of the barn.

"What's this, Starlight?" He points to a large mass half covered in shadow and a sheet.

You furrow your brow and decide the best course of action is to just pull the sheet off. After the dust settles, something clicks in place in your memory.

You can't help the grin that splits your face. "Hey! It's the sleigh my grandpa used to take us for rides in when we were kids." You take a step closer, hand ghosting over the brass trim. "Man, I completely forgot about this. Didn't know he kept it all these years. Still in good condition too."

It's true, it was a lot better than you would have ever expected. The dark green painted wood has only a few minor chips and scratches. The leather seats and have no cracks or tears, just a fine coating of dust. Even the brass that decorates and lines the edges of the sleigh look good, you can see your own warbly reflection in places.

"It's beautiful..." Sun says beside you, his own hand hovering just above it, like he's afraid to touch it. "Would, would it still be useable?"

You shrug, looking back to the sleigh. "I don't see why not." You knock the side a couple times. "Wood doesn't seem to be rotted, meaning it should still be pretty sturdy. Why, would you guys want to go for a ride?"

"Please!"

You look up to him, slightly surprised.

Sun fakes a cough, rays flitting. "I mean, if we could, we really, really want to. Pretty please."

You laugh. "Okay, yeah. Shouldn't be too hard. Let's drag it out to the front and we'll clean it up after lunch."

After a bite to eat, you and the attendant work to clean up the old sleigh. Wiping it down, polishing, sharpening the blades and so on. It's tedious work, but you enjoy it and the conversation you share.

By mid-afternoon, the sleigh is ready to go and both Sun and Moon are more than ready to go for a ride.

"Sun hold on, I need to adjust the reins to make sure they're comfortable." You have to shoo him away from you so you can focus.

His rays spin as he whines, but retreats to sit down in the sleigh. "I know, I know, but we've been waiting alllll day."

"And you've been so incredibly patient." You respond, adjusting the bridle on Marshmallow's—named by your cousin's kid—nose.

"Exactly!"

With a laugh, you double check everything before walking behind the horses to the sleigh. Picking up the reins you turn to the frantic bot beside you. "Ready?"

"Yes!" He clasps his hands together. "Please, Sunshine. I'm begging you. Let's go."

You sigh, long and dramatic. Then, you grin. "Alright, let's go." You click your tongue, tugging on the reins once and you start to move forward.

The wind blows all around you, cold against your face. But, you're having too much fun to care.

You swear Sun's eyes are sparkling as he takes it all in. Head whipping back and forth as you travel along. It's peaceful, the crunch of the snow under the horses' hooves, the skating of the sled. Despite the weather it's a gorgeous scene as you cross the countryside.

The snow thankfully isn't too much for Opal and Marshmallow to handle, and you think they seem very content and please to not be cooped up in the barn.

Besides the cold on your face, it's pretty cozy inside the sleigh, the two of you are wrapped up in an old fur blanket you'd found in the attic, and if you weren't so happy that they were having such a good time, you'd be burning up at the thought of sitting so close with them.

Sun's knee bounces against your as he taps his foot, hands fidgeting with your coat sleeve as he has no other way to expel his energy.

You spend a good hour or so out in the snow, even stopping by some of the neighbors places to check in. You return home, cold and hungry, and Sun is happy to usher you inside and cook up dinner.

While cleaning up, you check outside and are pleased to see that the snow has stopped for now, leaving way for a clear night with a full moon. Just like you were hoping.

It takes a moment of convincing, but you pull the boys back out into the snow, stating that it's only fair that Moon should get a ride too.

Soon enough, you're back out in the world, the peace of the night just a pretty as the day. There's only a few stars out, but the moonlight is so gorgeous as it illuminates your path that it more than makes up for it.

It's somehow even quieter out now. The wind blowing only every so often. The lantern you'd set in the back seat casts a yellow hue of the back of Moon's head as he enjoys the ride. While not as fidgety as Sun, he does stick close, hand having somehow intertwined with one of your own, rubbing small circles into the back of it every so often.

All of the sudden, you feel his head rest on your own, it causes heat to grow on your ears.

"Thank you for indulging us and our insistent demands today, Star." He sighs, snuggling closer to you. "This has been lovely."

You duck your head a moment, then clear your throat. "Yo-You're welcome."

Moon's chuckle reverberates against you.

"Could you stop for a moment?" He asks after some time has passed.

You nod. "Sure."

It takes a second, but eventually you're sitting still, waiting for what he's going to do.

What you don't expect is Moon to shift, using his free hand to move under your chin and turn you to face him.

"Wha—"

He bends down then, pressing his smile to your lips, pulling away after a moment.

"That's all, you can keep going now." He snickers, sitting back in the seat.

You blink, taking a moment to process before protesting. "Are you serious? You think you can just do that and not say anything more?"

"Opal wants to get moving, she has carrots to snack on when we return. Marshmallow too."

You hook the reins around part of the sleigh, twisting to face Moon fully. "Opal can wait. I have a few things I'd like to say first." You use both hands to pull his faceplate down to your lips, kissing him again.

And as you sit there, kissing—one of—the bots you love, you can't help but feel a little more grateful that you'd found the sleigh.

So, very grateful.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Gah loved writing this one, thank you @crystalmagpie447 for the request! I hope you enjoyed the fluffy sleigh ride, I def did :)

Masterpost link

Tag list (if you would like added, see this post for more info):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8

@luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @amarynthian-chronicles

@robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva

@juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml

#eheheehehe #moon lovers you're finally eating well #im sorry for neglecting you with these #hope this helps #fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #dca fic #x reader #mm dca december #writing requests #midnight mutterings

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aylacavebear · 8 months ago

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Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 14

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 2214

Warnings: Angst, suspense, emotional situations, Crowley being Crowley.

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 14

When the SUVs pulled up to what looked like a heavily guarded wrought iron gate, attached to a thick brick or concrete wall, your heart almost felt like it would beat out of your chest. Dean at least still had his arm over your shoulders, holding you close, but your eyes were focused on the things outside. Outside the gates, all you could make out were the tall hedges and trees that had grown past the top of the wall, which you assumed encompassed the property. There were a few different types of vines, but they looked as though they’d been repeatedly cut back.

You wanted to ask where they’d taken you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak at the moment, even after what the judge had said. As the gates began to open, you felt like you were almost holding your breath. The driveway was neatly kept, winding its way through a pedicured landscape of trees, hedges, and flower beds. The mansion of a house where the SUVs stopped took your breath away. It was the most elegant and extravagant home you’d ever seen in person. The agent next to Benny opened the door, stepped out, and then held the door for the three of you. You swore your jaw had hit the pavement as you stepped out, staring up at the mansion before you when that Scottish accent pulled your gaze to the man coming down the steps.

“Oh good, you made it without incident,” Crowley stated, seeming quite pleased.

“What’s going on?” you asked, relieved it was Crowley and not someone from the Vaught family.

“I’ve made arrangements for you to stay here during the course of your case,” he explained. “One of my men will be back with your belongings, and theirs as well. Now, shall we get some brunch?”

You were still fairly confused, but you followed Crowley into his mansion, Dean by your side and Benny bringing up the rear. The interior of Crowley’s mansion was even more impressive than the exterior. As you stepped inside, your eyes were immediately drawn to the high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and elegant wallpaper, giving the space a sophisticated yet intimidating ambiance.

You walked through a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase that curved up to the second floor. The marble floors gleamed underfoot, and you could see various pieces of antique furniture and art tastefully arranged throughout the space. It was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environment of the courtroom.

Crowley led the way down a long hallway, the rich scent of polished wood and old books filling the air. You passed several rooms, each one more opulent than the last, until you reached a set of double doors. Crowley pushed them open to reveal a lavish dining room.

The dining room was dominated by a long, mahogany table that could easily seat twenty people. The table was already set for a smaller group, with fine china, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery laid out meticulously. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and several large windows allowed natural light to pour in, illuminating the room in a warm glow.

A chef and a few servants were bustling around, preparing the final touches for the meal. The aroma of bacon, cooking meat, and something that was perhaps a fine fish dish wafted through the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation.

“Please, have a seat,” Crowley gestured to the chairs, taking his place at the head of the table. Dean guided you to a seat beside him, and Benny sat across from you, giving you a reassuring nod.

As you settled into the plush chair, Crowley smiled and spoke to the servants, “Begin serving, please.”

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, bringing out a covered plate for each of you, while others had platters with delectable deserts displayed on them. The aromas only made your mouth water further. Another servant set a chilled, open beer on a coaster near your, Dean’s, and even Benny’s plate while another poured Crowley a glass of what looked like fine wine.

Crowley dismissed the servant as he looked at you, his expression more serious now. “You must have many questions,” he said, taking a sip. “Feel free to ask anything you need to understand.”

You wanted to answer him, but the servants set a dish down in front of the three of you, revealing what had smelled so good. Yours and Dean’s contained the most delicious-looking burger you’d ever seen, while Benny got something that was clearly something he hadn’t had in a long time. You were just too focused on your burger at the moment to even ask what it was.

“Figured you lot would prefer something simple,” Crowley told you, seeing you focused on the meal and not his prior statement.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, looking over at him as Dean squeezed your knee in a reassuring way. “Why are you doing this for us?” you asked finally.

Crowley’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something softer behind his usual confident exterior. “Let’s just say, I have a vested interest in seeing justice served. The Vaughts have been playing games for too long, and it’s about time someone put a stop to it.” Dean leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We appreciate your help, Crowley. But what’s the catch?”

Crowley chuckled, setting his glass down. “No catch, Dean. Just a mutual benefit. You get the support you need for this case, and I get the satisfaction of seeing the Vaughts lose for once.” Benny spoke up, his tone serious. “We’ll do whatever it takes to win this. They’ve messed with the wrong people.” Crowley nodded approvingly. “That’s the spirit, Benny. Now, let’s eat. You’re going to need your strength for what lies ahead.” As the meal progressed, you found yourself relaxing slightly, the initial shock of Crowley’s opulent home giving way to a sense of determination. You had allies in the fight, and together, you were going to bring the Vaughts to justice.

Halfway through the meal, the double doors opened, instantly pulling your attention to what looked like a butler. “They’re here, Sir,” he told Crowley.

“Ah, wonderful,” Crowley replied, delighted as a smile played at his lips. “Show them in.”

The butler nodded, and a few moments later, Sam, Ellen, Jodi, Bobby, Mary, and John came into the dining hall. You instantly stood as Ellen made her way to you, tears in both your eyes as you embraced her in a tight hug.

“Oh, honey,” she told you softly, and you heard the sadness and relief in her tone.

“I’m okay, Auntie,” you replied quietly.

Ellen held you at arm’s length, her eyes scanning your face as if reassuring herself that you were truly alright. “We’ve been worried sick about you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Dean, Sam, and even Benny embraced in hugs before Dean hugged John and Mary. Even Jodi and Bobby hugged the boys, then came over to you, giving you a soft, but relieved smile, embracing you in a hug.

“We’re here for ya, kid,” John told you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on the man.

Crowley, ever the consummate host, gestured to the empty seats. “Please, join us. There’s plenty of food, and we’ve much to discuss.” As everyone settled around the table, the atmosphere shifted slightly. There was a sense of camaraderie, of a team coming together to face a common enemy. You wished that Jo could be there, as she was more like a sister to you than a cousin. And, oddly enough, even Cas and Garth. Just as you were finally feeling like you were relaxing, your mark began burning, horribly, a pained hiss leaving your lips just as Dean was getting out of his seat.

Crowley snapped his fingers a couple of times while you put your hand over your mark, missing whatever was being said. Moments later, though, Dean was putting cream on your mark. “It’s okay, I’m right here,” he attempted to soothe you as the entire room had gone silent.

“Well, now, this changes things,” Crowley mused from where he sat, leaning back in his chair. “Why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“About what?” you asked, only wincing slightly as you looked at him.

“With that,” he began, gesturing to your mark, “we’ve got a little more leverage.”

You tried to look down at your mark, but with where it was, you couldn’t see it. Frustrated, you looked back at him, “What are you talking about?”

He practically laughed, “Dean, you haven’t told her?”

All Dean did was glare at him and the others stayed silent, which only annoyed you further. “Tell me what?” you snapped, clenching your hands in your lap.

“I was waiting,” Dean managed through a clenched jaw, clearly annoyed.

“Will someone tell me what the hell you’re talking about? I’m tired of this, of all of you keeping secrets from me,” you snapped at them, looking around the table as your anger finally boiled over. When no one spoke up, you just got up and walked off, practically slamming the dining hall doors.

Crowley sighed and nodded to one of his servants, who promptly followed you. The servant was a young woman with kind eyes, and she caught up with you just as you were starting to feel lost in the labyrinthine halls of the mansion.

“Miss, please allow me to show you to a room where you can rest. Your bags have already been brought up,” she said softly.

Too tired to argue, you nodded and followed her. She led you up a grand staircase and down a long corridor to a beautifully furnished room. “If you need anything, just ring this bell,” she instructed, indicating a small ornate bell on the bedside table.

“Thank you,” you murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed as she left the room.

Meanwhile, back in the dining hall…

Dean, still fuming, stood up, “We agreed to tell her when her mark came in more.”

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly, although he wasn’t pleased about his secrecy, “It slipped my mind. Besides, she has a right to know.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t helping. How did she not notice one of the letters came in all the way?”

Dean sighed and sat back down, “She never looked in the mirror at it, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to.”

“Son, she’s gonna be more hurt if you wait much longer,” John told him sincerely.

“Does she have at least an idea of how you’re connected to all this?” Crowley asked, although clearly frustrated, but needing further information.

“Not completely,” Dean reluctantly answered.

“Benny, did she even pay attention when Dean testified?” Sam asked, fairly puzzled how you wouldn’t have found out.

Benny sighed, “No. I was talkin’ to her. Tryin’ to help er’ relax a little.”

Crowley was usually a calm, collected man, but this frustrated him: "What does she know?”

Dean grabbed his beer, taking a sip before he answered, staring at the label, “I told her I know she’s my soul mate, part of the thing with Lisa, and that she’s an empath.”

“That’s it?” Bobby exclaimed in annoyance and frustration.

“That explains why she knows we’re hiding something,” Mary sighed, looking back at the closed dining hall doors.

“I didn’t want to make it harder on her,” Dean mumbled quietly.

“Dean, she has to be told, before her birthday, or it’s gonna hurt her more, and not just emotionally,” Sam told him, his tone soft but firm. “I know what I told you before, but she’s quickly running out of time.”

Dean’s attention went to the doors, his mind on only you and what you were feeling. He’d hated not telling, not letting himself get closer to you than you’d let him. He’d felt everything from the moment he’d seen you that first day at the bar, and it was tearing him up inside that you still doubted him. Sam had warned him of the risks of waiting too long, but he just hadn’t been able to find the right time and he didn’t want to do it once you two had gotten stuck in that bunker. “Dean, are you even listened?” Crowley asked him, frustrated and now leaning forward in his seat, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

“Yeah, I mean, no. I wasn’t listening,” he grumbled.

An annoyed sound left Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat. “Her birthday is in two days. Either you tell her tomorrow, or I’ll have to make sure the doctor is here.” His tone was of concern for you more than for Dean.

Dean looked down at his beer, “She’s gonna hate me, but… I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

“Son, she’s gonna be mad at all of us, but she’s not going to hate us, especially not you,” John tried to reassure him, feeling bad for what not only his son had to go through, but also what you have had to endure.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 15

Story Master List Main Master List

Tag List: @deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @jackles010378 @bruhidkjustwannaread @onthehuntforshinies

@chriszgirl92 @angzls @xolivvies-cornerxo @certainsaladstarfish @onlyangel-444

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@megs-gadom

If I missed tagging, please let me know. I had a lot of requests for tags for this one. If you'd like to be tagged, drop me a comment.

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u6is · 6 months ago

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be my fire in the cold

The snow had painted a fresh canvas over the sleeping world, turning everything monochrome but for the occasional twinkle of distant lights.

part 1

— kylian mbappé x reader: fluff

In the quiet town of Megève, nestled in the heart of the French Alps, the snowfall was a gentle, rhythmic lullaby. The kind that makes you want to snuggle deeper into the warmth of your bed. You felt an irrepressible pull towards the frosty beauty outside your window. You threw the covers aside and padded over to the windowpane, your breath fogging the cold glass. The snow had painted a fresh canvas over the sleeping world, turning everything monochrome but for the occasional twinkle of distant lights.

You glanced over at Kylian, still lost in a peaceful slumber, and couldn't resist the urge to wake him for a surprise. You whispered his name, a soft echo in the stillness of the room. His eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile spread across his face when he saw you.

"Merry Christmas," you said, and his smile grew. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and took in the serene winter wonderland outside.

"It's perfect," he murmured, and you knew exactly what he meant.

You both got dressed in warm layers, your cheeks flushing from the excitement of the crisp air. Kylian looked at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Prête à y aller, ma chérie?" (ready to go, my darling?) he asked, holding out a pair of snowshoes.

The thought of exploring the pristine landscapes together filled you with excitement. You nodded, and he helped you strap them onto your boots, the sound of the bindings clicking into place echoing through the room.

With snowshoes on, you stepped out of the cozy chalet and into the silent embrace of the Megève Ski Resort. The snow was thick and fluffy, muffling the sound of your footsteps as you ventured into the frosty forest. The trees towered above you, their branches laden with a fresh coat of snow, creating an archway of white that led to the untouched wilderness beyond. The scent of pine was sharp in the air, invigorating and pure. Kylian took your hand, leading you through the enchanting maze of snow-covered trees.

Your breaths grew heavier as you climbed higher, the cold air biting at your cheeks. But the effort was worth it; every step revealed a new postcard-perfect scene. The sky above was a canvas of soft blues and purples, the sun peeking shyly over the mountain tops, casting a warm glow over the snow-capped peaks. Kylian paused to point out a family of deer in the distance, their dark forms standing out against the stark landscape as they grazed peacefully. You watched them in awe, feeling a sense of kinship with the creatures that called this place home.

He stopped at a small clearing, the snow untouched except for the occasional bird tracks. The silence was profound, the only sounds the rustle of the trees and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere in the resort. Kylian looked at you, his eyes full of a warmth that seemed to melt the icicles hanging from the branches above. He leaned in and kissed you gently, his warmth a stark contrast against the frosty air. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm as steady as the falling snowflakes.

“So, is this your secret plan to keep me all to yourself out here?” you asked, giving him a playful smile.

“Caught me. I figured if I brought you out here, you’d be stuck with me,” he replied, smirking.

“Oh, so you think I can’t find my way back alone?”

“Hmm, well, maybe. But I doubt you’d want to.”

You grinned, raising a brow. “Confident, are we?”

“Only because you’re still here, in my arms. So... maybe just a little bit,” he teased, holding you tighter.

You laughed, resting your head against his chest. “Alright, you win this time. But only because you’re my best heater in this cold.”

He chuckled softly. “Best heater, huh? I’ll take it. But you’ll owe me a reward.”

You looked up at him, eyes glinting. “Oh? And what exactly does this ‘reward’ involve?”

He leaned in, his eyes sparkling with warmth, “More moments just like this one.” and gently kissed your lips.

Breaking the kiss, Kylian bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. He playfully threw it at you, the chilly flakes landing on your nose. You squealed and laughed, the sound echoing through the woods. The snow fight was on, with Kylian using his speed and agility to dodge your throws while you tried to keep up, your cheeks growing rosier with every giggle. The snow fell around you, the world a blur of white and mirth.

As the laughter subsided, Kylian took your hand again and led you deeper into the woods, the trail growing steeper. The challenge of the climb brought you closer together, your breaths coming in quick gasps as you pushed through the drifts. At the top of a hill, you stopped to catch your breath. The view was breathtaking—a panorama of endless white, unmarred by the chaos of the world below.

Kylian looked at you with admiration, his eyes gleaming with pride. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, his warmth seeping into your bones.

When you were both sufficiently cold and breathless, Kylian took your hand and led you back to the chalet. The warmth inside was a welcome embrace as you shed your outer layers and hung them by the fireplace to dry. The crackle of the firewood and the smell of pine filled the room.

You settled onto the couch, a mound of blankets between you. Kylian disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tray laden with hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a plate of buttery croissants. The aroma of chocolate and baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of the fireplace. He placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat beside you, his eyes dancing with the reflection of the flames.

You both took a sip of the rich, creamy drink, the warmth seeping into your chilled fingers and toes. The sweetness was a delightful counterpoint to the bitterness of the cold outside. Kylian reached for a croissant, breaking it in half and offering you the larger piece. You took it, feeling the warmth spread through your body as you took a bite. The flakes of pastry melted on your tongue, leaving a trail of buttery goodness that made you close your eyes and sigh contentedly.

The fire crackled and popped, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

With your hunger eased, your head rests gently in Kylian's lap, gazing up at the soft flutter of his lashes, lost in the beauty of the moment.

"Mon chéri, can you read that book for me, please?" You beg softly.

Kylian pulled out the book from the shelf beside him,

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

He began to read aloud, his voice deep and soothing.

"He is more myself than I am.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger:

I should not seem a part of it."

Kylian's fingers found yours under the blanket, weaving together like the roots of the ancient trees outside. The words weaved a warm blanket around the two of you as the night grew darker. The warmth of his hand was comforting, a silent promise that no matter where life took you, you'd always find your way back to moments like these.

The candles on the mantle flickered, casting a warm glow over the room, making it feel as though you were the only two people in the world.

The moon had risen high, casting a silvery light on the fresh snow, making everything glisten like diamonds. Kylian set the book aside. "How about we try something different?" he said, his voice a gentle rumble.

He led you to the back of the chalet, where a wooden deck jutted out into the night, surrounded by a ring of towering pines.

He stood there, a bottle of wine cradled in one hand, while in the other, two delicate glasses glistened, waiting to be filled with the promise of an evening just for the two of you.

In the centre of the deck was an outdoor hot tub, steaming gently in the cold air.

The water looked like a pool of liquid gold, beckoning you closer.

Kylian's eyes never left yours as he helped you into the tub, your skin prickling with anticipation. He followed the warm water enveloping you both as you settled in opposite each other. The jets bubbled around you, a soothing caress that seemed to melt away the tension of the day.

Sipping wine with him in the warmth of the hot tub feels like being wrapped in a soft, whispered embrace, each moment as soothing as a blanket drawn close on a winter’s night.

You leaned back, set the wine glass to the side, let the water lap at your chin, and watched the snowflakes pirouette around you. They were so close you could almost feel their chilly kisses, but the heat of the tub kept you cocooned in comfort. Kylian reached out, and his fingertips grazed your cheek, brushing a stray snowflake away. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.

He moved closer, the water sloshing gently between you. His eyes searched yours, seeking permission, and you gave it with a nod so slight it was almost imperceptible. The moonlight reflected in the pools of his irises, making them look like twin lakes under the stars. His hand slid down to your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You leaned in, the anticipation a delicious ache. His kiss was tender yet urgent, a silent declaration of the depth of his feelings for you.

The warmth of the hot tub was a stark contrast to the icy air outside, but it was nothing compared to the heat that grew between the two of you.

As Kylian's hand traveled down your arm, you felt every inch of your skin come alive. You reached out, your fingers in his hair, and the world outside the wooden deck ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, the water, and the night sky above.

Kylian's kisses grew more urgent, his hands exploring every inch of your body. You responded in kind, the warmth of his touch sending waves of pleasure through you. The sound of your breaths mingled with the gentle bubbling of the tub, the only soundtrack to your private dance of desire. The snowflakes continued their silent descent, kissing your skin as they melted away.

Kylian's hand slid beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together, skin on skin. The warmth of the water was a stark contrast to the cool air, creating an erotic friction that made you shiver.

You felt his hands on your back, untying the strings of your bra, the fabric slipping away, leaving you bare before him. He took a moment to drink you in, his eyes a smoldering gaze that set your heart racing.

"You're so beautiful," Kylian murmured, his voice thick with desire.

He slid closer, the water rippling around you, and his hands found your breasts, cupping them gently. His thumbs circled your sensitive nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You moaned softly, the sound lost in the whisper of the falling snow.

The water sloshed as you moved over him, your legs straddling his. You felt the hardness of him pressing against you, a promise of what was to come.

"I can’t stop thinking about you...Every moment without you feels like a lifetime."

His mouth found yours again, the kisses growing deeper, more demanding.

"I’m right here, you know." Breaking the kiss you looked into his eyes and saw it—an undeniable yearning, soft and vulnerable, like a puppy's gaze waiting for a home in your touch.

You could feel your body responding, your heart hammering in your chest.

"I know, but I need you closer. I just need to feel you... It’s like I can’t breathe without you near." His hands gently pull you towards him.

His chest was a warm wall of muscle against your cool skin, his breath hot against your neck as he trailed kisses along your collarbone.

"I didn’t know you were so needy."

"I am." His hands continued to explore

"When it comes to you, I can’t get enough. You make me crave more than I ever thought possible." Tracing the curve of your waist and the dip of your hips.

"Laisse-moi te prendre tout entière." (let me have all of you) With a tender yet intense tone, Kylian's hands roamed over your bare skin, sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

The world outside the hot tub was forgotten as your bodies moved in a rhythm as old as time itself. The snow continued to fall, but it couldn't penetrate the bubble of heat and passion that surrounded the two of you.

As the night grew deeper, the stars grew brighter, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the resort. The cold was a distant memory as you clung to each other, lost in the warmth of your love.

part 2 🫢

needy kylian aaaahhh

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader

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drowninginblox · 7 months ago

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The Tell

Based off of this scene (SPOILERS FOR XMEN '97) I am back on my nightcrawler bs!!!!

Have some angst and hurt/comfort to bide yall. I'M WORKING ON PART 3- MIDTERMS HAVE ME BY THE SOUL!! Yall know the drill: 2nd person bc idgaf GN pronouns for yall (I think?) No beta we die like (spoilers)

He was gone. You were across the world and you knew he was gone. In a step, in a breath, in a waining thought- all silenced by the wind in your hair whispering "Gambit's Dead"

You rushed home as soon as possible, making it just a day before the funeral. Everyone was barely holding it together but seeing you after all these years, a ghost, sent waves. Logan, Rouge, and Hank were all indifferent to your presence, understanding but also contempt of the fact that now- now you show up, after years away. This is what got you back.

Scott was worse- not even bothering to speak to you, just walking away altogether. Jubilee didn't know you that well, but from what she knew and how she is, she took you in with a grain of salt. Smart girl- that one.

Kurt, now that was a reaction. Moments after you were let in, Kurt was getting tea for everyone and as soon as he saw you- everything fell apart. Not many people have had the displeasure of seeing the Nightcrawler angry. After all, the few who do, don't live to tell the tale. But now you've seen it thrice. But unlike the times before- you stayed and took it all.

All the vile curses, both English and German, all the arm motions and tears, all the looks of emotions so mixed it could count as a cocktail. When he was done, and stark silence filled the over-occupied room, he muttered. "Welcome home Windwalker." Before dacking your shoulder on his way out.

You knew you should have left at that moment but you stay ed for the funeral. As soon as it was over and Kurtis touched your heart once again, you started to walk away again.

You made it ten minutes before he came racing after you. "Wait." He called from behind you.

A sigh and half of a turn was the most you got before the brunt of a sword collided with your eye- sending you stumbling into a nearby tree. "You are not leaving until I'm through with you, Zepher." You wince. Not at the pain. You didn't bother to stand as Kurt readied his blades. You just closed your eyes and waited. A moment passes before Kurt shouts "Steh auf, verdammt! Get up and fight me!" The rage eminent in his voice. You open your eyes to see him looming from listed over a yard away. His stark eyes contrast the gloom of the landscape. Where this moment was pure mourning, he was nothing but firey disgust. Contemplation washed over you, but you got up. You didn't bother to ready yourself as if you could- Kurt was already on you, his swords slashing into you. Kicks sent you here and there while the memories of late-night training sessions made your tears mix with the downpour. Blood followed soon after.

Whether it be minutes or hours later, he was finished with you. On the brink of passing out either out of blood loss or exhaustion. He stepped back to look at you. "Warum liegt mir so viel an Ihnen?" He mumbles. You only swallow back the copper taste in your mouth. His eyes narrow, finally seeing you as the human trash you are. You close your eyes and hope that the devil is kinder than this fallen angel.

You wake to smoke. immediately sitting up and coughing out the vile intruder. You use your mutation of wind manipulation to give yourself a radius to breathe. Kurt appears next to you before grabbing your chest and suddenly teleporting you outside. He doesn't linger to explain whats going on- just leaving you to watch as these human-robot things destroy the manor. You take out a few that try to break in and even save Logan from one too. When the chaos is settled, everyone makes a gameplan- something something Rouge, something something Magneto- you were out for most of it. It wasn't until Kurt gripped your shoulder that you found yourself back in reality. Kurt stares at you for a moment before grabbing your waist and teleporting to the outside of the manor's green.

"I-If you want a round two... go ahead." You offer even though the bandages wrapped around your torso and arms are turning pink. "I know you wanted to for harder." You close your eyes. "Can I say something though?"A beat passes. you feel his tail swing against your ankle. "Make it quick." You nod. "I'm going to say I've changed, or that I feel sorry, or that I've repented- because... I don't think you care about that." You let out a breath. Your heartbeat is still racing. "But what I am going to say is, that when I left- I didn't do it to hurt you." Something builds in the back of your closing throat. "I- I had to leave to protect you. And I know it was stupid to not say anything- especially given our last conversation. But I had to go. Y-you mother-"

"Mystique."

You nod, and you feel your cheeks get wet. "She found my family. My blood one. And you know that I've been keeping tabs on them since I left- she said that she'd kill them and then go after you guys-" She tries to suppress the frown that was deepening. "I know that I should have told you but I was scared. You told me what your mother is capable of. And I couldn't just stand there so-" A weight envelopes you. A warm, protective, weight, that grounds you to the moment. You open your eyes to see the thing you've been dreaming of for the past decade finally become reality. Kurt's buried his head into your shoulder and holding onto you for dear life. For a moment you can only watch. But as reality slowly but surely seeped in, the cracks in the years-old walls finally led to you crumbling in the arms of your oldest friend. You return his hug, clutching him to make sure that this wasn't one of the most twisted dreams you've ever had.

His tail wraps around your calve. "I missed the west wind," He mumbled into your embrace. You hold him tighter. "And I yearned for the fallen angel."

#nightcrawler x reader #kurt wagner x reader

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yoshi17here · 5 months ago

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"3rd of December me in your sweater"

It’s the 3rd of December, and the air feels like ice against my skin. The winter chill, typical for this time of year, bites at my cheeks, making my breath visible in small clouds as I exhale. Hyunjin and I are walking side by side, our footsteps crunching in the thick layer of snow beneath us. It’s been years now—three, to be exact. Three years since we began dating, and yet, moments like this still feel surreal, like something out of a dream I never want to wake from.

The sun hangs low, casting a soft golden glow over the landscape. It’s one of those days where everything feels muted, like the world is wrapped in a blanket of silence. The snowflakes fall lazily from the sky, floating like tiny stars caught in a moment of stillness. It’s the perfect day for an art date—our favorite kind of date.

I glance at Hyunjin as we walk, his profile sharp against the winter landscape. His long hair, usually styled to perfection, is slightly tousled by the wind, and he looks like he just stepped out of one of his sketchbooks. He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling in the corners, the same smile that still makes my heart race after all these years.

“We should find a nice spot to sit and paint,” he says, his voice warm despite the cold. “What do you think? Maybe near the lake?”

I nod eagerly, “Yeah, that sounds perfect. I’ve been wanting to paint the snow-covered trees by the water.”

Hyunjin grins. “I knew you’d say that. You always find the most beautiful places to paint.”

I blush, looking down at the snow beneath us, unsure if I can handle the attention he always gives me. It's overwhelming in the best way. After all, I’ve never understood why he could be so sure of me, but he is. Maybe that's one of the things I love most about him—the way he makes me feel like I’m enough, just as I am.

We reach the lake, and I gasp in awe. The snow blankets everything in sight, the frozen water glistening like a sheet of glass. It’s peaceful, almost magical. Hyunjin walks ahead, leading the way to a perfect spot by the edge, where a large tree stands tall, its branches heavy with snow. He sets down his art supplies on the ground and motions for me to sit next to him.

As we settle down, I notice the cold seeping through my layers. My fingers are numb from holding my paintbrush, and my nose is pink from the wind. I shiver slightly, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to warm them.

Hyunjin notices right away. He looks at me, his expression softening. “Are you cold?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I try to brush it off, not wanting to seem like I’m complaining. “A little, but I’m fine. I don’t mind.”

His eyes narrow in that way that tells me he’s not convinced. He pauses for a moment, looking at me with a thoughtful expression, and then his gaze drops to the sweater he's wearing. It's a thick, oversized knit in a deep shade of navy blue, the kind that looks as if it could keep you warm even in the middle of a snowstorm.

“Here,” he says, his voice soft yet firm. “You need this more than I do.”

Before I can protest, he’s already pulling the sweater off, revealing a thin long-sleeve shirt underneath. The contrast is stark—he’s much more resilient in the cold, his skin seemingly impervious to the chill.

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can get a word out, he drapes the sweater over my shoulders. The warmth from the fabric envelops me instantly, and I inhale deeply, the familiar scent of him—cinnamon, coffee, and something that’s uniquely him—fills my senses.

I look up at him, blinking in surprise. “Hyunjin, you’re going to freeze,” I say, trying to give him the sweater back.

He just shakes his head, giving me a soft smile. “I’ll be fine. You look like you need it more than I do. Besides, I’m used to the cold.”

I can’t argue with that. Hyunjin’s always had a way of shrugging off discomfort, focusing on others instead of himself. It’s one of the many things I admire about him.

The sweater is too big for me, the sleeves hanging past my hands, but it feels like I’m wrapped in a hug. I snuggle into it, feeling his warmth still lingering within the fibers. My heart beats a little faster, a mix of affection and gratitude bubbling inside me.

He sits down next to me, pulling his own coat tighter around him. For a moment, we’re both silent, the only sound being the soft crunch of snowflakes landing on the ground. Hyunjin picks up his paintbrush and dips it into the water, starting to sketch the landscape. I can’t help but admire the way his hands move, the fluidity and ease with which he brings his art to life.

I turn to my own canvas, feeling the brush in my hand, though my mind is still somewhat elsewhere. I can’t stop thinking about how gentle Hyunjin is, how he always knows exactly what I need without me having to say a word. It’s like he’s always attuned to me, even in the smallest ways.

I glance at him again, his brows furrowed in concentration as he paints, his lips slightly parted. The way he looks when he’s in his element—lost in his art—makes me fall for him all over again. It’s a familiar feeling, but it still catches me off guard, every single time.

“You look beautiful today,” he says out of the blue, his voice soft and tender.

I feel my face heat up, my fingers fumbling with the paintbrush in my hand. “What? No, I—”

He chuckles, the sound light and airy, and looks at me with that knowing smile. “You always do. Even when you don’t think so.”

I don’t know how he manages to make me feel so special with just a few words, but he does. Hyunjin has this uncanny ability to make the world feel like it’s ours and ours alone.

The sky above us is starting to darken, the sun having long since dipped below the horizon. The air is even colder now, but I don’t mind. Hyunjin’s sweater is warm, and his presence beside me is all I need to feel content. We continue painting, working side by side in silence, comfortable in each other’s company. It’s moments like these that remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place—because he’s not just my boyfriend; he’s my partner, my confidant, the person I want by my side through every winter, every season, every year.

And as the snow falls around us, I realize that even if time passes and the world changes, moments like this will always feel like home.

day 2 -- day 4

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mononijikayu · 1 year ago

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monster like me.

The weight of Gojo Satoru's presence became increasingly palpable as he shifted his gaze towards the setting sun. An oppressive silence enveloped them both, one laden with the shared grief too profound for words. Their unspoken understanding needed no verbal reinforcement. Two unhappy people together had no need for words, after all.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: monster like me by morland and debrah scarlett

NOTE: i wanna give satoru and genmei a hug pls,,,,,,why are they being mean to you both??? (its me, im mean to them)

masterlist

u s and t h e m

[ Mikoto Shrine, September 2007; Kyoto Prefecture ]

ZENIN GENMEI THINKS ITS HARD TO THINK STRAIGHT THESE DAYS. Perhaps it was the unrelenting heat, or maybe the absence of a soothing summer breeze, but Genmei felt a restless impatience brewing within her. The days seemed to stretch endlessly, each moment dragging longer than the last, reminiscent of a past she thought she had managed to bury deep within her.

It felt like those days all over again—the days when Kaiko left her. Yet, there was a stark difference now, a disparity that puzzled and tormented her. Back then, the pain was sharp, a sudden severance of a bond she had known her entire life. It was a profound loss, the kind that reshapes one's entire existence in its wake. But this current feeling, this lingering ache—was it worse? How could the loss of someone she had known for merely three years weigh so heavily on her, seemingly more painful than the loss of someone who had been a fixture in her life from the beginning?

The question gnawed at her, a persistent echo in her mind that refused to be silenced. Each day without resolution brought with it a heavy sense of sorrow, mixed with a deep-seated confusion about the nature of her attachments.

Had her years with Kaiko been so deeply ingrained in her being that they became a part of her subconscious landscape, a piece of her identity that she could detach from, however painfully, because it was expected? Was the surprise of forming a new, profound connection later in life—only to lose it unexpectedly—somehow more jarring, its abrupt end more disorienting because it was unforeseen?

Genmei pondered these questions, feeling the weight of her thoughts like the oppressive summer heat. The lack of clarity frustrated her, the inability to rationalize her emotions or predict their impacts made each day a maze of memories and what-ifs. The absence of Kaiko had been a void she learned to navigate, filling it over time with new experiences, allowing it to scar over in a way that became manageable, if not entirely healed.

But this—this was different. This pain was raw, fresher; a wound reopened before it could fully heal. It questioned her understanding of attachment, of love and loss. It forced her to confront the possibility that perhaps the intensity of a connection isn't measured in the length of time it's endured but in the depth it reached in one's soul.

Maybe, in those three years, she had allowed herself to open up in ways she hadn't with Kaiko, to be vulnerable in a manner that was both terrifying and exhilarating, which now left her exposed in the aftermath.

Letting out a small, weary exhale, Zenin Genmei could do nothing but sit still. But she seemed to hate that more than anything.The stillness provided no answers, only the space to acknowledge the deep caverns of this beast of feelings. Perhaps understanding would come with time, or maybe it wouldn't. For now, Genmei had to accept the drowning in her emotions. And she cannot run away. She can never run away.

As Genmei wrestled with the tumultuous thoughts swirling through her mind, she began to realize that perhaps the profound sense of loss she felt was intricately linked to who Geto Suguru was—and, more importantly, what he had represented to her. If Satoru was the moon, Suguru was the sun. The moon cannot exist without the sun. And Genmei cannot live them both. Not even if she tried.

The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that her suffering stemmed from a deep yearning how deeply she felt about Suguru. She'd never reflected on it this deeply before. But it's all Genmei had.

Genmei could only think about how she longed for his smile—so full of warmth and life, so distinctly his. She ached to hear his voice again, tender and reassuring. It was as though he was life in itself. And she could only dream, that he would come back. Even after all he had done.

Genmei can only sigh as she leaned her head against the tree. Her lips locked in a tight line as she looked at the small echo of the setting sun. Her hands tried to reach far and wide, but even as her fingers caught the light, there was nothing that could prevent the sun from leaving.

"You're getting too quiet."

Genmei looks to her corner, the silver halo echoing from the peripheral of her sight. "Temples are usually quiet, Satoru."

"People at temples aren't this quiet."

"It's for prayers."

His blue eyes looked at her, as though searching for something she could not understand. "Then pray. I'll listen."

"You're too much of a brat, Satoru."

He snickers, leaning his body towards the small of her back. "You'd never cared before."

Genmei couldn't help but snicker quietly. Gojo Satoru had never once believed in gods his entire life. If anything nowadays, he was more like a god than anything. But Genmei thinks she'd deny him of her prayers being said out loud. Genmei had never been eager to celebrate grief with others. She'd never been good at it. The Zenin kept things to themselves. No one talked about anything.

The Mikoto thinks it should be discussed in the depths of one's lonesomeness. To let it all drift away with the wind itself. Mother had always told her that reflection heals all wounds. That was expected from her mother, she supposed. Her mother was born to reflect, to keep those emotions, those echoes of loss, in the silence of reflection. A priestess through and through. An attribute she supposed she earned from her.

Father used to say the opposite, Genmei could recall. Her father with her loud boisterous voice, his warm hands and his bright starlight eyes. One must wonder how he was ever a Zenin. He often said that humans are not islands, cannot exist as islands. Islands need life. Islands need the touch of humanity. Genmei did not know if she agreed with her father, but it was something she was mindful of, to at least learn. To understand.

Genmei had seen it all too many times with the people that are left behind each and every mission. She noted each and every emotion on their faces, as though she was remembering what they used to feel like. How they fit her face when she had learned it all those years before, on the bright gaze of a bright eyed young wonder. Her father, Kaiko, Namie and now Suguru. They taught her how, to blossom in wonder. And now they took it away too. What had been relearned, Geto Suguru took it away with him too.

When people are sad, she remembered how people crave the need to be together. They yearn to feel whole at the thought of loneliness abandoned. Genmei never needed that before. The warmth of another person's touch, the space to let the eyes dampen with those unspent tears. The cries that ring desolation. Genmei wondered if she ever allowed herself to be like that. To be able to cry again like that. To be human.

Emotions expressed, of what she learnt at one point ─ the dead took it with them. Suguru himself took what remained. All that warmth that had built the fullness of a human's home had died once more. Genmei supposed it's what helped her last in Zenin manor recently. Like all those times before, Zenin Genmei ran to her emptiness to survive.

Yet, as she sensed the subtle tilt of his head resting against her shoulder, Zenin Genmei thought that deep down ─ she was allowing herself to dig through that numbness. He was warm, Satoru always was. Even the moon he was, he was still more warmth than barren cold. Even in the grief that dug through him, he brought the coldness she felt back to life with his warmth.

She noticed a faint, inaudible sigh escaping her mouth while a dull ache began to take root in her legs. She was feeling the discomfort of the stiffness that comes with the way she sat under the grass. Nevertheless, she remained unmoving, steadfast in her conviction. He wanted to rely on her in this moment, the most humbly human of requests. He needed this, she supposed.

The day would soon draw to a close. Genmei could not remember when the last time her world stopped for such a moment of quiet. Jujutsu sorcerers rarely had the time to savor things like these. When they do, it was a treasured thing. Blue hour was upon them, gleaming like the dark deep shine of Okinawa's deep blue. Memories hit her, tugging at her heart to remember the humanity that dwelled with the love that she wanted to lock away.

Years ago, such treasured moments were stolen moments. Even from where they sat, the thought of all those times beckoned her on. To unlock the key and return to those moments. Genmei purses her lips tight as she looked onward upon the dancing grass. Laughter filled her ears, as though it was a song stuck in her head. The smiles glistened panel after panel in each fragment hidden under lock and key. Before Satoru, before Suguru, before Shoko.

Those memories haunted her. All those echoes retorted to her, gnawed at her with all it had. Just one look at the sunset beam, Genmei recalled it all. The youth where she smiled the truest, the past three years where she reclaimed that smile. The young daughter of clan Zenin blew a soundless breath in the air.

The day unfolded with such breathtaking splendor, resembling a veritable Eden unveiled before their eyes. Both of them long discarded their talk. The sudden breeze serenading their languid forms, the unyielding tree bark etching its presence upon his charcoal uniform, the slight glimmer of scarlet light dancing against the slit of her hakama.

The descending sun showered them with its farewell caress, a poignant parting gesture. Not all days boasted such perfection, nor did they all weigh as heavily on the heart as this. All death, all tragedy, all lost of youth, its worth mourning. Even beautiful skies must be mourned.

The heron heralded its imminent arrival, casting the benevolent embrace of the ethereal blue hour that gradually consumed the fiery vestiges of the scarlet sky. On an ordinary day, Zenin Genmei might have lamented her perceived lack of productivity. Even then, she can't blame Satoru for it.

The gods demanded honesty and clarity from their priestest. Yet, she knew she would not be able to give that to the gods. Not when Suguru's words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. His smile so genuine as he spoke of the world he dreamed of. The one where the world burns and his conviction would remain steadfast in the joy it would bring him.

Genmei thinks it was better to say nothing to Satoru.

He wouldn't be able to handle all of it, she thinks.

He'd never be able to understand how Suguru smiled.

‘It repeats over and over, the song of tragedy rhymes again,’ Genmei contemplates with an air of exasperation as if a disconcerting sensation tempts her away for a brief dalliance with nicotine. The key was unlocked, she was sure.

The throes of her humanity fighting its way to come alive. She yearns for the noxious tendrils of smoke to vacate her lungs, as if they held the power to purge her thoughts, her endless sufferings. ‘With all that I could have seen and have not allowed myself to say…’

Her solitary recourse lies in the graceful inclination of her head, a poignant gesture born of inner turmoil as she contemplates the disheartening notion of history unfurling itself once more. The weight of self-reproach deepens as she revisits the keenly missed telltale signs, those subtle cues that her discerning eye had once so deftly unveiled.

Her lilac eyes, now narrowed, bear the heavy burden of accumulated recollections spanning years, all converging inexorably to that austere conclusion—the same deluge of denouement. It was bound to happen all over again. She warned them. Souls that break can never return. Yet they did not listen to her. And they repeated the same mistake. And all is left is tragedy.

Yet, despite the overwhelming emotions that surge within her, the most she can muster is a profound, resigned sigh.

With a leisurely closure of her eyes, she wished for reprieve. The young woman yearns to erase her thoughts. Though, that in itself may be tedious work. Genmei had tried to forget. Tried to fight the box that had burst from within her. But the memories come rushing back one way or another. Genmei mourns, then she cries. Then she marches forward and then loses to fate. The cycle repeats. The worst of it she supposed is to remember in the quiet.

One that had plagues her as she sits to meditate. The words so sweet from the mouth of someone she loved, visiting her like a curse that had been willed to haunt her. Tilting her head slightly downward, she permits the weight of her contemplations to rest on Satoru. As he leans into her, he seems content to remain motionless. To lose any sense to the mundane.

The warmth shared between them feels like fire, intensified by the uneven caress of the vanishing sun. Infinity appears to exist only in the obscurity behind his dark glasses. Genmei remains uncertain about his countenance to reality, yet she cannot help but imagine that their faces had dried against a torrent of mournful tears. Not that Genmei could even blamed him. She would have gone mad with all of it, too. Well, she has.

When he sought her out, he did so without uttering a single word. Veiled in impenetrable silence behind the obsidian lenses of his dark shades, he extended a hand and gently beckoned her away from her solitary stance. He stole her away from her own bitterness, so they may sit together, bitter.

Their departure from the temple was a measured procession, their hearts coursing with the blood of shared experiences, and their bond weighed heavy with the burden of mutual silence. In time, they found solace beneath the same trees where joyful memories had once danced in her mind like fragments of a shattered mosaic.

Genmei ponders whether he had nearly forgotten how to draw breath. Yet, she could scarcely hold it against him, for the shock of such a profound loss was an expectation that accompanied it.

Youthful love is the most grotesque loss, Genmei knew from the start. When one thinks of curses, love is the worst. Much more with the denial that it is lost forever. Most cases Genmei found that the cases she deals with comes from the madness of love becoming the curse that people bear.

Satoru's not the type to unleash such malice upon the world, she knew that at the very least. But it did not stop the hurt, nor will it ever stop it from breaking his heart. To be separated from the person he held dearest, the one who tethered him to humanity. In the solitude of divinity, kamis often found themselves lonely, far too easily. You never get use to it. Genmei was certain to speak from experience. She hasn't let go after all this time, either.

Nevertheless, they were aware that they could never truly attain humanity. Yet, in the union of Satoru and Suguru, there existed the closest semblance of a kami becoming fully human. Genmei's head lowered gently as she contemplated the glistening grass underfoot. She reminisced about the gentle smile that had once graced humanity within the soul of Suguru Geto, now replaced by an overwhelming sense of grief for what might have been.

‘Was I like this back then, with Kaiko? With Namie? With my father?’ she pondered silently, opening her eyes to witness a small bird taking flight. Suppressing a quiet laugh with a bite of her lip, she added, ‘I don't remember.’

‘No,’ a voice whispered back to her, almost mockingly. ‘You do remember, and now you feel it once more, clawing at you. But you realize it, don't you? How worse it is now? How you let yourself break like the weakling you are. You loved that boy too much and now it burns you whole.'

Her lips tightened against her jaw. ‘Silence.’

The voice chuckled but refrained from further conversation. She didn't anticipate it would speak further.

At that moment, the young woman found herself immersed in the world around them, the clouds waning as the sun continued its haunting descent beyond the horizon. Lost in her thoughts once more, the young woman with lilac eyes inwardly cursed the voice in her head as youth flooded in like an unstoppable tide.

Genmei's thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, brimming with memories, regrets, and unspoken sentiments, all of which remained tightly sealed, many of them never to be revealed, not even on her final day. Yet, perhaps one day, some of those words would find their way into the world.

As the light faded, she discreetly stole a glimpse of Satoru, his face still concealed behind those dark glasses. She wondered about the world he perceived and the emotions he harbored. However, there was no need to inquire; their connection transcended mere words. She sensed the tempest of emotions raging within him—a storm of pain, anger, and sorrow.

"I wish I could alleviate your pain." she murmured, her words barely more than a breath of air. She meant those words. That she was certain. Yet she knew he heard her. There was no necessity for a response; her mere presence sufficed for now. "To make it easier—"

"You can't." Satoru responded nonchalantly, maintaining his cheerful facade. Her lips pursed into a line, and she could only sigh. "Not even if you tried."

For a moment, Genmei closed her eyes once again, allowing the world's sounds and sensations to wash over her. She felt Satoru's warmth against her, a small source of comfort amid the overwhelming grief. Memories of happier times with him flashed before her—moments of shared laughter, dreams, and quiet intimacy, a bittersweet montage.

"I won't let you face this alone," Genmei whispered in her words a solemn pledge to the man beside her. She had confronted her demons and regrets in the past, and now she was determined to help him confront him. They were two souls intertwined in a shared history and a profound understanding.

He snickered, almost haughtily.

He looks at her, almost mockingly.

Genmei's used to it, after all this time.

"Promises being met? Rare these days, Genmei - senpai." He always liked to bait her into mockery with the word 'senpai'. Suguru had always scolded him for that. But Genmei knew she did not mind. She never truly did. "Don't promise something you can't fulfill."

"Do you doubt me, Satoru?"

"You've given me no reason to trust you right now." Oh. He knows. He felt him here, his residuals. Genmei bit her lower lip. Of course he did. He is the honoured one, after all.

Lilac against blue. "No, I have not."

The world beyond their cocoon of grief carried on, oblivious to their suffering. Birds continued their evening serenades, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above. It was as though nature itself sought to offer solace, reminding them that life persisted, even in the face of loss.

At that moment, beneath the darkening sky, Genmei and Satoru became acutely aware of the world's indifference to their pain. It presented a stark contrast to the intensity of their emotions as if the universe had turned a blind eye to their heartache, a nearly jarring dissonance.

Yet, as night deepened and the stars gleamed brilliantly, a sense of unity with the cosmos began to seep into their souls. It was a silent recognition that their grief, however profound, was just one thread in the vast tapestry of existence. They were but specks in the grand scheme of things, yet their pain was real and valid.

Genmei glanced at Satoru, still shrouded in darkness, his presence a constant reassurance. Despite the void that had taken root in their hearts, they were not truly alone. The world might not pause for their sorrow, but it continued to offer its beauty and wonder, and they could choose to find solace in that. Genmei turned her gaze away, focusing on the darkening sky.

"Genmei," he called to her again, unmoving. He dropped the honorifics, though he had never needed to use them. Genmei sensed the eerie strength in his tone.

Deep within Genmei, one kami recognized another—the Honored One.

The voice within Genmei snickered, almost excited.

All of it had made her head hurt more than anything else.

"What is it, Satoru?"

"Promise me.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Don't ever leave me."

Four words reverberated, four words etched in their shared history. Genmei would have laughed, had this been years ago when she was younger and more brash, overflowing with confidence and unburdened by the weight of unmade choices and untraveled paths. But now, older and wiser, she understood the significance of those four words, as meaningful as the three or even one.

Satoru was not offering her a choice; it was a command, and Genmei's words constituted a promise—an island reaching out to another, a connection of lonely souls. Zenin Genmei closed her eyes, her fingertips reaching toward the warmth of his hand.

Gojo Satoru made no move to stop her. Infinity once again ceased to exist between them as their smallest fingers intertwined in a solemn pledge, like children binding themselves to a sacred vow.

"I swear it," Genmei whispered to him, as his grip tightened around her finger. "Monsters have to stick together."

He laughs at her words. "Monsters, huh?"

Her eyes softened. "Well, aren't we?"

"Hm, I guess we both are."

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merxcywritesthings · 5 months ago

Note

Can I make a platonic request of Charlie with a human reader that was sent to hell without dying motivating and encouraging her to keep following her dreams no matter what anyone says or what happens when she is down?

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩’𝔰 ℌ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫

A/N: You absolutely can!! I love my girl Charlie—she reminds me of Emma from TPN! Anyways, I hope you don’t mind me putting in a dream that the reader has, I wasn’t sure what to do since you hadn’t specified (but it’s trouble, don’t worry!)

Word Count: 1.1k

TW: None really, unless you count being in Hell?

Reader is gender neutral!

The world around you was a kaleidoscope of crimson and shadow, an eerie dance of flame and darkness. You never imagined you’d end up here—Hell—without so much as dying. There was no dramatic accident, no tragic ending to your life. One moment, you were walking home, and the next, the ground beneath you gave way to this bizarre, otherworldly landscape. Confusion quickly gave way to fear, and fear to despair. You felt lost, utterly and completely. Until she showed up.

♡⋅˚₊‧ ୨☀️୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅♡

Charlie Morningstar was unlike anyone you had ever met, in any realm of existence. Her cheerful demeanor stood in stark contrast to the grim surroundings, as if she refused to let Hell itself dim her light. Her golden hair practically glowed, and her warm smile carried a sense of hope that felt out of place—yet so welcome—in this desolate place. She found you huddled near a crumbling wall, knees pulled to your chest, staring into the void. Instead of walking past like so many others, she sat beside you, her presence both comforting and curious.

“Hi there,” she said, her voice as soothing as a lullaby. “Rough day?”

You laughed bitterly, wiping at your tear-streaked face. “You could say that. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

Charlie tilted her head, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “Not supposed to be in Hell? That’s... unusual.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered. “One second, I’m walking home from work. The next, I’m here. I don’t even know why.”

“Well,” she said, her smile returning, “we’ll figure it out. But for now, how about we get you somewhere safe?”

You hesitated. You didn’t know her, didn’t know if you could trust her. But something about her felt genuine, like she truly cared. Reluctantly, you nodded, and she helped you to your feet. From that moment on, your life—or whatever this existence was—began to change.

Charlie brought you to the Hazbin Hotel, her grand but somewhat shabby project to rehabilitate sinners and give them a chance at redemption. You weren’t a sinner, but you still felt out of place. The hotel was a strange haven in this chaotic realm, filled with all manner of colorful and bizarre characters. At first, you kept to yourself, unsure of your place in this odd community. But Charlie wouldn’t let you retreat into your shell.

She had a way of drawing you out, her enthusiasm infectious. She’d invite you to join her in decorating the lobby, brainstorming ideas for the hotel, or simply talking over cups of tea. She wanted to know everything about you—your dreams, your passions, your fears. It was disarming, how much she cared.

♡⋅˚₊‧ ୨☀️୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅♡

One evening, as the two of you sat on the hotel’s rooftop, looking out over the sprawling chaos of Hell, you finally opened up. “I used to have dreams,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Big ones. I wanted to be an artist, to create something that would inspire people. But... it felt like the world was against me. No one believed in me, and eventually, I stopped believing in myself.”

Charlie’s expression softened, her crimson eyes filled with understanding. “That sounds really hard. But you know what? Dreams don’t die just because others can’t see them. They’re still inside you, waiting for you to pick them back up.”

You looked at her, skeptical. “Easy for you to say. You’re a princess. You’ve probably never had people tell you you’re not good enough.”

She laughed, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “Oh, you’d be surprised. My whole life, people have doubted me. They think my dream of rehabilitating sinners is ridiculous, that it’ll never work. But I keep going because I believe it’s worth it. And I believe you’re worth it too.”

Her words struck a chord deep within you. For so long, you’d let the voices of doubt drown out your own. But here was Charlie, in the literal depths of Hell, refusing to give up on her vision. If she could keep fighting for her dreams, maybe you could too.

From that night on, Charlie became your biggest cheerleader. She encouraged you to pick up a pencil again, to let your creativity flow. At first, it was just doodles, small sketches on scraps of paper. But as the days turned into weeks, you began to find your rhythm again. The hotel’s walls soon became adorned with your art, transforming the space into a gallery of hope and beauty. The other residents took notice, and for the first time in a long time, you felt seen.

Whenever doubt crept back in, Charlie was there to chase it away. “Your art is incredible,” she’d say, her enthusiasm unwavering. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And don’t stop just because it’s hard. The best things in life usually are.”

Her belief in you became a lifeline, pulling you out of the darkness you’d been drowning in. Slowly but surely, you began to believe in yourself again. And in turn, you found ways to support Charlie in her mission. You designed posters and banners for the hotel, turning it into a place that truly felt welcoming. Together, you created something that stood as a beacon of hope in a realm defined by despair.

♡⋅˚₊‧ ୨☀️୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅♡

One day, as you worked on a mural in the lobby, Charlie approached you, her usual cheerful energy tempered by something more serious. “You know,” she began, “you’re not just helping me with the hotel. You’re inspiring everyone here. Your art, your determination—it’s contagious. You’re making a difference.”

Her words brought tears to your eyes. For so long, you’d felt like your dreams didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter. But here, in the unlikeliest of places, you’d found purpose and belonging. And it was all thanks to Charlie.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice trembling. “For everything. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

She smiled, her eyes shining with warmth. “You’d be right where you are now. Because the strength you needed was always inside you. I just helped you see it.”

In that moment, you realized just how much Charlie had given you. Not just a place to stay, but a reason to keep going. A reminder that even in the darkest of places, there’s still light to be found. And as you looked at her, you made a silent vow to never let that light go out—not in her, and not in yourself.

Hell might have been the last place you expected to find yourself, but it turned out to be the first place where you truly found yourself. And with Charlie by your side, you knew you could face anything. Together, you were unstoppable—two dreamers refusing to let the world, or Hell itself, stand in their way.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢! 🍎

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦 @𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑦-𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑠

#hazbin hotel x reader #plantonic #charlie morningstar #charlie morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 8 months ago

Note

Ok, hi! I absolutely ADORE and LOVE all of your writing, and I know you're not going to continue Green Eyed World, but I just wanted to know what you had planned for the ending so my anxious ass can finally rest in peace. Would Remy leave his universe to be with the reader? Would they live together happily ever-after or would it be bittersweet? I'm just so curious and I know you're the only person who can answer that ^^'. Anyways, I hope you're doing well <3

Okay so! I’m gonna give you my favourite bits that I wrote for the last few chapters.

Keep in mind none of this has been edited ❤️

Chapter 10:

Remyknocks gently on your door, the familiar sound a small comfort. “Hey,” he calls out when

you open it. “I brought you that sandwich I promised you. Thought you might be hungry after everything.”

You smile, a touch of your usual banter returning despite the emotional toll of the day. “You actually made it? I’m impressed.”

Remy chuckles, stepping inside and holding out the sandwich. “Well, I figured it was the least I could do. Plus, I didn’t want you accusing me of forgetting again.”

You take the sandwich gratefully and start to unwrap it. As you both settle into a light-hearted conversation, the mood lightens. The joking and laughter momentarily distract you from the Heaviness you’ve been feeling.

Eventually, the banter dies down, and a more serious tone fills the room. You take a deep breath, feeling a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability. “Remy, can I ask you a favor?”

He looks at you with genuine concern. “Anything. What’s up?”

You hesitate, struggling to find the right words. “After today... I need to feel something real. Something safe. I know this might sound strange, but... could you stay with me tonight?”

Remy’s expression softens as he processes your request. He closes the door behind him and moves towards the chair by your desk, pulling off his boots. “Sure,” he says, his voice reassuring.

“Just give me a sec.”

He slips into bed beside you, pulling the covers back and settling in behind you. For a moment, he just holds you, hesitating as if searching for the right words.

Finally, he wraps his arms around you, his warmth and presence a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves. “You did amazing today,” he whispers, his voice low and sincere. “I’m so proud of you.”

You close your eyes, letting his embrace envelop you. The comfort of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his soft words provide a sense of security you desperately need.

You shift closer, seeking solace in his arms, letting go of the day’s stresses as you drift into a more peaceful state.

In the quiet of the night, you find a semblance of peace, knowing that despite everything, you’re

not alone.

As you lie there wrapped in Remy's embrace, a profound realization begins to settle over you.

Amidst the chaos, the uncertainty, and the emotional turmoil of the past few days, one thing stands out with absolute clarity. In the midst of all the confusion, there’s an undeniable truth: your love for him is real.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his arms, and the sincerity in his voice when he whispered how proud he was—these things ground you. They remind you that amidst everything else, this feeling you have for him is genuine and unwavering.

You let the sensation of his closeness wash over you, appreciating the tangible reality of his presence. It’s a stark contrast to the abstract challenges you’re facing. As you nestle deeper into his embrace, you hold onto this truth, letting it be a beacon of stability in the ever-shifting landscape of your life.

With each breath, you reaffirm this feeling, understanding that no matter what happens, this love is a constant, something solid and real. It becomes a source of strength, something to hold onto when everything else feels uncertain. In the quiet of the night, you allow yourself to fully embrace this truth, finding comfort and solace in the knowledge that this love, at least, is something real in a world full of chaos.

As you lie in Remy's arms, the weight of the day's events begins to lift, and a deep sense of calm washes over you. Gently, you reach for his hand, which rests across your stomach, and bring it up to your mouth. You press a soft, tender kiss to the back of his hand, letting it linger for a moment before holding it against your chest.

Remy's hand is warm against your skin, a comforting presence that soothes your racing thoughts. You feel him respond with a lazy, affectionate kiss to the back of your head, his arms tightening around you in a protective embrace.

The simple gesture, the closeness, and the warmth create a cocoon of safety that you haven’t felt in a long time. As you drift into a peaceful sleep, the first you've experienced since the chaos with Thanos, you hold onto the tranquility of the moment. Remy’s presence, the gentle pressure of his hand, and the steady rhythm of his breathing provide a sense of security and comfort.

In this serene embrace, you finally let go of the stress and fear that have been your constant companions, finding solace in the knowledge that, at least for tonight, you’re not alone.

The night drifts on peacefully, each breath you take syncing with Remy's, your bodies nestled together as if they were made to fit just so. The usual barrage of thoughts and anxieties that plague your mind every night is mercifully quiet, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against your back.

You stir slightly, still half-asleep, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. In the darkness, his presence feels even more profound, like an anchor grounding you to something real, something tangible in a world that often feels like it's slipping through your fingers. Your hand still grips his, pressed to your chest, as if holding on to this moment could make it last forever.

Remy shifts behind you, and you feel his breath warm against your neck as he whispers your name, so softly you’re not sure if you heard it or if it was a dream. You can tell he's still awake, his hold on you tightening just a bit, as if he needs the reassurance that you're really there with him, just as much as you need it from him.

"Y' know," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with sleep, "you ain’t gotta do any of this alone."

His words are gentle, filled with an understanding that cuts through the night, touching something deep within you.

You don’t reply, partly because you’re too tired, and partly because you know he’s right. Instead, you just press yourself closer to him, letting the silence speak for you. Remy’s hand moves from r chest to rest protectively around your waist, and you let yourself sink further into his embrace, feeling more at peace than you have in years. As the minutes stretch into hours, sleep pulls you both deeper into its embrace. The world outside fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in a moment that feels both fleeting and eternal.

Chapter 11:

You stood on the battlefield, the students gathered behind you, ready to fight at a moment's notice. The X-Men stood on guard, a formidable wall of defense, with Remy right by your side.

His presence was more than comforting; it was the only thing grounding you in this moment of uncertainty.

Before you, Kang stood alone. His purple jacket flowed with the wind, hands clasped behind his back, a serene and confident smile playing on his lips.

"I thought he would’ve brought an army," Logan growled, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the solitary figure.

You didn’t break your gaze from Kang, your voice hardening with disgust. "Kang doesn't need an army," you replied, bitterness seeping into your tone. "He has me. It’s always been me."

Beside you, Remy reached out and took your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours. The warmth of his touch contrasted with the cold dread creeping up your spine. When you turned to meet his gaze, his eyes were intense, filled with emotions that words could never convey in such a fleeting moment. His love, his fear, his desperation—all of it was there in the way he looked at you.

"I know," you murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, though the words were as much for you as they were for him.

You reluctantly let go, stepping forward to meet Kang in the middle of the field. His smile widened, pleased at your approach. "I didn’t expect such a large welcoming," he remarked, his tone casual, almost mocking. Though he appeared unassuming, you knew better than to underestimate him. You could feel his power, a dark force that seemed to resonate with something deep within you.

"They’re ready to blast you off this field," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside you.

Kang spread his arms wide, inviting the challenge. "Let them," he replied smoothly, pausing as he studied you. "But you won’t."

"What do you want?" you demanded quietly, the words laced with suspicion. "It's been you, hasn't it? Those dreams I've been having... you've been planting them."

Kang shook his head slightly, a knowing smile on his lips. "They’re not dreams. They’re memories. Your memories. Of a future you haven’t yet lived."

A frown creased your brow. "How can they be memories when there’s only one of me?"

He wagged a finger at you, teasingly cryptic. "Yes, this is true. But some things must remain close to my chest," he whispered, stepping closer until his face was inches from yours. "Those memories happen. I lay waste to every single person in this school. Every child, every mutant, every human." His gaze drifted over your shoulder, settling on Remy with a dark, deliberate intent. "Your boyfriend will be the last to go. That one, I'll make you watch. Unless..."

He took a step back, giving you a choice. "You come with me."

Your refusal was instant. "No."

Kang smiled, almost as if he expected your answer. "I don’t expect an answer right now. But I’ll be back. This time tomorrow, I’ll be back to get you."

"You sound convinced that I’ll come," you said, your voice firm despite the unease gnawing at you.

"Twenty-four hours is all I need for you to make up your mind," he said, his smile never faltering.

"And you will come."

Chapter 12:

The room was warm, the faint scent of your body wash lingering in the air as you sat on the edge of your bed, one leg propped up on a chair, your fingers working lotion into your skin. Your hair was still damp from the shower, and you were dressed in a pair of comfortable sports shorts and one of Remy’s shirts that hung loosely on you. The fabric carried his scent, wrapping you in a sense of comfort even as your thoughts swirled with everything that had happened earlier.

The door creaked open, and Remy stepped inside. He looked tense, his brow furrowed, and you could see the worry etched into every line of his face. His grey jumper clung to his frame, making him look both effortlessly casual and heartbreakingly handsome. You could tell from the set of his jaw that he was ready to argue, and you braced yourself for what was coming.

"You can't go with him," Remy started, his voice low but insistent. "We’ll fight this, together. You don’t have to—"

You cut him off with a small smile, looking up from your task. "You look really good in that," you said, nodding toward his jumper.

For a moment, he looked taken aback, as if your response was the last thing he expected. His eyes flickered with confusion before they softened, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

You went back to moisturizing your legs, the simple act grounding you in the midst of the chaos swirling around you both.

"Don’t do this," he continued, his tone pleading now. "You’re talkin’ like you’re already gone. We can fight him, chérie. Together. We’ve fought worse."

You paused, your hands stilling as you considered his words. Then, without looking up, you spoke, your voice calm, almost serene. "I love you," you said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Really, I do. I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long, but there always seems to be chaos. It never feels like the right time."

You closed the lid of the lotion container and leaned back in your chair, your gaze finally lifting to meet his. "This just proves there never is a good time, doesn’t it?" you added with a soft, almost bittersweet smile.

For a moment, Remy just stared at you, the words hanging in the air between you. He seemed stunned, as if he didn’t quite know how to process what you’d just said. Then, slowly, he crouched down in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. His thumbs began to trace gentle circles into your skin, the warmth of his touch soothing yet filled with an undercurrent of desperation.

"Why now?" he asked quietly, his voice laced with a sadness that tugged at your heart. "Why tell me now when you’re thinkin’ ‘bout goin’? Don’t do this to me, chère. Don’t make me watch you walk away."

You reached out, brushing a hand through his hair, your fingers lingering on his cheek. "Because I don’t want to regret not telling you," you admitted, your voice softening as you looked into his eyes. "I’ve been afraid, Remy. Afraid of what this all means, of what could happen. But I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to leave without you knowing how much you mean to me."

His eyes shimmered with emotion as he leaned into your touch, his breath catching in his throat. "I’ve known, chérie," he murmured, his voice thick. "I’ve always known. But you ain’t leavin’. I ain’t lettin’ you go. We’ll figure this out, just stay with me."

You could see the raw vulnerability in his gaze, the way he was holding on to hope, to you, with everything he had. It broke something inside you, seeing him like this, and yet it made you love him even more.

"I want to stay," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his lips. "But I have to do what’s right. And right now, what’s right feels impossible."

He shook his head, his grip on your thighs tightening as if he could physically hold you here, keep you safe by sheer will alone. "There’s always a way," he insisted, his voice trembling slightly. "We’ve always found a way before, and we’ll find one now. Please, chérie. I can’t lose you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, leaning down to press your forehead against his. "You won’t lose me," you promised, though you knew the words might be hollow. "I’ll come back to you, I swear."

Remy closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he tried to believe you, tried to hold on to the sliver of hope that your words offered. His hands slid up to your waist, pulling you closer as if he could fuse you to him, keep you anchored in this moment.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "So much it scares me."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as he held you. In that embrace, time seemed to stand still, the looming threat of tomorrow momentarily forgotten in the warmth of his arms.

But even as you held each other, the weight of what was to come lingered, a shadow that neither of you could fully shake.

Remy’s hands remained on your thighs, his thumbs still gently tracing circles as he held your gaze, searching for something in your eyes. His voice was soft, almost fragile, as he asked, "Do you remember what you told me that night in the cabin? When Wade, Logan, and Vanessa were there, and I was beggin’ you to leave… do you remember what you said?"

You felt your throat tighten, the memory of that night flooding back with vivid clarity. The desperation in his voice, the way he had pleaded with you to walk away, to save yourself from the chaos that surrounded you both. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you nodded slowly, the words tumbling out of you in a whisper, "In every universe, I’ll find you."

His breath hitched, and before you could say anything more, Remy surged forward, capturing your lips in a deep, desperate kiss. It was filled with all the emotions he couldn’t put into words—fear, love, longing, and the overwhelming need to hold on to you, to keep you with him.

You returned the kiss just as fervently, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if that could somehow make the world outside disappear. His lips moved against yours, speaking a silent plea, a desperate attempt to make you stay, to make you see that he couldn’t bear to lose you.

"Please," he murmured against your lips, his voice trembling with emotion. "Please don’t leave me. I can’t… I can’t do this without you."

Chapter 13:

Kangaroo control over you was absolute, but he underestimated the power of your will and the strength of your love for Remy. Even as you endured the trials he set before you, you remained determined to find a way to return to him. The hope that one day you would be reunited, that the love you shared would be a beacon through the darkness, was your guiding light.

Weeks turned into months as Kang tightened his grip on you, gradually molding you into the weapon he needed to prune timelines and eliminate events that didn't align with his grand vision. The sterile, emotionless halls of his stronghold became your world, the metallic coldness seeping into your bones as time wore on. You were no longer just you; you were a tool, a means to an end in Kang's relentless pursuit of power and control over the multiverse.

At first, you resisted with everything you had. Each time Kang commanded you to alter a timeline or erase a pivotal event, you would argue, plead, or defy him. You challenged him with questions—what right did he have to dictate the course of countless lives, to snuff out entire realities just because they didn’t fit his plans? Your defiance was met with cold indifference or, worse, twisted amusement. Kang would listen to your protests with a slight, condescending smile, as if your resistance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a fleeting rebellion that he knew he could crush.

And crush it he did.

Kang was patient, methodical. He knew that breaking you wouldn’t happen overnight, so he chipped away at your resolve, bit by bit. He exposed you to the horrors of unchecked timelines, showing you visions of chaotic futures where unchecked power led to devastation, where the worlds you once knew lay in ruins. He presented these visions as proof of his necessity, as if the atrocities he forced you to commit were somehow justified in the name of a greater good.

The first few times you were forced to prune a timeline, the guilt was unbearable. You would stand on the precipice of a world, staring at the people who lived there, the moments they cherished, and the futures they hoped for. You would see yourself in them—ordinary beings trying to find their place in the universe—and you would feel the weight of what you were about to do. Kang’s cold voice would echo in your mind, urging you to complete the task, to erase these lives as if they were nothing more than glitches in his grand design.

The act of pruning was excruciating, a deep violation of everything you once believed in. You would watch as entire timelines—whole realities full of people, hopes, dreams, and histories— were reduced to nothingness. The first time you pruned a timeline, you collapsed afterward, the enormity of what you had done crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You wept for those lives, for the universes that would never be, and for the person you once were, who would have fought to the death before allowing such an atrocity.

But Kang knew how to erode that person away

Chapter 14:

Remy’s voice, soft and laced with concern, pulls you back to the present. “You hungry? Thirsty? Anything you need?” His question is tentative, like he’s trying to find some way to make you comfortable again, to bring you back to this reality where you’re safe, home, and with the people who care about you.

You look at him, then at the rest of your friends standing around you, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope, worry, and love. You smile softly, trying to reassure them, even as your emotions churn inside you. “I just… I just need a minute,” you say, your voice steady but quiet.

Without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk toward the living room. The familiar space feels both comforting and alien, filled with memories of a life you’ve been disconnected from for so long. You sink down onto the couch, your hands gripping the fabric as if anchoring yourself to something real, something that won’t slip away.

Logan appears in the doorway, his presence a steadying force. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just walks in and takes a seat beside you, giving you the space you need to gather your thoughts. The silence between you is comfortable, a reminder that you don’t always have to fill the void with words.

“It’s okay to take your time with all this,” Logan finally says, his voice low and rough, but gentle.

He looks at you, his expression understanding, patient. “Ain’t no rush to figure it all out. You’ve been through hell.”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together as if trying to warm them. “I don’t feel like I belong here anymore,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “Not after everything I’ve done. I don’t even know where to start.”

Logan watches you carefully, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s always been able to see through the bullshit, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “You belong here, kid,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “You think you’re the only one carryin’ around guilt? You think we haven’t all done things we regret?”

You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, stopping you. “Let me finish,” he insists, his voice softening. “When you were gone, it messed Remy up. The first few months… hell, the first six months, he wouldn’t leave the house. He barely left your room. He was holdin’ on by a thread, waitin’ for you to come back.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, the weight of them sinking in as you picture Remy, alone, refusing to leave the space where he felt closest to you. “Then it changed,” Logan continues. “He started avoidin’ the house altogether, doin’ anything to keep busy, to keep his mind off the fact that you weren’t here. But even then… even when he started actin’ normal again, he still wasn’t the same. He was still missin’ you, every day.”

You bite your lip, the guilt gnawing at you. “But it’s not just him,” Logan adds. “Wade and Vanessa—they moved in here. Gave up their apartment. They didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want him to fall apart without you. They’ve all been waitin’ for you to come back, hopin’ for it. Those aren’t the actions of people who don’t have your back. They’re with you, through thick and thin, no matter what.”

You nod, swallowing hard as tears prick at your eyes. The weight of their love, their loyalty, presses down on you, making it harder to breathe. You’ve been so focused on your own guilt, your own pain, that you didn’t realize how much your absence affected them—how much they’ve been hurting too.

Logan leans back, his gaze still fixed on you. “Look, you’ve been through a lot. We all have. But that doesn’t mean you don’t belong here. This is your home. We’re your family. And if you’re feelin’ lost, we’ll help you find your way back. But you gotta let us in. Don’t push us away because you’re scared of what you’ve done. We’ve all got blood on our hands, but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a chance to make things right.”

You wipe at your eyes, nodding slowly. “I don’t know how to make it right, Logan,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Logan says simply. “One step at a time. But don’t shut yourself off from us. You’re not alone anymore.”

His words sink in, and for the first time since you walked through that door, you feel a glimmer of hope, a tiny spark that maybe, just maybe, you can start to heal. You’ve been through hell, but you’ve also found your way back to the people who matter most. And they’re willing to stand by you, no matter what.

As you and Remy make your way down the hallway to your bedroom, the house feels strangely familiar yet different, like you’re seeing it through the eyes of a stranger. Everything seems both the same and completely new, as if you’ve been gone longer than just a year. The walls hold memories, echoes of conversations and laughter, but now they seem quieter, waiting for you to fill them with life again.

When you reach your bedroom door, Remy hesitates for a moment, glancing at you before opening it. The room is just as you remember it—your things exactly where you left them, your bed neatly made. But there’s something different about it now, something that makes your chest tighten with emotion.

“I’ve been sleeping here,” Remy says quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “But I’ll clean it up for you before tonight. I know you probably want some space.”

You look at him, seeing the weariness in his eyes, the weight of everything he’s been carrying since you left. He’s trying to give you the room you might need, to be respectful of whatever boundaries you might have now. But that’s not what you want. Not at all.

A small, genuine smile forms on your lips as you shake your head. “You don’t need to clean anything up, Remy. You can stay in here as long as you want.” Your words are soft, almost tentative, but the meaning behind them is clear. You’re asking him to stay with you, a silent plea that you hope he understands.

Remy’s eyes widen just a bit, a flicker of surprise passing through them before he nods, the corners of his mouth lifting in a gentle, almost relieved smile. He knows what you’re asking, and he’s not going to make you ask twice.

You move over to your wardrobe, intending to grab some clothes to change into. As you rummage through the hangers, your fingers brush against something soft and familiar. You pull it out and see your old SHIELD jumper, the one you haven’t worn in years. It brings a wave of nostalgia, memories of a time when things were simpler, when the world made a little more sense.

For a moment, you just stand there, holding the jumper in your hands, your mind racing with everything that’s happened since you last wore it. The pain, the loss, the unimaginable choices you had to make. But also the love, the connections that have brought you back here, to this very moment.

You close the wardrobe, holding the jumper close for a second before setting it aside with the clothes you’ve chosen. “I need a shower,” you say, your voice steady but laced with the weight of everything you’ve been through.

Remy watches you closely, his eyes filled with an intensity that makes your heart ache. He doesn’t move, just stands there, as if he’s trying to memorize this moment, trying to etch it into his memory.

“I’ve missed you,” he finally says, his voice low, almost reverent.

Those three simple words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you feel the tears welling up again. You’ve missed him too—missed everything about him. The way he looks at you, the way he’s always there, quietly offering support and love without asking for anything in return.

You nod, swallowing hard as you meet his gaze. “I’ve missed you too, Remy,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but you know he hears it. He always hears you.

There’s a silence that stretches between you, filled with all the things that don’t need to be said.

You’re both here, you’re both alive, and that’s what matters. The rest—the healing, the rebuilding—will come in time.

Finally, you turn towards the bathroom, your hand brushing against his arm as you pass by him, a silent promise that you’ll be back, that you’re not going anywhere. As you close the door behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, trying to steady yourself as you prepare to face the reality of everything that’s happened.

The water runs warm as you step into the shower, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you let yourself relax, if only for a few moments. The water washes away the grime, the tension, the pain, leaving you feeling a little lighter, a little more like yourself.

But even as you try to find peace in the simple act of washing away the past, you can’t help but think about Remy, just on the other side of the door. Waiting. Ready to pick up the pieces with you, no matter how broken they are.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you can find your way back to each other. One step at a time.

Remy paces the hallway outside the bathroom, his fingers drumming anxiously against his thighs as he listens to the muffled sounds coming from behind the closed door. The running water of the shower mixes with the quiet sobs, a stark reminder of all that’s been lost and all that’s been endured. He wants nothing more than to burst in there, to hold you and offer whatever comfort he can. But he knows, deep down, that you need space right now. You’ll come to him when you’re ready.

Chapter 15:

The sun dips below the horizon, the first stars begin to twinkle in the sky. The moment is serene, filled with a sense of calm that you all have longed for.

As the sky deepens into twilight, the atmosphere on the balcony shifts to one of quiet reflection.

Remy finishes his cigarette, tossing the butt into the ashtray with a soft clink. He stretches out his legs, sitting closer to you and Vanessa, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor.

Vanessa, always perceptive, reaches out and places a hand on your arm. “It’s good to see you smiling again,” she says, her voice gentle. “We’ve all missed you.”

You smile at her, grateful for her support. “I’ve missed you all too,” you admit, your voice soft but filled with sincerity. “And I appreciate you being here, through everything.”

Wade, ever the source of levity, interjects with a playful grin. “So, what’s next on the agenda? Do we get to pick out some new adventures, or are we just going to sit around and enjoy the view?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Maybe we’ll just focus on making sure this place stays as peaceful as it is now,” he suggests, his tone a mix of practicality and hope.

The conversation drifts to lighter topics, the camaraderie between you all easing the lingering tension. As you listen to the banter, you feel a renewed sense of belonging. The feeling of home, once so elusive, now wraps around you like a warm embrace.

Remy leans over and takes your hand, his fingers entwining with yours. “How about we just take it one day at a time?” he proposes, his gaze steady and filled with love. “I’ve got you back, and that’s what matters right now.” You nod, squeezing his hand gently.

“That sounds perfect.”

The evening stretches on, filled with laughter, stories, and the simple joy of being together. As the stars fully emerge and the night settles in, you feel a deep sense of contentment. The battles of the past seem a little lighter, the uncertainties of the future a little less daunting.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a warm smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, and FYI. Next time you fuck up my morning and ask me to take a random trip to the void to pull out some friends, I’ll kill you.”

Wade’s grin widens as he lounges casually, his hands behind his head. “To be fair, I think I’ve earned some brownie points for convincing you to rescue th he man who becomes the love of your life. You’re welcome.”

Remy chuckles beside you, his hand still intertwined with yours. “Yeah, Wade, you’re definitely on thin ice, but I’ll give you this—without you, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Logan nods in agreement, a rare smile on his face. “Just don’t make it a habit, Wade. We’ve had enough chaos for a while.”

Wade’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Hey, it’s all part of the grand adventure, right? Besides, it worked out, didn’t it?”

The group laughs, the tension of past events melting away under the shared camaraderie. As the ht deepens, the sense of togetherness strengthens, and you can’t help but feel a deep appreciation for the people who’ve stood by you through it all

#marvel #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x reader #reader

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