#i have a lot of thoughts like this for many chapters

[persicipen]

hi hello! i saw in your reblogs that you’re unsure how to respond to reblogs so pleasee no pressure at all! 💗 anyway, my thoughts are a mess and honestly it’s hard for me to gather them in place because i got so invested and quite literally consumed by the world that i wasn’t even thinking of “what should i say to you after reading this paragraph” BECAUSEEE 🥹 this story was so captivating and i wanted to sink as deep as possible into the events!

10/10 story i need a hundred chapters of that /lh but i genuinely wish you feel rested and happy enough to continue it in your free time and without any stressful responsibilities that’d otherwise take you away from writing. i will be patiently waiting for future updates! 💗 if threefold story has no fans, then i am dead. and if the threefold story has any hater, then i will shield you from them <3

first things first — i adore reader here. she’s such a balanced mix of being slightly spoiled by her royal origins but also at a visible disadvantage now that she’s been taken far away from her home. and i love that she sometimes uses it so naturally even though deep inside she’s a very gentle and thoughtful person (like her recognising the palace patterns or acting almost childish when reminding the husband that mydeimos is “hers” — it didn’t feel out of character at all even though she was scared of overstepping) 🥺

such an amazing characterisation and how cold and lonely she feels in that new place T-T and that memory of her father saying that the sea is his second most beloved treasure eoughghhhhh tears in my eyes </3 SUCH AN AMAZING WORLD-BUILDING I MUST SAY !!! THE ‘3’ NUMBER BEING SO SPECIAL AND REAPPEARING SO MANY TIMES THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE STORY AND EVEN THE STORY HAVING THREE CHAPTERS MWAHHH ✨ POETIC CINEMA !!!

BUT anyway i am literally so scared of that husband. he is charming!!! scarily so!!! partially thankful that content warnings are only how they are because I FEAR for reader especially when he can so easily surprise her even during her talks with his cousin or even enter her chamber at night !!! AT NIGHT !!! what if he came to visit her a bit too early and saw her missing??? LET ME NOT— stoppp!

but i’m so so stressed because he is disturbingly well and very much alive at this moment and i just KNOW he’s the ultimate obstacle between reader and mydei AND I AM TREMBLING AT THE THOUGHT HOW THIS STORY CAN PLAY OUT 💔

let me not… let me not… i’m so fascinated by the whole world and reader as a person without even “inserting” myself in her place BUT allow me that one time, BECAUSE !!! BECAUSE MYDEIMOS CALLED HER A MOUSE OF A GIRL— the way my hand flew to my mouth after reading this… i know i know it’s just a metaphor and so fitting at that moment but as someone who associates with mice, very much so… it was a powerful blow. a critical hit, if you will. i gasped… 🥹 but genuinely i enjoyed this bit a lot because it broke the very first impression he had about reader — that she would be her husband’s pawn. it must’ve been a surprise even if mydei didn’t show it!

he…… mydei… mydeimos… i’m literally sprawled on the floor because everything about him is so heartbreaking in this story. he is still so proud and gleaming gold despite the sickness and awful treatment… reader is so me (and us all lol obviously) because how could you NOT visit him just to check on him and then unknowingly so fall for his pure and fierce charm… ❤️‍🩹

iughhhhh tears in my eyes AGAIN his characterisation here is so beautiful, like, obviously a lot can change because this au is completely different than the canon story but his very core remains the same and he really stole my heart poof just like that AGAIN <3

you say you don’t write smut but that last scene WAS EROTIC TO ME !!! it made me more emotional than any explicit love scene and I CRIED at that first tangible moment of trust between them. CALL ME BORING AND OLD-FASHIONED BUT SHARING BREAD WILL FOREVER BE SUCH A SPECIAL TROPE AND THE MOST POWERFUL OF SIMPLE GESTURES !!! <3

beautifully written across all 10k words ✨ i feel like a new person and YES even if it wasn’t so beautiful from a technical point of view I WOULD STILL DEVOUR THE STORY BECAUSE IT’S AMAZING but that is just one more thing to compliment !!!

you are such a skilled writer in conveying the story, the emotions, the atmosphere, the world-building, and the paragraphs themselves WOW i’m such a fan 💗 and i’m sorry for swooning and gushing over this piece so much but it really MOVED ME !!! thank you for posting this !!! <3

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

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[paulyenvol6]

As Slow As You Need (Chapter 2)

Marcus Acacius x female reader

Idea by @mrspascalsworld <3

This is the second part of this fanfiction, but there are not many references to the first part, so you could consider this a separate one-shot. Enjoy and there will definitely also be a part 3 :))

Contains: sexual harrassment/assault and attempted rape (not done by Acacius!), soft!Acacius, lots of angst and panic, Acacius being sweet and caring and obsessed with you, fluff, comfort, crying, so many declarations of love, age gap (reader is 23, Acacius' age is not specified but he gets called 'old' a couple of times), mentions of fighting in battles

Wordcount: 8,773

Masterlist

The room was filled with music and chatter people dancing and twirling around but you only had eyes for Acacius.

You needed him close to your body all the time; a hand clinging to his arm or feeling his hand on your thigh and occasionally you feared that he would find you annoying or too needy but soon you realized that your worries were unnecessary.

It was the contrary really; Acacius seeked your presence just as you did his and didn't miss a chance to wrap a possessive arm around your waist or press soft kisses to your cheek. You felt comfortable. Embraced and protected by the man at your side finding that you could overcome anything in the world if only your husband was by your side.

But as it turned out the night didn't continue to be so harmonious and peaceful because at some point you actually ended up separated from Acacius which immediately made you miss the warmth of his body right next to you. A high general had approached him and asked for a private conversation and of course your husband didn't have a choice but to leave you for a moment after squeezing your hand and promising to be back soon.

Now you were alone sipping on your cup of wine while your eyes traveled over the scene before you. It was the first time that all the other generals, politicians and their wives had your undivided attention because Acacius was out of sight - and therefore unable to distract you - and so you took in the people, some familiar faces among them and some new ones.

You were just slowly strolling over the dance floor when someone cleared their throat behind you and so you turned around and the corner of your mouth dropped at the sight of Emperor Geta giving you his creepiest smile.

"My lady," he purred taking your hand in his sweaty one and kissing it.

"Emperor. What an honour it is," you politely spoke although you felt the little hairs on your arms standing up.

He was a difficult human being and saying that you felt uncomfortable in his presence was an understatement. If only Acacius was here at least, you thought searching the room for him but it seemed like he wasn't back yet. Geta straightened up again placing a hand on your bare shoulder which made you slightly twitch and then got closer. Too close for your taste and you unconsciously moved backwards a little.

"Do you think General Acacius is aware of the fact that he is the luckiest man in this room tonight?" Geta said with his oily voice that rang in your ears like shrilly bells pursing his lips while you hoped you were able to hide the disgust on your face.

"Perhaps even the luckiest man alive when I think about it," he continued seemingly blind to your distaste for this conversation. "You're the most beautiful, stunning and thrilling girl in this room, darling. You're radiating."

You clenched your jaw at his words a few angry tears welling in your eyes because Acacius was the only person you wanted to hear you call 'darling'. And yet there was nothing you could do, the man was simply complimenting you and as much as you hated it, you were supposed to thank him and so you forced your lips to curl into a smile and bowed your head.

"Thank you, emperor. That is a very high compliment."

Geta nodded in satisfaction raising his chin but still wasn't finished with his speech.

"You know… You should really visit me and my brother more often. Most of the time it's either Acacius alone or the two of you but I just want you to know that you are welcome any time. You are a friend. And I know that Acacius tends to be so possessive and protective over what he thinks is his but… I am your friend. He should know that too."

You avoided Geta's eye contact anxiously fumbling with your hands that were folded on your stomach your thoughts racing. It had sounded like a threat and you started to panic the longer you were in his presence.

"Thank you, emperor. I appreciate hearing that," you breathed nevertheless but almost choked when you felt his clammy hand on your chin.

"Look at me when I speak to you," he whispered nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. "You are so pretty. Such a pretty girl… I'm not sure if Acacius deserves you. I find that he is way too rough and old for such a delicate thing like you."

You swallowed loudly unable to move feeling your trembling hands clench around the fabric of your dress as though it could give you some stress relief. The stinging pain in your chest only increased when Geta toyed with a strand of your hair hanging in your face and you held your breath panic controlling your senses although there were dozens of people in the room with you. The rational side of you knew that he couldn't harm you in here but it was overshadowed by fright and anxiety that you couldn't hold back no matter how hard you tried.

You had a feeling that Geta knew exactly what he was doing to you and perhaps even enjoyed to make you uncomfortable but soon he finally let go off you dropping his hand and giving you one last mischievous glance before taking a step back.

"It was lovely to talk to you, sweetheart. I'll be looking forward to seeing you soon."

This time you threw courtesy aside and did not reply, too focused on inhaling and calming your pounding heart in your chest, and by then Geta had disappeared into the crowd and you were alone again.

When you felt a hand on your arm you twitched and jolted away fearing that the emperor might have changed his mind and returned to you but the rough warm skin was familiar. Your widened eyes relaxed and so did the rest of your body as you turned around to look into Acacius' deep brown eyes.

"Y/n, what is it?" he worriedly asked obviously having noticed the way you had flinched at the physical contact and looked you up and down for any hint for what had happened.

"It's alright," you pressed feeling flooded with love for him and you once again realized how well he was able to calm you down merely by being with you.

"My love," Acacius whispered taking both your hands and bringing them to his mouth to kiss the back of them while still not letting you out of sight for a second.

"You're jumpy. What happened?"

You thought about it for a moment and then let your eyes wander over the people around you, suddenly uncomfortable in the middle of the room surrounded by so many people.

"Can we go back to our table?"

"Of course. Let's go," you perceived your husband's soothing voice and blindly followed him as he led you across the room to your chairs. Here everything was a lot quieter, only a few people sitting around you as most of them were chatting and dancing in the center of the room.

Acacius sat down next to you his hand immediately cradling your face and then he kissed your forehead whispering words of comfort.

"Tell me, darling. I know you. Something happened while I was gone, right?"

You dropped your gaze feeling Acacius' concerned eyes on you and nodded slightly.

"It is nothing of great significance, Acacius. I was just caught off guard," you whispered with a quivering voice gulping loudly before continuing.

"Emperor Geta talked to me for a little while," you said so quietly that you almost weren't sure whether your husband had even heard you. "I just… I wasn't very comfortable. You know him and you know how… he can be frightening."

Acacius' mouth tensed before coming down to kiss your brow once more, then running his thumb over the area under your eyes chewing on his bottom lip as he watched your terrified face.

"Oh darling... I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry I wasn't there."

It seemed like he wanted to say something else but you straightened up before he could forcing a slight smile to appear on your face as you scooted closer to his hand on the side of your face.

"But I would really like to forget about it, Acacius. Let us talk about something else."

He raised his eyebrows scanning your face for any signs of uncertainty but your expression softened up at the sight of your loving husband and soon all he could see in your face was the craving to be embraced by him.

"Are you sure?" he asked bringing his hand to your waist to run some soothing circles over your clothed skin with his thumb and smiled when he provoked a little laugh in you.

"Yes. I just want to think about something else. You, perhaps."

Acacius wasn't entirely convinced yet but wanting to serve you and your needs he nodded pulling your chair a little closer to his and wrapping an arm around your back.

"Alright. Think about me then."

~~~~~~~~~~

The next few days passed without any important events happening and you soon didn't think about your unpleasant encounter with Geta anymore. Your days were filled with both joy and quietness as you spent the days in the gardens beneath the sun caring for your flowers and herbs and the evenings and nights with Acacius.

You would eat on the terrace, the air still delightfully warm from the hot day but not so much that you would break into sweat. Then you would sit with him for hours, laughing and enjoying the various delicacies on the plates, until Acacius would carry you inside and when the sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, the moon and stars having replaced it in the night sky, he would make love to you.

He would carefully trap you underneath him, pleasuring you with his fingers or mouth until you had collapsed underneath him what felt like a thousand times, and then melt with you in deep, slow thrusts. It was these moments you thought about the days after during lunch or while you were reading, biting your lip at the memory and unconsciously shifting in your seat. Acacius and you were meant for each other, that much you knew, because he felt perfect in you like the gods had created him to become one with you.

It was a warm summer night when you lay on your back with your eyes open, unable to find sleep.

You were at peace just like your body was. Acacius was sprawled out next to you, eyes closed his breath going steadily and despite feeling the urge to snuggle against his chest inhaling his scent until sleep would wash over you, you sat up in your bed staring into the darkness.

You needed fresh air and chose to find it in a short stroll through the gardens with the hope you could go to sleep then. You glanced at Acacius one last time smirking at the way his lips were parted a little and lightly kissed his cheek before leaving the bed. You would just walk through the gardens for a couple of minutes, enjoy the clear and peaceful night and then return to your bed to huddle against your husband.

Without making a noise you put on a cloak to cover your body that was quite exposed by the thin nightgown you wore right now and then sneaked out of the chambers.

You loved to stroll around the villa in the nights and compare it to the busy hustle and bustle during the day. Where servants were carrying beverages and food, important messages and books from one room to the other during the day, the quietness now laid upon the villa like a muffling blanket covering everything which led to a haunting silence that would have scared you a little had you not known this place so well by now.

You inhaled greedily feeling that the pleasantly cool air was just what you needed right now and yet pulled the cloak tighter around your body so you wouldn't catch a cold. Then you passed the different doors leading to the library, the kitchens and all the other rooms until you found yourself in the garden of the mansion.

Your senses perceived new scents and noises now, the chirping of the crickets, the smell of roses and lavender and the howl of a dog from afar. You liked this because you felt that when you spent time in the gardens in the daylight there were so many other things happening around you that you couldn't focus on these kinds of impressions.

After passing your favourite spot of the garden, the oleander and geranium patches, you sat down on a bench crossing your legs and looking up to the sky. It was a beautiful clear night with many stars visible and you wished Acacius would be here to tell you the names of them. But since he was sound asleep in the bed where you were supposed to be right now as well, you settled with just watching the celestial bodies and got lost in the beauty of the night.

That was until you heard a noise behind you that made your whole body flinch and your heart sank into your legs. 'It surely was just an animal,' you assured yourself turning your head to find the source but the only thing that moved were the branches and leaves of the olive tree a few feet away from you.

'This is odd,' you found but tried to stay calm. Why should anyone be out here at such late hour? Your eyes ran over where the noise had come from again but since you couldn't find anything suspicious you averted your gaze staring ahead of you but feeling a chill run down your body. Suddenly you felt cold and wished to lay in Acacius' arms where it was safe and so you rose from the bench with the intention to go back inside the house but then you heard the noise again and then as you suddenly saw a person approaching you you shrieked jolting away.

"Shhh…," a familiar voice cut through the air and a cold shiver ran down your spine. It was Geta and he certainly was the last person you wished to see right now although a part of you was glad it wasn't a stranger who would murder you in cold blood.

"W-What are you doing here so late at night?" your thin voice asked taking another step backwards but Geta followed you his face scarily lit by the moonlight. He frightened you even more now that the two of you were alone in the dark and your heart pounded loudly your mind racing as you tried to come up with a plan to escape this scene as quickly as possible.

"I think the same what you have been doing, little bee." He giggled his lips curling into a gruesome smile that made the blood in your veins freeze.

"Aren't you a little bee? Always fleeing to your gardens when you need a moment alone. But don't worry, little bee, I won't bother you. You won't even notice that I'm here."

He chuckled again aimlessly walking around you while you were stiff like a wooden plank. He frightened you more than anything right now because he seemed so lighthearted and peaceful but what if he snapped once you told him that you wanted to leave? Geta was unpredictable, going from being fake friendly and giggly to cruel in a matter of seconds.

"Why are you here alone anyway?" he suddenly asked his piercing brown eyes fixed on your face his lips pursing in a smug pout. "Why did your husband not accompany you?"

"H-He is s-sleeping," you stuttered your hands toying with the hem of your cloak that you were very thankful you had put on right now.

"Mhmm, I see…," Geta hummed watching you as if he was thinking.

The air was tense and thin making you tremble with panic because this whole encounter was so strange and scary to you. What was he doing here and how could you politely tell him that you preferred to go to bed now?

"I-I…," you began eyes on the ground. "I think…"

Before you could say anything else Geta had rushed towards you putting a hand under your chin to make you look up to him his mouth once again forming an arrogant smile.

"Oh sweet girl…," he sighed. "No need to be so nervous. Aren't you such a good little girl… Always so polite and endearing. And so pretty to look at."

He moved closer to you, so close that your heart skipped a beat a new wave of panic creeping up on you and you saw red.

"No," you said your hands coming up to push away his hands that attempted to take hold of your face but Geta raised his eyebrows in a disapproving manner taking both your wrists in one hand while his other traced your jawline.

"No?"

He let out a disgusting chuckle showing you his teeth. "You're saying no to your emperor? You better think about it one more time."

Your trapped hands writhed and moved in order to make him let go but his grip was like iron keeping them pressed to your body and when he lowered his face towards yours your chest rose rapidly, your eyes wide and the fear evident in the way your face was twisted.

"No. No, stop it, please," you pleaded turning your head away from him but Geta's hand clasped your chin keeping you in place and then his lips crashed against yours forcing a cold and hard kiss on you who whined in resistance trembling under the assault.

"Stop it. You have to stop, please," you mumbled against his mouth and then you finally managed to succeed in your fighting kicking Geta against his shinbone making him hiss out in anger and he pulled back a little which gave you enough time to free your hands.

You turned on the spot rushing towards the door that would lead you back inside but you had barely taken one step when Geta's hand wrapped around your upper arm pulling you back and making your body crash against his chest.

You didn't know how you ended up that way but the next thing you felt was the earth beneath you, your hands pinned down above your head and Geta's strong body on top of you caging you between the ground and himself. By now you were crying and sobbing uncontrollably squirming and kicking with your feet but in this new position there was nothing you could do against the significantly stronger man. And all he did… was laugh. His jaw was clenched but he gave you an evil smile that quickly turned into a chuckle when he watched your attempts to free yourself.

"L-Let me g-go. P-Please, d-don't," you begged him because you believed it was your only chance. You didn't have any power over him right now so you had to convince him that this wouldn't have a good outcome for the both of you.

"I don't think so," Geta said almost looking as if he had genuinely thought about your words and then lowered his face once more lips pressing against yours who refused to let his greedy tongue enter your mouth. Then he wrapped a hand around your throat forcing you to stay in place as he examined you closely eyes flashing and spitting with a mixture of anger you couldn't explain yourself and plain amusement.

"So fucking pretty. And so beautifully delicate and young."

He traced the veins on your neck scratching your sensitive skin with his nails and then all of a sudden spit on your face a condescending smirk following.

"Little slut," he growled and then the hand around your neck traveled down to the hem of your dress pulling it up so the cold air brushed over your thighs.

"No. No, no, please. Stop it please you can have whatever you want but please don't."

Geta tilted his head and applied more force with his hand, holding your wrists in place as you relentlessly squirmed in his grip.

"You don't even know what I'm gonna do, sweetheart. A little patience please."

You opened your mouth to scream for help but at first no sound came out and as if Geta saw what you were about to do he placed a hand on your mouth muffling any noise escaping your lips as a precaution.

Now it was officially over, you thought tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as you put everything in your fighting, all the fear and anger, the panic and sole frustration about the fact that you had ended up in this place but no matter how hard you tried, no matter how aggressively you bit his hand resting on top of your mouth, nothing changed. He was like a possessed animal claiming his prey and it seemed as though nothing would prevent him from doing what he had in mind.

He had pushed up the fabric your upper thighs exposed to him while his knee parted your legs so he could settle in between them.

'Acacius, Acacius, Acacius,' was the mantra in your mind and you squeezed at the fact that he wasn't here pulling this man off you and holding you until you would stop crying. A part of you was so incredibly mad at him although you knew that he obviously wasn't to blame.

Geta now nestled at his pants and opened them while your throat tightened making it impossible to breathe. And then you felt his hand on your center.

~~~~~~~~~~

Acacius turned to his other side groaning lowly. When his hands searchingly wandered to your side and he found that you weren't in bed he opened his right eye.

Usually this wasn't a rare event as you were a night owl that oftentimes spent your time in the gardens when you couldn't sleep and yet Acacius sat up in the bed. He didn't know why but suddenly he was wide awake, his mind clear and on alert and his body urging him to move.

Perhaps it was the cool air in the room that made him crave to feel your warmth next to him or he simply wanted to make sure that you were fine but Acacius decided to search for you.

He climbed off the bed and put on his robes and then left the room somehow hoping that he would immediately run into you but the corridor was empty and quiet and so your husband chose the gardens to search next as there was a high chance you were just taking a stroll. Mayhaps the two of you could enjoy the night together once he had found you noting that it was indeed beautiful tonight.

Acacius walked his footsteps echoing against the high ceiling and then the cold air hit him like an icy wind giving him chills and a shiver ran through his body. He just hoped that you wouldn't get sick being here outside for so long and he accelerated his steps wanting to find you as quickly as possible to perhaps give you his cloak and warm you up.

But as he passed the various patches and trees he suddenly heard a noise from far away. A whimpering or… a cry?

He narrowed his eyes feeling his heartbeat prominently everywhere in his body and rushed to the source of the sound the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

At first he saw a pile of fabric on the ground, but in a matter of milliseconds his brain comprehended, his heart skipped a beat, his breath went uneven and shaky and his mind clouded with panic. He acted quickly grabbing the shoulder of the man on top of you, tearing him off you and pushing him down to the ground as far away from you as possible.

Acacius' face was drawn with concern immediately kneeling down next to your trembling body your hair being everywhere which was why he couldn't see your face. But he heard you crying and whimpering his own eyes tearing up at the horrible scene before him and then he reached down to run his thumb over your cheeks.

"It's me. Acacius. It's alright, y/n, I got you. It's gonna be alright, you're safe."

He examined your face searching for any external damage but when he heard Geta move behind him he unwillingly let go of you turning around to grip the emperor's collar and pulling him up so his face was inches away from his.

"You fucking bastard," Acacius spitted his face twisted in anger. "If you or your brother ever attempt to touch her again or even just look at her I will kill you. I will kill you with my own hands if I have to. The only thing that is holding me back from strangling you right now is the fact that it will take too long to get rid of your fucking body."

He could see a flickering in Geta's eyes; almost a sign of fright and Acacius couldn't help himself and hit him with his fist letting go off him in the same moment so the man fell to the ground again. Blind with rage he kicked him twice in his stomach before clenching his fists flaring his nostrils at the sound of Geta's moaning.

"Go now. If you're still here the next time I'll turn around I'm gonna kill you. That is a fucking promise."

He turned his gaze away and actually heard the sound of soles dragging across the stoney floor exhaling loudly as he looked at you again.

Acacius dropped to his knees taking your face into his big hands and gently lifted your head so it wasn't lying on the hard ground. Now it was time to take care of you and try everything to help you deal with this traumatic experience.

"Y/n. It's okay, I'm here. It's me, Acacius… You're safe now, I promise," he whispered his voice thin but determined.

You didn't reply the sobs and whines being the only sound that left your mouth but your eyes were slightly opened so Acacius hoped that you were perhaps at least able to perceive his presence. He trailed your cheekbones but then decided that it would be best to get you inside, the coldness still attacking him like sharp stitches against his skin and so he put one arm under your knees and one around your shoulders and lifted you up in the air.

You reacted to it with a gasp but your hands instantly clung to his shirt in a help-seeking manner. Acacius kept his eyes on you despite having difficulties at making out the way in the dark, a deep crease between his eyebrows and his jaw clenched. He carried you back into the house, up the stairs and then into the room all while listening to your painful cries with a big hole in his heart.

Once there he carefully laid you down on the bed his skin prickling with cold sweat at the way your dress was ripped at the hem and sat down next to you taking your hands to squeeze and hold them as long as need be.

"A-Acacius?" your thin finally cut through the air and your husband was so relieved that he had to swallow a few tears.

"Yes. It's just me, everything is going to be fine. Take a deep breath, darling, it's okay now."

"Acacius," you repeated fresh tears straining your face but overall he understood it as progress and nodded.

"Yes. I'm right here. And I'm not going to leave."

The next minutes he spent drawing patterns with his thumb over the back of your hands while you bawled your eyes out, your body shaking and your hands holding on to him so tightly that he soon felt his hands turning numb. At some point, neither of you could tell how late it had gotten, you chewed on your bottom lip pressing his hands to your chest and gave him the most heartbreaking eyes while clearing your throat.

"I-I… What… Acacius, please," you whined shifting in the bed so he quickly cupped your face making you look at him.

"Are you in pain, my love? Has he hurt you?"

You closed your eyes the touch of his warm familiar hand sending a wave of comfort through your body.

"I-I don't think s-so," you stuttered your voice still gripped by sheer terror.

"I'm so glad, darling," he whispered wiping away some of the tears soaking your face. "You're safe in here, I promise. Do you need anything? Water, food, whatever it is, I'll bring it to you."

You shook your head holding on to him like your life depended on it. "No. Stay here, please."

Acacius tightened his grip on your cheek while squeezing your hand his words sweet and soft whispers that embraced you in a warm hug.

"I'm not going to leave. I'll stay here forever if that's what you want. I give you my word."

Your eyes fluttered seemingly satisfied with the content of his words because you allowed yourself to let your body relax a little.

"You want to sleep, little one?" he asked leaning over you to kiss your hair.

"Yes," you swallowed your pupils still dilated and each of your little twitches and fearful glances to your left and right crushed his soul, progressively ripping out his heart.

"Alright. You want me to sit here? Or lay next to you?"

Your glossy eyes wettened at his words a hand coming up to weakly pull at the sleeve of his cloak and then your trembling lips parted to breathe your next words. "Next to me."

Acacius was quick to comply nodding at you and then lying down on his side of the bed his eyes on you at all times as though someone would harm you if he looked away for a brief moment. You instantly moved towards him rolling yourself in a ball and your husband understood the gesture correctly opening his arms so you could snuggle against his upper body and feel protected and safe in the embrace.

After a while he could feel his neck getting wet so he moved one hand to the back of your head soothingly cradling and caressing you while his other was wrapped around your lower back.

"My precious girl," Acacius cooed you, feeling wide awake with the focus on calming and caring for you while you slowly drifted off to sleep.

He held you, fingers lightly grazing over your back and head just to ensure that you knew that he was right there next to you sheltering you from everyone and everything that wished to harm you. He didn't allow himself to fall asleep just yet wanting to be certain that you wouldn't be alone with your awake mind but much later when he heard your steady breathing and felt how you had loosened up in his arms Acacius finally closed his eyes as well entering a dreamless world.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Acacius woke up from stinging intense light that fell through the windows brightening up the room charmingly.

It was so beautiful that for a second he forgot about the events last night and watched the clear blue sky outside before everything came back to him and he turned to your sleeping figure who was still close to him but now gripped the bedsheets instead of his shirt.

Acacius watched you looking all peaceful and comfortable and prayed that you would be granted some more time resting like this carefully moving a strand of hair out of your face. He didn't doze off again wanting to be there for you when you woke up and so he spent the minutes looking at you and the window in turns until you eventually lifted your eyelids glancing at him and your surroundings and for a moment you seemed confused.

Your swollen eyes came to a stop on his face and then you pulled up the blanket to your chin as if to hide behind it. Acacius gave you a tender smile doing his best to environ you with as much love and safety as he possibly could radiate.

"Good morning, love," he whispered. "How are you feeling?"

"I think I'm fine," you replied biting down on your bottom lip turning your gaze away from him instead eyeing the bedsheets as if there was something to see there.

Acacius cleared his throat not feeling sure about his next words but he nevertheless expressed them in hopes that you would appreciate it in some way.

"Do you want to talk about what happened? If not that's fine as well. I just want you to know that I'll listen."

Fresh tears instantly welled in your eyes and at first Acacius believed that he had made a mistake bringing it up too early but it was as though something was dropping off you. A weight or a heavy load you were getting rid off.

"I don't know," you breathed knuckles turning white by the amount of force you held on to the blanket with.

"He… I don't know, he came out of nowhere. And I w-wanted to leave but I-I didn't know how."

Acacius' lips were tightly pressed together as he pulled you closer to him so gently that it almost felt like it was the wind blowing you towards him and it stood in great contrast to his tensed up face.

"He tried to kiss me a-and I pushed him away b-but he didn't stop and then I was on the g-ground and he-he…" Your voice broke a quiet cry leaving your mouth. His hand almost automatically came to your shoulder and you gratefully grabbed it your hand wrapping around his thumb.

"He didn't do anything before you came. Not really, I mean. He… He didn't rape me."

Acacius muscled tensed closing his eyes so he would hide his anger instead of upsetting you further by how mad he was growing. He intended to be gentle with you, comfort you just the way you needed it and deal with his hate towards Geta another time. This was about you and he most certainly wouldn't draw the attention to him.

Acacius reached to the small of your back and then carefully pulled you towards him so he could embrace you in a hug just to feel you. Feel your pulse, the very sign that at least physically you were alive and well.

"I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry you had to go through this and I want you to know that whatever it is you need right now, I will give it to you."

You sniffed twice your nose nestled against his chest seeking comfort in the way he shielded your body from your surroundings.

"I don't know…," you mumbled quietly. "I just need you."

Acacius felt his eyes getting wet at your soft voice smiling tenderly when he felt you pushing yourself against his strong body.

"And I'm here. I'm right here, sweetling and I won't leave," his soothing voice cradled you like a sweet song which made you close your eyes feeling safe for the first time since the events in the gardens.

When he heard you cry again Acacius tightened his protective grip although you sounded a little different now. They were quiet and soft sobs, helpless and longing sounds that fit the way you buried your hands in his flesh of his arms and shoulders. You were holding on to him for dear life showing him how much you needed him close to you and Acacius wanted nothing more than to act according to your desires.

"That's right…," he hummed. "Let it all out, my precious girl. I'm right here…"

It was almost noon when your cries had faded away and when you raised your head from his chest your big eyes looked clearer and more awake than before. You even managed to give him a careful smile and then sat up straight in the bed.

"I'm very hungry," you said Acacius following your movement sitting next to you and tenderly stroking your arms.

"Then let's eat, darling. I'll get the servants."

The both of you simultaneously climbed off the bed but before Acacius approached the door he stopped letting his gaze linger upon your face again another question on his mind.

"I need to know if you're hurt, love."

Your eyes were big as you looked at him but then lowered your view to your hands that were folded in your lap.

"My hip hurts a little," you murmured. "I fell down on my side. And my neck."

Your hand came up to soothe the red marks where Geta had squeezed your throat and then felt courageous enough to meet your husband's gaze.

"But it's fine. Nothing that will not heal."

Acacius took a step towards you holding your face in his huge hands his jaw tightened. From the outside he looked hard and cold but inside a storm was roaring. He felt the urge to hit something or better someone, get rid of all the anger and tension controlling his thoughts while holding and cuddling you until all of your pain would be transferred to him and he could be the one enduring it. How he wished it was possible…

You were his girl, his precious sweet girl that only deserved love and warmth and was way too pure for this cruel world. And now you had been harmed and Acacius craved to beat up the person that had made the smile on your lips vanish. Not that anyone deserved to go through what you had just been through but you were meant to be worshipped, that much he knew.

"I love you," he whispered so close to crying but he couldn't.

He couldn't do that to you right now because he had to be strong now, for your sake. Acacius knew you so well and if he was to let his emotions take over and show himself vulernable to you you might feel unsettled or scared never having him seen that way before. So instead he swallowed kissing your forehead and welcoming your hands trailing up his wrists.

"I love you too," you whispered.

The day went on without any special events. Acacius of course noticed that you were flinchy and more quiet than usual and tried his best to balance distracting you whilst giving you the opportunity to let out whatever you wanted to express. Therefore he spoke to you about unimportant matters that wouldn't upset or scare you all while paying close attention to you and your needs.

Time passed and with great relief Acacius observed clear progress in your behaviour sensing how your old-self returned over the next few days. There were moments when you twitched at a sudden movement and you couldn't stand the darkness let alone going to the gardens at night even with Acacius by your side but over all you seemed to get better and so he felt optimistic.

And yet he didn't initiate any sexual contact with you although he craved to feel you all the time. Before the assault Acacius and you hadn't been able to keep your hands off each other spending most of the nights as well as the lazy mornings making love and being intimate with each other so it was no wonder he missed tasting you or feeling you around him. But of course he was well-aware that it might not be what you desired at the moment and so he didn't bring up the topic once instead focusing on giving you space while offering you physical closeness whenever you craved it.

And you surely did, being even more eager to snuggle up to his chest and entangling your hands at any chance. Sometimes it became hard for your husband to keep straight thoughts especially when you pressed yourself so close to his center but he always remembered the circumstances and what you had gone through gritting his teeth and managing to keep his hands off you.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a couple of days later when Acacius left your home for a few days to participate in a battle around 20 miles away from Rome and although you had a sour feeling in your stomach already knowing that you would miss him terribly you kissed him goodbye and trailed your hand up his cheek.

"I love you. And I will miss you."

"I love you too and so will I. But I will think about you all the time."

He kissed your hands before giving you a serious look. "My sister will visit you tomorrow and look after you. She said she can also stay the night if need be. And I talked to Julia and she said that she's available too the next few days. You can send a message to her any time, alright?"

You smirked but nodded. "Thank you. I'm looking forwards to seeing your sister again. But you know that I'll be fine, Acacius. I promise you. I'm good."

"I know you are. But I want someone around you in case you are not at any point. And I also want you to be safe."

Your cheeks dimpled your fingers tracing his neck and jaw before drawing him into a deep kiss that was meant to show him how much you appreciated what he was doing for you.

"I will be. And I already can't wait for you to come back," you hummed against his mouth, which caught your words for no one but Acacius to hear.

"I love you, darling." Then he took a step back kissing your hands his eyes glistening with a certain longing that tightened your throat.

"My lady."

You inhaled heavily trying to loosen up your chest and then gave him one last smile. "I'll see you soon."

~~~~~~~~~~

There was no part of you that ever doubted his capabilities or skills in the coming days. Acacius was one of the fiercest and most experienced generals of your time and you whole-heartedly believed that he would come back safely and barely wounded from the fighting.

It was more the fact that you simply missed him. You always did when he was gone longer than a day and although you were grateful for his sister's visit that turned your attention elsewhere for a couple of hours you often had problems falling asleep staring ahead of you in the dark your gaze falling upon the empty space next to you.

These were the moments when you wondered if Acacius might be thinking about you as well right now and when you squeezed your eyes imagining his face in front of you, you believed that he might.

You had spent your whole life, these 23 years without being dependant on anyone outside your family. So you knew what it was like to love or to long for someone especially considering that you had just lost your father a couple of months ago but Acacius was something different.

You were scared suddenly. Scared to give away all your love, your heart and soul with the fear of losing him and strangely, you had never felt that way about someone in your family. Perhaps because right now you were choosing to do so. You were choosing to open up to this man offering him everything that you had, falling head first for him and trusting on this delicate and yet intense bond the two of you had grown.

You had chosen to give away your heart because you had started to trust him and it had felt right and the time that you had spent as his wife had been incredibly beautiful so far but right now you were experiencing the consequences.

Missing him while he was gone. Feeling like your heart was being ripped out when you woke up alone in the morning. And although the logical side of you tried to deny it, fearing that something might happen to him during one of the battles.

It was torture and yet you would never trade the life you had with him right now with the life you had lived before marrying him. He was worth it, of course he was. He was the love of your life and as much as it had hurt you to see him leave it also had made you aware of how precious your bond was.

And you managed to go on. The days sometimes passed slowly but you found distractions in reading or inviting your friends to your house and then finally after 7 days of being separated from your beloved husband, he returned.

It was a warm day but not too hot for your liking. You wore a light gown that you had specifically picked out because you knew how much Acacius liked the light pink color on you and wore your best perfume.

The whole morning you were more than jittery, relentlessly walking up and down, the wide grin not vanishing from your face for a moment. You almost felt a little ridiculous because there were women waiting for their husbands over the course of several years and you were behaving like this after a week of separation but in the end you didn't care and you cared even less when Acacius finally walked through the gate his hair messy, small cuts visible on his arms and face but his eyes soft and his lips formed into a relieved smile.

It only intensed when your eyes lit up, a joyful squeal leaving your mouth and you jumped in Acacius' arms. A quiet chuckle went through his body as he held you effortlessly lifting you in the air and twirling you around a few times.

"My sweet girl," he laughed deeply inhaling the familiar scent of your hair his eyes closed in delight.

"I missed you so much," you whispered tonelessly hands buried in his dark locks your legs firmly wrapped around his hips to gesture him that you weren't ready to be lowered to the ground just yet. And Acacius wasn't either holding you so tightly that it almost cut off your air supply but it was exactly what you craved.

"I missed you too. I thought about you all the time, darling, gods…"

His hand laid flat on the small of your back while the other was buried in your neck tracing your skin through the veil of hair. When he put you back on your feet your knees felt wobbly and you gladly took his arm that guided you back into the house.

Once inside Acacius sank down on a chair exhaling deeply as he leaned back but didn't let go of your hand.

"How have you been while I was away?" he asked gently pulling you towards him so you stood right in front of him.

"It was fine. I read a lot and… I had a lovely time with your dear sister. I missed you though. I'm so glad you're back, Acacius."

"And I'm glad to be back. You didn't worry about me though, did you? You know I will always come back to you, right?"

You nodded reaching for his messy locks that stood in all directions twisting a strand around your finger.

"Of course. But you're getting old," you then whispered with flashing eyes mischievously grinning from one ear to the other which Acacius reacted to with a tilt of his head.

"Oh do I now? What are you doing with an old man like me then?"

He placed his hands on your hips while parting his legs so you could stand between them while you cradled his head the palms of your hands brushing over the spiky hairs of his beard which gave you tingles.

"Mhmm," you made pretending to think as if you didn't have the answer on the top of your lips. "That's a very good question actually."

Acacius curled the corner of his mouth into a amused smile closing his eyes in relish as he leaned into your touch.

"Do you want me to answer it?" he asked quietly.

"No need to," was what you replied or better whispered as you lowered your face to him kissing his lips gently and then proceeding with his nose, his chin and both his cheeks.

"Well, perhaps I have a special fondness for men who know what they are doing. Because you definitely do."

He chuckled lowly which you sensed in the way his body vibrated and brought a hand up to the back of your head.

"I should hope so."

When you pulled back from him straightening up you could swear you saw a disappointed flickering in his brown eyes but you had a plan in mind sitting down on his lap the wrong way around so your knees rested right next to his hips. Your husband let out an approving hum encouraging you in your attempt and shoved you closer to his body by firmly holding on to your waist.

"I want to feed you," you said raising your chin in your most confident way even when Acacius raised his eyebrows.

"Feed me?"

You reached behind you and grabbed a bowl filled with all sorts of delicious and exotic fruits, made your choice and then dangled a strawberry in front of his face.

"Open your mouth," you demanded your eyes determindely glistening and who was Acacius to refuse you?

He parted his lips closing his eyes while you carefully brought the strawberry to his mouth pushing the fruit past his lips and smiled when he sank his teeth into it. He moaned in relish tasting the sweetness spreading in his mouth and began chewing on the strawberry while you placed the leafy whorl back on the table.

Then you brought your thumb to his glistening lips carefully wiping the juice and leaned into another kiss tasting the familiar flavour once you explored his mouth with your tongue. The both of you were breathless when you pulled back and your husband instantly cupped your face trailing his finger over the softness of your flushed skin.

"You want another one?" you giggled already reaching behind you Acacius biting his lips at the adorable sight of you.

"Yes please. I don't know what I did to deserve this treatment but I'm not going to complain."

You tilted your head pursing your lips in a playful pout while feeding him another strawberry.

"Let me think… You fought in a battle, defended your country, and you're the best husband I could possibly imagine."

You had whispered your last words almost feeling shy about expressing your love for him like that but obviously you had no reason to be.

Acacius swallowed the strawberry and this time it was him who pulled you in for another kiss his lips gently sucking at your bottom lip. He devoured your mouth in the most gentle and delicate way carefully nibbling at your lip and this time it took the two of you longer until you could break away from the kiss.

"The sweetest," Acacius mumbled and although you couldn't figure out whether he was talking about the fruit or your lips you could only agree.

That night you fell asleep lying on top of Acacius' broad body and despite feeling that this was an uncomfortable position for your husband you relaxed after he had assured you a hundred times that he was fine and didn't want you to climb off him.

It was a quiet and peaceful moment; one of those that you wished you could carve in your brain and revisit whenever you had the desire to. It was just the two of you; you forgot about everything and everyone else in the world your mind turning into a mush when all you sensed was him.

Your nose smelled his neck the familiar scent of cotton and sandalwood, your hands clinging to his muscular shoulders and your back that Acacius was running his hands over loosening up against his warm touch.

All the while Acacius was whispering sweet nothings in your ear and you were almost certain that he wasn't even sure whether you were still awake but nevertheless he continued to do so until you actually were sound asleep.

Only then did he stop talking, inhaling deeply while smiling into the dark his thoughts drifting to a place just as peaceful and beautiful as this one.

[fanfics-i-find-here]

Do I Know You? Part 17

Synopsis: Darla checks on you and Jason takes you for some much awaited ice cream.

Note: Hi, so this chapter is a little bit shorter but it's still good. Some Sweet Jason moments are back. Anyways Enjoy it!

Masterlist

It took you a week and a half, sporadic four-hour shifts, and Jason staying at your apartment every few nights before you started to feel normal again. Your chest still hurt with the melancholy of losing someone you cared about, but you could still live your life around it. (It helped to wear the locket he had left, hidden under your shirts). Your first full shift is when Darla finally jumps to talk to you. You told her the severely watered-down news version of you being kidnapped, but that was all she knew was going on with you. Clearly, she knew something else was up.

“You going to tell me what’s going on with you, or are you going to keep me in perpetual darkness?” she complains. Jackie’s is having a slow afternoon; two college students studying together are your only customers. You lean on the counter while Darla sits on the chair by the register. You take a minute before you bring up a question that’s crossed your mind a few times.

“Darla, how friendly are the vigilantes with civilians?” You hadn’t thought much about it when Red Hood kept showing up at your window, but now, with space from him, you wonder if he’s like that with a lot of people. If he was like that a lot you wonder why he let anything bad happen to you. Darla seems confused by the turn of questioning.

“I would say friendly is a word they don’t know. Sure, they save lives, but they’re usually not ones for idle chatter most of the time.” She still seems confused as she speaks. Her words leave a perfect opportunity to tease.

“You mean they don’t want to hear your gossip?” she rolls her eyes at your comment.

“What’s going on, sweets, hmm? Did Red Hood make a move on you when he saved you?” A week ago, it would have irked you that someone believed Red had saved you; now it just made you sad and miss him.

“It’s not that. It's just before…” you hesitate, bring a hand up to thumb at the closed locket Red Hood had given you. You hadn’t shared your friendship with Red Hood with anyone, but Darla was your first real friend in Gotham. If you couldn’t trust her, you don’t know what you’d do.

“Before I was kidnapped by Penguin,” you continue, “Red Hood had been visiting me in my apartment.” You see her open her mouth about to ask a question, but you keep going, “We weren’t, like, getting it on or anything. He was my friend, that’s it. But he’s the real reason Penguin kidnapped me. It wasn’t happenstance; there was intent. Penguin thought I knew where his hideouts were.” You pause to let the words settle. You expect Darla to ask you a million and one questions, but she just nods slowly.

“Okay?” she says clearly waiting for more.

You sigh, “I don’t, by the way. Penguin said the only reason they knew about me was because one of his men had been watching Red Hood and had pieced together where I lived.”

“Wait, you got kidnapped because Red Hood was being followed? I thought these hero types paid more attention to their surroundings.” Her voice had an edge of anger to it, and suddenly, you understood why you were really upset with Red Hood. Your anger that had been watered down by sadness flared. You weren’t mad that Red Hood hadn’t saved you; you were mad because he had been followed who knows how many times and didn’t even notice. He never warned you of the potential of something bad like that happening just because he was in your life. You don’t know what to do with the realization.

When you come back to the conversation, Darla is standing and holding your arms, a worried look on her features. She looked like she was waiting for you to speak. She says your name with a sternness you’re not used to.

“Does penguin know where you live?” her question is direct and to the point. You hadn’t thought long and hard about all the things the Penguin had said to you. At Darla’s question, you become aware of what his words meant. Your chest tightens with anxiety.

“I guess?” you say quietly. She looks like she’s going to scold you, something you didn’t know she was capable of. “He’s been arrested, it’s okay.” You add, like it’ll make the truth better.

She opens her mouth, and you're mentally preparing for the scolding of a lifetime when the door dings. You both turn your heads to a familiar mop of dark hair. Your anxiety melts in seconds. Any worry Darla was building up in your mind washes away.

“Jason,” you say with a smile. Despite the way his presence calms you, the conversation must still show on your features. You're sure that Darla, holding at your arms the way she is, doesn’t help with any conclusions he’s drawn of the current situation.

“Is everything okay?” his words are nearly a demand with the way he says them.

You give him a nod, “Yea, ‘s okay.” You feel Darla’s hands loosening before dropping to your hands to squeeze them. You can see her glancing between you two, and when you meet her eye, her features have lightened. She gives you a look of this conversation is not done before she finally let’s go of you.

“Hey there, Stud. You’ve been here an awful lot.” The Darla you know is back. There’s a tease in her voice and on her face when she glances at you.

“Darla, please,” you make a shooing motion at her, and she just raises her hands in a placating manner before she walks around the counter and over to the college students. You lean forward across the counter, trying to be closer to Jason, and you find him doing the same.

“Hi,” you whisper. He has that fond glimmer in his eye with a hint of worry from what he had walked into.

“Hi,” he says back, voice low, “is everything okay?” he repeats his earlier question as his hand comes up to brush some hair out of your face. The gesture makes you smile widely for a second.

“I was telling Darla about the whole kidnapping thing.” You think you see a flit of hurt cross Jason’s features before he neutralizes it. You suddenly realize you never talked to Jason about it. You had never talked to anyone.

“It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.” You tell him. He looks like he wants to pry, but Jason has never been one to press you for information. He gives you a conceding nod before leaning back.

“Okay. You almost ready?” he glances down at your apron, and you're confused for a moment.

“Ready for what?” A teasing smirk works itself across his lips, one you're not used to from him.

“One full day of work and your memory is shot? Ice Cream, Sweetheart. We were going to get ice cream.” He reminds you. You press your palms to your eyes.

“Of course, oldest parlor in Gotham. I’ve been waiting for this.” You drop your hands, wondering if you should tell him how important the ice cream parlor “date” was, that it was one of the things that helped keep you alive when you were kidnapped. You don’t. You’re still not ready for that conversation, the implications of it.

“Let me check with Darla, and I’ll clock out, okay?” You round the counter to be in front of him. Up on your tiptoes, you press a kiss to his cheek in apology for forgetting before walking over to Darla… who is already watching you with the two college kids. They all seemed invested in whatever was going on with you and Jason.

As you come to the table, you glance at the kids. They were regulars, the quiet ambience in the café was good for studying (and Darla always has the best gossip, so it’s not shocking they were watching you with her). They give you good-natured smiles before going back to their work. Darla meets you halfway.

“Another Date?” You shake your head at her words. You had mostly stopped correcting Darla when she called them that because it didn’t matter anyway, but with other ears listening, you corrected her.

“We’re not dating. I’ve already told you that. We’re just going to get ice cream.” At your words, you see a shift of movement of the table behind Darla, along with the sound of hushed whispers. You're starting to wonder how involved the regulars of the shop were in the knowledge of your life. You ignore them. “Will you be okay if I head out?”

“Yea, it's not like we're packed, and these two could hardly cause more trouble.” She pauses and hesitates, glancing at the listening ears behind her before she leans in whispering, “We’ll talk later about your other stuff, okay?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Jason stays with me sometimes, so everything's fine, don’t worry.” You're not sure if you're telling her or if you're telling yourself (If you have Jason change your door locks later that evening, it's really none of her business). She gives you a surprised look before it turns stern, but you don’t let her berate you or ask about the Jason thing, already heading back to the counter to clock out. You make quick work of taking off your apron to return to Jason at the counter. His eyes are on your three gossipers on the other side of the café.

“Ignore them, come on. I need ice cream.” Your hands easily curl in his, tugging him out the door. It's still cold; winter almost over. And you think you should have brought a thicker jacket as Jason leads you over to his bike parked right in front of Jackie’s. There’s a new leather jacket lying across the back of the bike. He picks it up and shakes it.

“That doesn’t look like it would fit you.” You state, looking at it before letting him slide it over your shoulders. He laughs at your statement.

“That’s cause it's not for me; it’s for you.” His voice warms you the way he speaks. It’s a snug fit with your other jacket on, but you're sure in the spring and summer months it’ll be perfect. Your gloved fingers struggle with the zipper when your mind catches up to his words.

“You bought me a jacket?” you ask, hands pausing on the zipper to look at him. He steps forward. He takes off his gloves and invades your space as he brushes your hands out of the way to do up the jacket. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You’re on my bike enough; you should have your own attire.” You stare at his face as he focuses on zipping up the jacket and adjusting it on you. His cheeks are just a little pink, like when he gave you the taser.

“You bought me a jacket.” You repeat your words softer and no longer a question. The implication of the sentence hits you square in the chest and chokes at your throat slightly. If he bought you a jacket, you specifically, it means he wants you around him, on his bike, with him.

He finally meets your eye, and you have to squeeze your hands into a fist because you want to kiss him, hard. He wasn’t making this easy for you. You still couldn’t decide if he genuinely liked you, liked you or if he was just entertaining your physical affections. It was driving you crazy. You wrap your arms around him instead and drag him into a hug. His reaction is drastically different from the first time you hugged him. He didn’t tense like something bad was going to happen. He just melted against you as he returned the hug.

“Yea, I bought you a jacket. Do you like it?” his voice was quiet, and you think he sounds worried. You pull back and lock eyes with him.

“I like it a lot.” You declare. You wonder if he can hear the implication of your words, that you weren’t just talking about the jacket. His cheeks pink up again, and you think his eyes flicker to your lips before he pulls away to grab the helmets. Like clockwork, he slides his on and does it up while you slide yours on. You wait patiently, chin tilted up. He edges into your space, closer than necessary as he does up the straps. Your fingers curl into the pockets of his jacket, stabilizing yourself. You know he’s done by the taps along the side of your helmet.

You decide you have a love-hate relationship with these helmets. Love because you have a gorgeous view of Jason’s pretty eyes and the multitude of emotions he seems to carry there. Hate because you want to kiss him again. A now recurring urge that you’ve dampened by kissing his cheek. With the helmet, you can’t do anything.

“Ready?” his muffled words reach you, and you give him a thumbs up. You watch him as he throws a leg over the bike, your eyes drawn to his thick thigh before meeting his hand that he holds out for you. You use it to climb on behind him and you easily curl your arms around his waist while he turns on the bike.

****

It was cold out, and, honestly, if it were up to Jason, he would not be driving his bike. He would be a nice warm car he probably “borrowed” (read: stole) from Bruce. Technically, it was up to him, but you loved his bike. You were like an adrenalin junkie, practically vibrating from excitement whenever you got off the bike. He cherished the look in your eye every time. Although this would be the first time since the warehouse incident that you had been on his bike.

He had bought the jacket for you before, meant for the original planned trip to the ice cream parlor. He had been worried about it. Worried you wouldn’t like it, worried it would weird you out. He had even asked Tim, who he had been working on a case with at the time of his overthinking. Tim had been far too pleased about being part of the “decision-making” but had offered somewhat decent advice. Girls like gifts, especially if it involves something they like, shows you pay attention. So, he bought it because you liked riding his bike, so, hopefully, you would like the jacket (and not think he was an egomaniac about his bike like Tim said).

He was flustered about giving you something, embarrassed even for some stupid reason. The same way he felt when he gave you the taser, which was for your protection and a dumb gift to be flustered about. It was weird because he was sure that if you literally sat yourself in his lap, it wouldn’t bother him but giving you gifts felt like the Everest of emotional turmoil. You seemed excited about the jacket, in your own quiet way. Your eyes had an emotion that he couldn’t put his finger on, but you had pulled him into a hug, and he thought nothing of it.

He took the ride to the ice cream parlor easy. You seemed to be holding tighter than usual, but you still tapped his helmet when you saw something new that interested you. Despite the cold weather, the ice cream parlor seemed busy, the parking on the street full. He had to park a block or so down, but you never seemed to mind walking and neither did he. You had the giddy glimmer in your eye that you usually got from riding his bike. Any worry that you might not like it anymore washed away.

The walk was quiet. Your eyes are drawn to the river across the street. You had your hand around his elbow and told him about a show you had started watching, something you thought he would like. He didn’t watch TV unless he was with you, but you didn’t need to know that because you offered to restart it and watch it with him anyway.

The ice cream parlor had a line. A few stragglers stood outside the door. It didn’t take long until the line moved, and you two made it inside. The place was as busy inside as it looked outside. Groups of family, friends, and couples stood around or sat at the few tables in the place.  You suddenly felt anxious. You had been around crowds; it was part of your job, but you had something to keep you busy, drinks to make, food to warm and serve. Now, all you could do was stand there.

You turn to face Jason and focus on his face, trying to ignore the crowd. His eyes scan the place with a hard look before he finally looks at you, and his face softens. He brings a hand up to pat at your cheek.

“What’s wrong?” he doesn’t hesitate to ask. You lean into his hand slightly instead of the way you want to collapse into his touch.

“It’s just a lot of people,” you tell him. To your dismay, he pulls away from you and starts to take off his jacket, which confuses you. He settles it on your shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache uncomfortably, the lid of a glass jar sliding open again.

“There are benches along the walkway on the Sprang River. Do you have your taser?” The question makes you giggle because of how strange it is. You pat at your pocket and nod.

“Then go wait at one of the benches. I’ll be as quick as I can, okay?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, already turning you towards the door with a playful nudge. It’s not until you're sat at the bench that you realize you never told him what flavor you wanted.

You people watch for a while, other people with ice cream, runners moving along the river walkway. You're pulling Jason’s jacket just a bit closer when he appears in your line of vision, holding two cups. You hurriedly pull off his jacket when you notice he only has on his hoodie. You take the cups from him, and he takes back his jacket.

“It’s freezing out here, babe. Why’d you let me send you out here?” You snort at his tone, all accusatory, like it was your idea. Even the pet name, which was a new one, made you want to laugh. He didn’t say it syrupy like he had with the others; it was just as accusatory as the question.

“Cause you’re the sweetest boy around.” You jest. You mean it truthfully, because he had seen you struggling and sent you outside. Observant and sweet. His eyes widen, and his face flushes darker than you had ever seen before. It made you stupidly giddy.

“Whatever,” he tells you as he sits down next to you, shoulders and thighs pressed, his warmth seeping into you. He takes one of the cups, and you stare at the one left. It’s a white ice cream with chocolate chunks in it. You assume it's just a chocolate chip until you take a bite of it. You're startled by the mint that bursts on your tongue. You round on Jason with the spoon in your mouth. He pulls his spoon out of his mouth as he watches you with a worried look.

“Mint, right? It's your favorite.” You stare at him, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Sweetheart,” he tries to goad you into talking. You continue to stare, really look at him. That conversation had been months ago, and he remembered. He was making this really, really hard. You finally nod.

“Yea, yea, it’s my favorite.” You tuck a leg under you and use it to lift yourself slightly so you can press a soft kiss to his cheek; any harder and you fear you may lose any semblance of control and try to make out with him right there. You settle back down on your bum and focus on your ice cream because you fear if you look at him, that gnawing emotion will make you do whatever it wants.

If you had looked up, you would have seen Jason’s look of longing. He hoped he could keep you forever like this. Free with your affection and emotions spread across your face. It made him angry with himself that he was lying to you, that he was choosing to lie to you, and that he was going to keep lying to you. For the first time in years, Jason wishes he had never become Red Hood, that he had never become Robin. He wishes he was normal like you. Wishes he was just a guy in love with a girl.

Jason stopped himself, looking away from you. He was not in love with you. That wasn’t real, it didn’t exist. It was all in stories and fairy tales. He just liked you, nothing else. At least that’s what he told himself as he glanced back at you and the way you picked at your ice cream, stirring it and melting it like the strange girl you were. He was so not in love with you (he totally was).

Additional note: I love them, but they’re so stupid. I was once again reminded of how easy it is to write scenes between the two which has been a bizarre experience as a new writer. Thank you for all your guy’s comments and for reading. Please let me know what you think! <3 <3

Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369,  @g4bbi3xx, @iwatobiswimbros, @the-lonely-flute, @elz-xo, @gone-batty-fics, @princessesgarden, @notfckincreative, @love-theangel, @feyres-fireheart, @penguimlover23, @herodedicatedblog, @dearghostling, @automaticplant, @alma-ru3

[class1akids]

Was the ending of MhA as a whole well received by fans?

Which ending?

When the WSJ serialisation ended with Ch 430 back in August, there were split opinions:

Villain fans already lost hope for the series after 419, and 430 didn't improve their opinion.

Shipping community was split: BKDKs were happy, IzuOchas were disappointed

Deku fans - especially the dudebros for whom he was a power fantasy - were pissed because Deku didn't become the greatest hero, didn't get the girl, was not happy as a teacher and was given a pity suit by his childhood bully. Cue the endless Cuck memes.

IzuOchas and Ochako fans were disappointed since her character got no conclusion about her repressed feelings.

Shouto fans were torn as the one panel showing Shouto being the highest ranked Class A student and not being referred to as Endeavor's son was generally a "good ending" for him, but it happened so much on the margins and didn't really address anything about his family. Also we were left in the dark about Touya

Rest of the fandom was probably just disappointed that the timeskip had so little on the main cast, most of them not even getting speaking lines or the kind of things we wanted to see more of just weren't portrayed.

I think overall, people thought it was a "serviceable ending" but that it was really not great for the MC.

Then 431 hit 5 months later, in which I believe Horikoshi tried to fix the criticism over Deku's ending, but then ended up alienating other parts of fandom:

BKDKs - the biggest spenders of the franchise- absolutely crushed not just for IzuOcha becoming canon, but also because of the rejected Wonder Duo agency. Also Bakugou's low ranking and the lack of depiction of their special bond really rattled Bakugou fans whether they were shippers or not

It gave a bit of extra feel-good content for Shouto and it was nice, but it also confirmed Touya's off-screened death, which I think left Shouto fandom split. Not to mention, a significant part of Shouto-fandom was not wild about Shouto's post-time skip design

Deku fans - the dudebro portion - was happy that at least he got the girl. Others felt that his inner fire was gone. A lot of the Japanese fandom started to see him as a "middle aged salaryman" and "weekend hero" who didn't fulfil at all the promise he made in Ch 1.

I guess IzuOchas and Ochako fans were happy, since she was de facto the main character of this chapter and Hori put a lot of effort into beautifying and praising her.

TogaChakos were not happy though to have Toga be used to push forward a hetero couple.

Fans of other characters were just disappointed for the lack of focus (many people said that not having All Might in the last chapter was awful).

The worldbuilding is also not well-received. Having hero profession be a dying species is just not an interesting setting and contradicts almost everything that the series built before.

The initial sales numbers were great though. I think it's multiple factors:

The color art bonuses for the 3 overwhelmingly most popular characters created a huge secondary market for the illustrations. Fans and resellers both got multiple copies.

Japanese fans don't interact with spoilers and many of them went blind into the volume for the new content.

It's the final volume - so people will collect it anyways.

But the reprint - without the bonus and now the contents widely known - is not selling really. The volume sales plateaued after the initial excitement.

There is also a diminishing number of engagement across the official sites. Most Japanese fans will not complain openly, but will just leave quietly.

For example, the exhibition visual only got 140K lines on over 6M views, despite featuring multiple characters and having been retweeted by Horikoshi, with his over 3M follower account. In comparison, the initial visual with just Deku and Tomura that was released before Vol 42 had 178K likes.

The engagement numbers of both the anime and manga account on Twitter also went down, and a lot of merch is visibly not selling as well as in the past.

For example:

The Valentine's day BKDK stickers still haven't sold out.

The new Top10 fantasy art didn't sell out, not even for the main character, not even the fan service BKDK combo

Many fans are resentful that Uraraka was put in the center of the exhibition visual and of the Anime Japan as the face of the franchise instead of the MC which meant that MHA didn't make it onto the main visual this time.

People feel that the ending is there only to cater for Uraraka fans and nobody else and it makes people not look forward to the fanbook (including the new chapter) and the art exhibition so much.

It's also a bizarre choice by the anime / manga merch committee, considering she doesn't sell that well.

For example, her merch in the new blind merch Hero badges where 1 pull costs around 6.50 euros sells well below the base price, while Bakugou sells 4-5x the price.

or the swaddling charms sold as blind merch at 2 euros a try also selling Uraraka at a discount and often have to be bundled with popular characters to get rid of the merch

So I think the reception in fandom was definitely very mixed, and most importantly it alienated important parts of the fandom - the ones paying for merch and attending events - which for now looks like an overall reduction in interest and a decline of merch sales.

Making Uraraka the "main character of the epilogue" has created a situation where one of the worst sellers in terms of market value is now used as the face of the franchise both by the manga and anime and it's something that many fans who stuck around for 10 years supporting the manga are increasingly resentful about.

I think the dudebro community is overall positive and the animation fans will keep hyping the series, but they don't tend to be the ones paying for goods or legal content.

How it will impact the franchise on the long-term is hard to say. Vigilante on Twitter is not getting a lot of the engagement, but on YouTube, the trailer has good number of views and on Reddit there is excitement about it. If it gets a strong viewership, it may turn things around. But there is a lot of competition with new, fresh anime that are strong.

And I think a lot will also depend on what Horikoshi will do with the fanbook and the exhibition. Whether he will continue the trend of drawing what pleases him personally, or whether he will consider his fanbase and try to lure them back with content geared towards them.

[munnmolads]

Why we went to Hat Island anyway? Chapter 7 Analysis & Theory

Have you ever wondered why Rafayel wanted to go to Hat Island in Chapter 7? I wanted to make a more open-ended analysis of this chapter, but eventually maybe found one possible reason why Rafayel wanted to go to Hat Island - and then ended up yapping about this way too much.

Contains spoilers for Chapter 7, Chapter 8-1 and Gem Affection, as the explanation might be right there. Also small mention about Sea God myth.

Chapter 7 Rafayel and MC set sail towards Hat Island where supposedly, Rafayel is looking for protocores as for painting materials.

This exchange is very fascinating for several reasons. From Raf's tone, it sounds like he says 2 first sentences sincerely - especially the part about him needing the material from the protocore. But he exaggerates his gestures after about making it into a paint which sounds disingenuous and even MC sarcastically remarks on that.

My original intent with this post was to bring this to attention because the protocore Rafayel eventually finds from the Deluge Wyrmlord isn't mentioned again and many fans even seem to forget about it, especially considering how we spent half of this chapter looking for it.

First of all - why he would need it for paint? Is he actually lying about making it into paint? This protocore clearly was important to him since assumably he was willing to risk MC's life for it in the end of Chapter 7. Why it needed to be Deluge Wyrmlord, why the previous protocore he handed over to MC wasn't good enough for him?

I was ready to call out on this bullshit in more detail, but then I thought... What if he actually wasn't lying and truly needs the protocore for paints? We already know from previous chapters that he experiments with his paints a lot and used the coral stones to create illusions for Raymond.

How Gem Affection relates to this?

I have to admit my knowledge about the other LI's in the game is very lacking considering how in-depth I go with Rafayel - that's just how he occupies my brain. Anyway, to my understanding, atleast Xavier has time travelled to current timeline from his Philos timeline and I have heard there are some theories about the others doing the same, but I can't point any references to them. All this to say, this got me thinking about Rafayel and Gem Affection and how it might hint how he might have also tried to find ways to time travel.

If you aren't familar with Gem Affection, it's about MC and Rafayel starting to investigate some rumors about protocore fragments in the desert, and they come across a mural which MC resonates with. The mural throws them into an alternative reality, and they are stuck trying to find a way home. I'll try tp describe the events as well as I can but I'm leaving the dialogue sections below so you can follow along.

I touched briefly on how Gem Affection's AU seems to be the same as Abysswalkers (I really need to make that separate post about how similar these memories are) on my Sunshower post in Gem Affection, so I won't be going into too much detail on it now. Anyway, while they were considering their options, MC seems to realise that she could resonate with the mural again to return home.

After they find the mural, they realise that the mural has been covered and primed for a new painting. After a while, MC realises that it's not the mural itself that they need, but the paint itself.

So all in all, Gem Affection describes how (assumably) Rafayel created paints from protocore fragments to jump between different realities with MC as she is the only one who can activate these paints by resonating with them.

Maybe the material Rafayel needs in chapter 7 isn't actually a material in the protocore, but fragments of that protocore mixed in the paints. He painted them into the murals to keep them safe and recognizable.

If we look back to the beginning of the memory, MC says "rumors about protocore fragments" and that "once Rafayel heard about my mission, he volunteered to be my guide". Rafayel rarely accompanies MC to missions unless he has something to gain from it. I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one to start these rumors. Why? Perhaps he wanted to try out if the paints work in the mural... Why otherwise he would be even interested in these caves?

Something that really also stuck out to me is that in both Chapter 7 and in Gem Affection MC makes the same "I'm not a three-year-old" comment. I really wonder if this is a reference for the conversation on the boat? I do think there are few other moments when MC says the same thing, but for now I can't think of any.

But how he would know to do this?

I really would want to say something else than "He's a god" but... Well, he is a god. I really want to know how much he can know about his future/past - In the Sea God myth, it's mentioned that the MC will help him see Lemuria's future. It could be possible that he knows he needs to hop on different timelines to fix things, just like Xavier does, or tries to alter his fate by trying to find alternative realities where he would find a way to save both Lemuria and MC.

Another plot hole of course is that what are the chances they would enud up in a timeline that would allow him and MC to return back to Linkon as normal... I'll stop thinking about this now...

At the very least, we should be more curious why Rafayel needed that protocore.

If we assume he did lie about using the protocore for paint, it also could be related to the N109 zone and the protocore auction where MC was going. Though atleast for me it sounded like he was more interested in a specific component from them instead of the protocore itself.

I'm getting way off track now, but speaking of N109 zone, I've been thinking about Rafayel and Sylus' connections and I really would want to talk more about it, but I'm bit too afraid about talking about Sylus since I genuinely feel I don't know enough about him to confirm a few thoughts about how they might be direct rivals with each other. This could be that Raf needed that protocore to get a better standing in N109 zone.

Back to the protocore - if it would be paint material, would it be then one of the components he used for Raymond's painting? Let's not forget - the painting disappeared from his collection when he died. Is he going to use the same method again to kill someone else?

I might do another post about the Chapter 7 events relating to Raymond's death, since the main story is so packed with lore, and I absolutely love Rafayel's involment in it even if it's kind of brief. Also I really want to break down the Nest encounter and what all that entailed...

[cavernsandcod]

BELLADONNA - I

SERIES M.L | AO3 VERSION | NEXT CHAPTER

Johnny hasn't been the same since the tunnel. Life became hopeless, nothing left for him if not his team. Following the months of medical leave, evaluations, and therapy, he forced his way back in. But he's starved.

(It doesn't take long for him to develop a taste for someone his, and only his.)

CONTENT WARNINGS: fem!reader, stalking, obsession, invasion of privacy, violent ideations, strong language, elements of non/dub-con, but no smut, POV switching, reader is implied to be curvy, TBI johnny; a.k.a MWIII spoilers by default, not proofread. (stalker!soap x reader)

WC: 3.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i apologize if this chapter has a lot of yapping and not a lot of action; there is a plan in place. i'm rusty, verging on new writing territory, this is my first attempt at a longfic in months, and believe it or not, i have not written that much Soap on this blog. anyhow, enjoy! if you like this fic, please consider reblogging it (as well as other creators!) since tumblr's algorithm is buns <3 // divider credit @/cafekitsune

The man is back.

In the third month of silence and less checking your shadow, you assumed it was all over.

He’d moved on, found some other sod to stalk, ended up liking her more than you. The thought alone was cruel, but you were just glad it wasn’t you anymore. It had been weeks of endless torment, and then nothing at all. Habitually there, but never in your line of sight. The sudden punch of cologne that makes your nostrils flare and burn—always ceasing with afternotes of leather and sweat. As if he was restless or something.

Strangely, you wonder what he looks like. If he is as ruffled as his aroma leads you to believe. On the move. Flighty. But never enough to be caught.

How many times had he stood inches from you, in the dark corners of your flat, studying your every edge? Has he touched you yet? Did you notice? You can’t tell if you’re dreaming when there’s warm breath ghosting over your lips, down your sternum. He sucks in deep before exhaling again. Finishes with a soft nudge on your temple, and then it’s gone.

That ritual is never often enough for you to figure out its validity. So you decide not to. To overlook it, like every other awful thing in your life.

But this, you can’t. He’s getting worse.

Your possessions are being moved overnight. Dressers and doors are wide open when you return from work. The gifts are the hardest to ignore because they force you to acknowledge that this is real. Not an evil spirit or bad karma. Perfume, candies, feathers, lockets—all undeniably worldly and passed from his hands to your doorstep.

Tonight is all the same. Another unmarked box sits on the mat, begging you to peel it open. It’s small, standard cardboard, and frayed twine replaces a decorative ribbon.

It’s slightly damp when it makes contact with your fingers, and it smells strongly of petrichor. Considering the dark, grey clouds that have persisted all day long, it’s not surprising. It’s been coming down all day. On your drive home, you could only see the sleek streets during a well-timed beam of lighting since, apparently, streetlights aren’t in your tax bracket.

You’re frozen in time as you gaze down at the gift. Something feels… off about it. This has to be the precipice to His next big thing, right? That’s how these things work.

If they don’t get bored of you, they get bored of your monotony. And if you were an outsider studying the timeline of your life thus far, it’s unremarkably monotonous, inclusive of the unwanted admirer cramming himself into it.

The constant patter of raindrops against your roof echoes like fingertips. A fervent man looming over you, waiting, and waiting.

The soggy flap wilts when you pull at the twine and peer inside. Spritz marks bleed into the weathered pages inside, distorting the lead and ink strokes. Instantly, the notable scent of His cologne overpowers the room, and you know you’re looking directly at the root of it. You thumb over the contents cautiously, prepared to spend another sleepless night decoding them in your head.

The foremost in the stack is what looks like a poem, but it’s been long distorted by the moisture. Too damaged to make any of it out, so you set it aside; it’s doubtful he’d make any more sense putting pen to paper, anyhow.

By the second, third, and fourth, you’re beginning to feel like you’re wasting your time. Nothing in here has enough substance to understand. It’s all tawdry.

Of course, you’re sick to your stomach—but you’ve allocated a special tolerance to His bullshit. From where your shaky knees are standing, this is nothing. He’s not standing in front of you, near you, brandishing a weapon. This is just… another senseless care package that’ll end up in the back of your closet. Nothing he sends is ever enough for you to report, and it’s quite obvious your admirer knows that. Without a threat or hard proof, the police won’t do shit. Going to a station with a collection of soggy sonnets would be a waste of time and downright embarrassing.

“Oh—? Another poem?” You grit your teeth as you rashly hold the next one to the light and squint at it. “Real fucking original.”

The box clatters onto the counter when you toss it aside, scrubbing a hand over your face.

But then it clinks. Like soft wind chimes tinkling through night air, subtle. You don’t know why, but you’re willing to see past your frustrations and give it another go. You’d missed something at the bottom.

The stack sits unevenly atop something round and glass, a small jar that makes your head tilt. 

Muted violaceous petals curve inward, concealing the glistening bulb in the center of the flower, which takes after a dark, tart berry. Your face would scrunch from the punch of it, no doubt, before the earthy aftertaste soothes the tongue. The petals have already started to wither, not likely to survive in their crystal confines more than a day. It doesn’t help that they’ve been manhandled into the small space with what you assume were meaty, brutish fingers.

After staring at the blossom for so long, you almost forgot who sent it. Your throat bobs as you swallow dryly, and suddenly, it isn’t so pretty anymore. Rather than tasteful, the tucked and jagged edges remind you of your own.

All the feelings and suspicions you’ve been hiding from every person in your life, how you haven’t had a proper wink of sleep in months—

Whatever, you think. Spiraling won’t help you. You set the jar down and move on, brows knitted together. The drawings aren’t as damaged, though they aren’t any easier to understand. Part of you has to admit He’s got some talent for capturing your likeness.

There aren’t just one or two in here, it’s… several. Some are of only your face, and others, your body. Parts of you only you or someone that’s gotten too close would remember. Your bust. The flare of your ribcage while you sleep. How your thighs crease when you lounge. Your head tipped back against the ledge of your tub.

The final picture makes your skin crawl. An illustration of you sitting on the train, in the very same outfit you’d worn to work today. Every wrinkle, all the posters, and strangers beside you are uncanny in their authenticity. Like the artist was sitting directly across from you as his gifted hands traced it into the sketchbook.

It dawns on you, arguably too late, that He was sitting directly in front of you today on the train while you obliviously stared out the window, watching the city pass. Your stomach gnaws, twisting and churning at the horrid scenarios your mind is running through. Had you unconsciously met his eye? Did that give him more fuel? The air is thick, coating your tongue with the unmistakable taste of dread.

This isn’t a gift. This is a warning; how many of those will you get?

Get out. Get out now. The thought hammers into the side of your head like a nail until it penetrates the thickness of your skull.

It ebbs and throbs until you obey.

This is his favorite spot: the rooftop across the street that gives a direct view of his beloved girl.

His jeans are soaked on the knees from crouching, arthritis screaming in protest from the positioning. But the discomfort didn’t matter while he was watching you. He had a new purpose now. Didn’t have anything to live for before you.

The soldier shifts slightly, squinting his eyes to savor every detail through the lens. You dropped the box, letting the pages fly around you like a deviant snowstorm. The pages scattered across your floor were his masterpiece—weeks of careful dogging, planning, and crafting the perfect pieces. Some were taken from afar; others... well, he'd gotten much closer than you'd ever realized. Too netted in your head to see what was in front of you. Your sleeping form had made for particularly beautiful subjects.

His bird seems to catch her breath after standing frozen for a bit, shaking, because she disappears from view in a flash.

“Just where are ye off to?” Johnny grimaces, smearing the rain from his cheek.

She passes by the window again, chewing on her cuticles with her phone in hand. Probably thinking about dialing 9-9-9 and barricading in the bedroom. Stupid fucking move. As fun as he imagines that to be, the last thing he needs is some uniformed do-gooder sniffing about. Handing you his card and ‘checking in’ on you. Fuck that.

By some miracle, she lowers the phone and stuffs it into her pocket. But her face looks anything but defeated, rather, resolute. She knows where she’s going, albeit clumsily, as she sifts through the hall closet and pulls out a bag.

His blood rushed with anticipation when she stepped before each window, tugging the latches and yanking the drapes to a close, killing his view of the entire flat. Johnny lowered the binocs, relying on muscle memory alone to disassemble and return them to his pack. As he descended each step of the fire escape, his boots squealed against the dowsed, rusty surface.

Scarred fingers drummed against his thigh as he navigated between the dark high-rises, brows furrowed. The play was changing—and while he loved a good chase, this wasn’t part of his plan. Not yet.

The shrill vibration of his cell willed his pace to a halt. He didn’t need to look at the Caller ID to guess who it was. “Christ,” Johnny snarls, swiping his thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“What? Now? Fer fucks sake—” His throat bobs as he takes in the information on the other line. Price has the worst timing known to man, but this takes the cake. Still, Johnny reminds himself that he’s got a place, and he needs to mind it. Being out here, tailing her, isn’t something he wants anyone to know about. He can’t risk any suspicions, especially from the Cap.

Traffic buzzes by as he makes it to the sidewalk, squinting at her building one more time before driving himself to turn away.

“Yes, Sir.” The words taste like poison on his silver tongue. “I’ll be there.”

You figure it's best to stop when the symptoms of white line fever start surfacing. Everything looks the same out here, so far from the dense smog of civilization. Hills, mud, and years of unmanicured brush. Clotted trees confine the sparse buildings out here, as if suffocating the folk scaping by along the outskirts.

You just need to get out of the city for a while, get your bearings, and hope that this all blows over. It’s not smart, and you know that—but damage control is the only card you have to play right now.

After killing the engine, you take a look at the place. It’s not much. Just some shithole motel. Perfect for lying low and figuring out what the hell your plan is. Which was the absence of one entirely.

The clerk doesn’t bat an eye from her magazine when you ask about a room, just lulls her head toward the faded signage. That’s what you need, though. Someone tepid enough to not ask questions or remember you were here.

 £215 - Single Lodging.

It’s tempting to scoff at the rate, but you’re in no position. Your eyes slice over your shoulder once more before flipping through the cash you packed with you. You have enough to stay here at least a week, but moving in the morning seems best. Some sleep and a vending machine dinner will set you straight. When you set the bills down in front of her, she digs through a drawer beside her, fishing out a key with a number chip on it.

“Thanks.” You mutter, and all she does is hum apathetically.

The neon sign casts a luminous green over the entire lot that flickers and strobes irregularly, making you rub your eyes. Your head is on a perpetual swivel as you head for your room, walking along the wall of doors until you reach the same faded number as on the key. 

This is for the best. No one is following you that you can see. He’s not here. You’re safe.

Of course, he knew where she was; he’s not a fool. He’d planned everything the first night he saw her. In hindsight, the airtag in her wallet was proving to be his best idea yet. But, with his team inches away, he hasn’t had time to check it.

Johnny’s leg bounced impatiently under the meeting table, bottom lip between his teeth as he gnawed at it until it was raw.

His mind was running a mile a minute, more than usual, now that she had run off. What if she’d run her mouth?  Decided to stay with friends, family? That would complicate everything. Force him to approach the situation completely differently.

Before the tunnel, he would have adapted however he needed to. Come up with a rational, calculated plan to see this through. Now, changes are agonizing; his head is too scrambled for it.

Price’s mouth was moving, but Johnny wasn’t sure he’d heard anything since he sat down. Garrick could fill him in on the details later. As long as he wasn’t being shipped off today, he could keep his mind on something better: her.

It seemed like the clock hadn’t changed in hours, but by some miracle, it did when Johnny looked up from his lap again. The shuffle of papers and feet finally means that he’s leaps and bounds closer to sneaking out of here. It proves more difficult than ever with all of them breathing down his neck, always checking in.

He’s got his phone in hand as soon as there’s room for him to squeeze into the hall. Head down, eyes pinned, he studies every movement of the small dot. His free fingers play with the scar tissue on his temple, tapping and digging on it with his nail until his ears stop ringing. Something he finds himself doing a lot whenever there aren’t eyes on him.

She’s further out than a few hours ago, but this is doable. This. Is. Fine. He’ll just have to… expedite his process, maybe find a way to—

“Soap.” The voice grunts, familiar and cavernous.

Johnny tucks his tail and turns to face it. “Lt?” He presses the off button on his phone and pockets it, hands at his sides stiffly.

“Forgot your book.” Ghost holds up the small notepad between two thick fingers, gaze uninterested. That alone makes Johnny let out a sigh of relief and reach for it. If he’d been caught glued to his phone, surely his Lieutenant would’ve been more direct about it. Forceful, probably.

As soon as his fingers brush against the leather, it gets jerked away from him, held above his head. “Ah-ah.” Simon needles, the fabric of his mask wrinkling from what Johnny assumes is a glare. The younger soldier parts his lips and reaches for it again, but it’s pointless. Ghost is a dog with a bone between his teeth ever since the tunnel.

“You’ve been in your head all day. Didn’t look up from the fucking table once.” He lowers the book slightly, but the conversation won’t be over until he gets a proper response. There’s no way to weasel away from Simon.

Johnny blinks, gesturing and picking at his crown again for effect. “I know, Lt. It’s just my bloody head— Can’t… I’ll—”

“Fix it.” There’s no question in his tone, nor his demeanor. “Fix it—” He finally lowers the pad and allows his Sergeant to reach for it, still leaning close, as if he gave a damn about who could hear him, “—or I will.”

The brute is gone before Johnny can figure out a way to save his arse. He truly believed he had been hiding it better than this, that nobody would notice how glum he’s been. But, on the bright side, he didn’t question the phone or the why of it all.

He could handle all this later. For now, though, there was a flighty, imprudent lass he needed to see about.

You aren’t sure you’re going to get any sleep here. Or that you should at all.

There’s no way this place is secure, either. The deadbolt is worn just like all the hinges, and the cheap plastic blinds are barely holding on. The place stinks of mildew and old cigarettes, the neighbors are less than considerate about going at it, and the TV only has three unamusing channels.

Only after you’ve double-checked everything else, and the mattress a third, do you decide to lay down. You peek at the grainy screen through heavy eyes, fighting the exhaustion of the long drive today.

The screen flickers, casting a cool glow across the room that highlights the corners, which gives your paranoid thoughts some ease. If someone was in here, you’d see them, hear them, smell them. The lumpy mattress digs into your flesh when you curl onto your side, tuck in your knees,  and face the blank, cream plaster. You can’t stop your lids from closing.

Everything is serene where your brain is. No rush—no pressure for anything here. You’re back in your apartment, cooking a warm dinner for yourself. The lights are warm and so is your flesh, like the perpetual hug of a soft blanket that’s just come from the dryer.

Someone is there with you, but you can’t see their face. They say something that makes you toss your head back and cackle, but the language is nonsensical. A sense of peace, the first in months, seeped through your chest. You belong here; you want to stay here until the end of time.

When you turn away from the stove, that person is close. It’s a man; you know it without being able to make out his features. His breath fans across your face, mint and tobacco. The fingers on your sides are hardening, beginning to shift to bite into your soft hips.

You part your lips to reply to his mutterings, and suddenly, this all feels real. A presence, a man.

Something is close—

The hand clamped over your mouth startles you awake.

Stocky fingers splay wide across your lips, thumb digging in beneath your ear until you let out a minuscule, pathetic noise against the smothering hold. Your wide eyes adjust to the figure hovering over you, knees bordering each side of your waist.

He leans forward to purr his words directly into your ear.

“Mornin’, bonnie.”

[lexicorp]

Transformers Earthspark: Another Place, Another Prison

scribbled da hek outta this doodle so idk what type of style it is but its cute anyway sdnsifbsnd

This chapter ended up being twice the length I thought it'd be, and is a whole lot of just Starscream and Hashtag talking about an assortment of things. There's a good bit of silliness, like the ridiculous strain of conversation surrounding nicknames (the Hashbrown thing I got in my head from @the-sheep and their lore. Which doesnt totally align with my characterization of Star admittedly, but with my brother having been the one to point out that Sprite [the nickname for spitfire] is also a soda brand, the dots were connecting XD). Then there's some actual serious talk as well, that has a bit of sus, because of course.

Previous Chapter: A Game Of Charades

First Chapter: The Need For Read

Next Chapter: Scientific Method

Chapter 17: Helm In The Cloud

These past quartexs had been…odd. To put it lightly. 

The data cycling through Starscream’s processor was filled with strange, corrupted files that he couldn’t seem to access, aided by far too many painful memories to quantify. Although, in the past deca-cycle with the Maltos, he’d found himself remembering, or even creating, more pleasant events. 

The Malto brats could actually be…rather endearing. Of course, Hashtag was always his favorite. Anyone who said they didn’t favor a particular individual within a group was flatly a liar, a tactic which he could of course appreciate; since he’d only admit his favoritism blatantly to Hashtag herself, after all. She had by far the best style of spunk about her, as she easily dealt out smooth bouts of sass paired with her equally patient and excitable nature. Her strong determination when decided upon a task, was admirable, even. Hashtag would have made a great Decepticon! Although he supposed that…wouldn’t be a compliment to her.

Even so, after their more recent moments of “hanging out”, Hashtag had begun to cease her guarded posture that she had carried so often before. Only seldomly would he glimpse her shielding her chestplate protectively in that strange way Twitch or the human brats occasionally did as well. But it had become easier to get her back in a better mood as she seemed more comfortable with his presence. Something about that fact made a long smothered flame flicker within Starscream’s tired spark. 

He enjoyed seeing her happy, making her laugh, even at his own expense. Surely this foolish behavior was only to lull those fools into thinking him passive enough to grant him more freedom. He didn’t…he couldn’t care. It was far too risky to allow such a thing. Regardless, he still felt as if he owed Hashtag something, and wanted to be in her good graces. So many of the others here just fawned over Megatron. Was it too much to hope for his own fan for once? A feisty little student who would admire and stand by his side! He certainly didn’t need such a thing, but it would be…useful. Yes, that was the extent of it…

Hashtag was always quite the helpful young femme, even when some of her ill Earth gotten mannerisms or quips could be confusing. At least with that “Chess” game, it was just similar enough to Fullstasis that for a moment he felt even minutely connected to Cybertron again from all these lightyears away. Perhaps he could attempt to use that Chess to recreate Fullstasis so that he could share the superior game with her! Starscream could simply rotate the square-ish board on its side to be the correct diamond orientation, and modify the Chess pieces to reflect their counterparts. A “bishop” was nearly identical to a quarg in how it moved. Similarly with a vig to a “rook”. Although she might be disappointed that the King’s counterpart had far more offensive capabilities, while the Queen’s was defensive. Sure, one could skew their strategy either way, but that was typically the more popular approach. Even if Skyfire had often only buried his Pvaq in the corner while using the Staiv as a living shield leading the wall of mykns; which he’d always defend stubbornly when Starscream had teased him for it. Those matches had always carried on for groons of a painfully slow back and forth with both of them insisting the other conceded. That ridiculous shuttle had been more content with a stalemate than subjecting himself to yet another loss at Starscream’s blatantly superior tactical prowess. Perhaps Starscream should have relented more victories to him as he’d done Hashtag…

That doesn’t matter now.

Now, he had been given the task of collecting those fruits spawned from the stalky perennials plainly labeled “Apple Trees”, stationed around the perimeter of the cow containment field. Initially, he had assumed the pristine condition of those apples he gathered was irrelevant as long as they weren’t a crushed mess upon the ground. Yet apparently, as he was later corrected, it was important to examine them with more scrutiny to determine whether there were any pests infecting them, or blemishes that would need to be severed at a later date. The defective fruit was set to go to their lower class animals, while they kept the better portion for themselves. That ungrateful cow shouldn’t have made such a fuss when he’d attempted to liberate it. Then maybe that blasted bug wouldn’t have noticed, and it could have foraged its own, high quality fuel, instead of settling for scraps. 

Regardless, the squishy, oddly shaped fruits were strange to imagine as a means of fueling the humans’ fleshy frames. Skyfire never liked the idea of dissection, with how squeamish the soft-sparked mech was, although Starscream couldn’t help but be a byte curious of their internal functions. Yet the memory of those G.H.O.S.T parasites, and their similar interest towards Cybertronians, made that train of interest falter. At least, until a violet spark flickered with the revelation at what glorious revenge it would be if he could get his servos on one of those wretched humans to take them apart as well. 

Starscream chuckled darkly at the thought, with a fleeting image of those disgusting human organs arranged across a steel table.

Then, Hashtag’s voice cut through his ruminations. “Whatcha thinkin’ about there Spaceman?”

Starscream’s optical ridge furrowed as a look of disgust came to his faceplace that he couldn’t shield from entering his vocalizer. “What did you just call me?”

“What, Spaceman? It’s perfect right?” She strained to reach one of the apples on a hidden branch and flipped it into a crate. “I’ve been tryna think about more nicknames for you than just Screamer. Starship’s a fun one, but not goofy enough. I mean, sure I could also just go with Star as a different shortened version like how my siblings call me Tag, buuuut Spaceman is just funnier. You should've seen the look on your face!”

Starscream rolled his optics and scoffed with a grin. “If we are tossing around such absurdities, perhaps I should title you Hashslag.”

“Yoooo that sounds like a fire wrestler name!!”

“No it–”

Hashtag began making ridiculous poses as if flexing her physical prowess. “Hashslag comes into the ring and DEMOLISHES the competition! The undisputed champion that’ll uh–” She paused a moment to search their internet for assistance in her speech– “throw melted slag chairs at her enemies!!”

“You are quite proficient at twisting things to your advantage, aren’t you?” Even if Starscream had meant it as a minor jab in retaliation to her stupid Spaceman mockery–she had immediately translated it towards describing what she’d inflict upon her enemies, as opposed to a reflection of her capabilities. Decepticon material indeed. 

Hashtag’s grin widened, “Of course! ‘Cause I’m awesome! And that could be a great stage name! Maybe I’ll even use it as my gamer tag actually–”

Now that was too much. If she confidently proclaimed such a stupid title to the world, she’d be far too susceptible to the petty scorn of her opponents. 

“You are NOT identifying yourself as Hashslag.” Starscream ordered with crossed arms and a stern glare. “Your designation in such an environment should command respect, and THAT would be just as easily skewed against your character.”

“How?”

He put a servo to his faceplate in exasperation for her naivety. “Slag refers to the waste matter produced when refining or smelting ore. I am sure you found the definition with your abilities, but it is a commonly derogatory term when directed towards someone. In many ways. If you are a slagger, then you are an extremely low member of society and considered inept. If you call someone a lump of slag, it is comparing them to something useless. Sure, it can be used threateningly when proclaiming you will annihilate them so completely that only slag will remain; but pairing it with a portion of your designation will only allow those around you an easy pathway towards mockery. You cannot believe I was serious about such a title as that. It was clearly a joke. No one would take you seriously with that name.”

Hashtag put her servos up and allowed them to then fall heavily in frustration. “Okay okay! I get it. You were trying to be mean and whatever–”

“Wait- no, I wasn't– ugh scrap…”

Suddenly her expression turned to a mischievous smirk as she turned back to gathering more apples with a laugh. “Nah I know you were just being a goofball. But I gotta admit I’m a bit jealous. How come Spitfire gets such a cute nickname and I don’t? I might even be a bit offended!” She paired her last statement with an overly dramatic tone and servo to her chestplate that could have been mimicking his own manner of mock hurt.

“What, Sprite? That is only a title referencing her small stature paired with her typically sassy nature.”

“Aww, not that she’s sweet like the popular soda brand?” She snickered, “I guess that tracks. She’s actually way rude.” 

Starscream scoffed as he attempted to focus on the ridiculous apple gathering task again, “Yes, that would hardly be fitting. What even is this “soda brand” you speak of?”

Hashtag whipped out her datapad and trotted up to him with a sparkle in her optics, apparently finding amusement in the topic. “It’s this carbonated sugar water with mysterious “natural flavors” and citric acid made by the big wig Coca Cola company!” She pulled up a string of images displaying an array of bottles and cans detailing a green logo with the Sprite title. Then changed her keywords in the search bar to procure images placing the strange beverage alongside other odd products. “It’s sold everywhere! Like in stores, which we aren’t allowed in–or fast food!! We can go through drive-thrus with Mo and Robby on the way back from school sometimes to get stuff! Wacky D’s is their favorite.” 

Starscream leaned closer while squinting his optics in an attempt to acquire a better view of the ridiculous stream of advertisements for disgusting human fuelling varieties. He took the datapad from her to scroll through the panels of information himself, which she again seemed to find humorous for whatever reason as he hummed in thought. After a couple kliks of analysis, he came upon an image displaying a “breakfast deal duo” which showed that Sprite thing, as well as its orange and red mirrored counterpart titled “Fanta” that made him think of Twitch. But even more hilariously, was the particular item between them that was referred to as a “Hashbrown”. It was indeed brown, and frankly looked horrid. He had no idea why anyone would put it in their intake–but the fact that it shared the same prefix as Hashtag was too perfect to pass up. If she wanted a nickname tied to Sprite’s, she could get one comically linked to her foolish misinterpretation. 

He passed the datapad back into her servos and pointed at the items with a smirk. “If THAT atrocity is Sprite, then I suppose you would be this hashbrown slag.” Starscream’s wings fluttered in amusement at the absurdity as he turned to move aside one full crate of apples for an empty one to take its place. 

Hashtag paused a moment before looking his way with squinted optics of her own skeptically. “While Hashbrown sounds adorable–why do I get the feeling that it isn’t actually that wholesome coming from you?”

Starscream chuckled at the sight of her silly little scrunched faceplate. “Perhaps not. It isn’t nearly as reprehensible as Hashslag, yet I fail to see why humans would even want to purchase those disgusting products. Therefore I'd certainly say Hashbrown is ridiculous enough that it just might stick if you insist upon calling me Spaceman.”

Hashtag tossed an already bruised apple at him, which he easily blocked with a raise of his arm, as she too began to crack up about the prospect. “Oh yeah! What about I call you Starry instead? Or would that be too cutesy for Mr. Tough Bot?”

“Ugh, pass.” Starscream waved a servo as if dusting the horrid alternative from an imaginary shelf. “In all practicality, if you truly must decide upon some means of a secondary designation for me, then I may allow you to simply call me Star. That is “what my friends call me”, you could say.” More accurately, what Skyfire had called him. “It is more customary to select a shortened version of your companions true designation. Like how you are more commonly called Tag by your siblings. As you had previously stated yourself. Or referring to Bumblebee as Bee, and Elita-1 as simply Elita.”

Hashtag tilted her helm slightly in thought as she struggled to decide which crate the apple she picked belonged in. “Hmm… alright fine. I guess that works.”

Scrap. Now she seemed bored, or even a bit disappointed. 

“Although…” Starscream drawled as he tried to think of what in particular she could be looking for, since this apparently held more meaning to her than he’d initially thought. “If I were to bestow you with a more…creative, alternative to your designation–I suppose I could call you Amethyst. Most obviously because of your violet paint resembling the quartz’s hue, but also because it can be a symbol of beauty in impurities. Because of course, the fact that it gets its color from the presence of iron ions within its structure, that would then oxidize when exposed to radiation. Thus it is a rather inspirational gem, and could be worn to ward off negative energy. Such a thing that was far more popular in Caminus, but still quite interesting from a scientific perspective when studying the geology of varying celestial constructs regardless.”

Hashtag grinned as her spunk returned, “Man, I never would have expected you’d be a rock nerd–Wait! Let me figure out what gem you’d be!” Her optics went white as streams of color coded data flowed across them, until an image appeared on her visor that she then transferred to her datapad. “Found one! Some Pietersite can be red and blue like you! This one looks really cool with a gold streak too–And! Apparently it's considered a tempest stone, and a protective talisman that’d cleanse negative energies and emotional turmoil! Actually, maybe you could use some of that, huh?” She smirked and nudged him playfully with her elbow before continuing to poke his shoulder plating with her digits. “Right? You totally need some gem action to get those warm and fuzzies past your bad boy exterior. And you could call yourself the Tempest Protector! That would SO be your awesome wizard name if you played D&D with us.”

“Hm.” Starscream lightly waved her insistent digits off of him before tipping a servo in consideration of the prospect. “I suppose Pietersite could be marginally appropriate. Although I’ve always thought of myself as more of a Carnelian–but what is this “D&D” you speak of?” 

“Ooooooooh I’m SO glad you asked!” She was suddenly practically vibrating at the anticipation as she searched something else on her datapad, and motioned for him to take a seat under the trees with her. “I have to show you all my favorite youtube channels and podcasts and–Oh my gosh there’s just so many awesome things about it! I am of course the designated DM when we play, since I’m a master of storytelling! But I’m getting ahead of myself–first, I can introduce you to the classes by bingeing A Crap Guide to D&D! Because it’s hilarious and carries ALL the vibes. THEN I can show you SoOkayHerestheThing shorts, and Legends of Avantris, and Tales from the Stinky Dragon, and The Chaos Protocol, and–”

She went on and on for so long that Starscream almost began to regret asking. Almost. As even through the copious amounts of scrap being dumped his way, and how easy it could be to tune out, he’d admit it was actually rather interesting. Even the humor was occasionally comprehensible, and he was once again reminded of how similar Hashtag could be to Thundercracker. 

She showed him countless videos about the extensive background and absurdities rampant in this “Dungeons and Dragons”. In a way, it reminded him of when TC would construct an elaborate script and extravagant scenes, only for Starscream and Warp to interject their own additions and deviations. It was ironic thinking of the role a Dungeon Master was supposed to hold as the realm’s god, while the surrounding players could so easily meld, meddle, and masacre their power with complex combinations or inane side quests. Although he supposed if Hashtag was the DM, he would need to dial back such schemes. In fact, if any of the others even dared to derail the objective of her creation he would eldritch blast them into submission! Now if it were Bumblebee…it was far too amusing to tick that bug’s gears to not toy with him a little. Alas, Hashtag said he wasn’t a fan of the game when he’d given it a single shot upon their insistence. Starscream would have to drag that coward into it the next time he could, so he’d at least have one player he could shamelessly terrorize amongst a party of sparklings.

Hashtag’s presentation this time had far exceeded the one about that Hatsune Miku character. Nearing the end, Starscream still felt the urge to acquire one of these rule books himself for all those intricate calculations that she simply couldn’t properly appreciate with how her processor was wired. Not in some attempt to fall into the position of a Dungeon Master himself…as previously stated, it seemed DM’s were far too easily overruled. Although perhaps he could call that a skill issue on the part of others. Starscream could surely do better. He’d rule the world of his magistery with a script so perfect that there simply wouldn’t be any possibility of petty posterings of improvement; or any chance of challenging his direction with whatever absurd bardic tricks notoriously plagued the community!

 Starscream had begun doing a bit of research on his own after Hashtag offered her datapad to him again. While she accessed her own content remotely, and occasionally shared other random recordings she came across. There were far too many depicting Earth dogs. 

Eventually, he noticed she had seemed to be sending messages to her”fam”, as she’d done during their Chess games. Then, Hashtag flicked the silent conversation away to turn to him with a more serious tone about her. That was…unnerving. Surely they wouldn’t try to use her against him somehow. She was obviously just utilizing some sort of dramatic build up for something inconsequential. It was fine. What could she possibly be gearing to ask him that could really require this much apprehension? 

“Soo…” Hashtag lingered on the word as Starscream kept his optics trained on the datapad. “Since we’re uh, y’know, chill, and stuff right now. YOU seem pretty chill, right? Yeah–So I uh, I’ve been wanting to ask about…some stuff. Like maybe your reasons for the insane junk you did for and with the corrupted Emberstone, oooorr…what exactly is up with the chaos glitches you’ve had since. I feel like those are some pretty big things we should talk about. Especially when one of those problems is very much ongoing haha…” She chuckled nervously as she fiddled with her servos.

Ah. This again. Questions around his interaction with the fragmented stone had of course come up with Megatron and Bumblebee, but this seemed a byte different. Starscream wasn’t entirely certain in what way. Maybe it was only because of who it was this time. When the topic had come up with Hashtag previously, it was less about questions and more about venting her frustration. So what sort of explanation would she be looking for? He could go into great detail of his brilliant scheme for New Cybertron and its tragic outcome–but he wasn’t about to roll that dice on how well that would be received after last time. Then she also wanted information regarding his…glitches. That was certainly far too complicated. Especially when he wasn’t even truly sure of the details himself.

Starscream tapped his digit against the datapad a moment before lowering it to glance Hashtag’s direction with a practiced grin and straightening of his wings. “Now why should that be important? We were having a bit of fun, weren’t we? Why spoil that with a topic that is obviously causing you distress by even proposing it?” He offered her datapad back into her restless servos. “Dwelling on such things is silly, don’t you think?”

Hashtag hesitantly took back the tablet, and he hated that her bubbly demeanor was being tainted by her ridiculous insistence on committing to this course of conversation. “No. Star. It’s not.” She said firmly with a stubborn fire in her optics where, for a moment, he saw Skyfire in her place. Even the poorly concealed hurt in her vocalizer that could have only been placed there in an effort to manipulate him into cracking some sort of confession. “I just need some part of this to make sense. In stories, whether professional or a passion project with friends, things always have some sort of reason for why they happen. Even if it seems silly, or excessive, there’s always an explanation, and they’re supposed to end with a satisfying conclusion. But it’s not like YOU have a character sheet for me to reference when you do weird scrap! So I-I guess– I dunno I just wanna know what’s really going on here. That I AM making the right choice by giving you a chance. ‘Cause I still feel like we have a bit of that stuff around…lack of control…in common. But I don’t want to have to keep feeling bad about liking hanging out with you.”

“Well of course you like hanging out with me,” Starscream boasted with a servo to his chassis, “I’m an absolute delight to be around!”

She laughed, but it was dim, and her posture was again far too guarded. “Stop trying to dodge the question, Spaceman.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hashbrown.” He smirked at her with a spun lilt to the ridiculous name that he hoped would bring that light back into her optics. 

Yet she only rolled them with a grin, “Pff. Sure. C’mon. I’m not dumb–”

“I never said you were.” He hurriedly assured her. “Far from it! You are the brightest amongst your siblings in fact! Did I mention that you’re my favorite–”

“Stop-stop–” Hashtag interjected while standing and waving her servos. “Please just at least tell me about what the Corrupted Emberstone did to you. We have to trust each other. Whatever is going on seems really dangerous, and we can’t just act like it’s fine, or like, normal crazy. Y’know? It almost made you shoot my head off, Star. I know that couldn’t have been you! I have to know that wasn’t you…”

“It wasn’t! It–” 

Crimson crashed his optics as static blazed across his processor. And he couldn’t remember. What was the name of that blasted creature he’d been aiming for?

Then, Starscream’s wings twitched stiffly in tandem with the smooth strings of lightning he could faintly feel flitting across them. A servo that he’d apparently lifted to his burning optic, slipped from his faceplate as he slowly stood and placed it behind him instead. Then, words were pulled from his voice box before he could even think to ask Hashtag to reiterate her question. 

“It was just as you said, little Terran. A glitch. That inverted Emberstone left a sort of echo that was only further ingrained while I was stuck inside that Titan. The chaotic force it possessed was simply not compatible with my systems, even if it sustained me through the lack of Energon available in isolation. Just like how Energon itself interacts with a human. Sure, it can give incredible surges of energy and empower certain…upgrades, but it is also quite damaging in the long term. It’s an inconvenience, but nothing particularly serious, I assure you.”

Something about that wasn’t right.

There was a pause for far too long as he felt sick. 

Starscream could barely hear Hashtag’s response over the static.

“...I’m not sure I believe you. Your optics aren’t...Are you having one of the glitch episodes right now?”

“Only a minor one. And you can have full confidence that I spoke nothing but the truth. I would never lie to my favorite Terran.” Starscream’s vocalizer danced across the final statement in a way that felt as if he were mocking himself, while placing a servo to her shoulder. It was laughable he could have any amount of fondness for her.

Lightning shot to the servo connecting with her frame as his digits clenched against her plating, and she pushed away. “You’re being REALLY creepy right now!”

Everything went black. If only for a nano-klick, that felt like groons. Weightless, with that familiar pressure. But he couldn’t think straight.

Suddenly he was torn from wherever he’d been, and thrown back into place. Just before the correct optics came online in his helm, he heard a collection of rattling voices all at once. Although they were more of a feeling than words.

Don’t mess this up.

Starscream stumbled and attempted to use the tree in place of his faulty stabilizers, but it cracked, and fell with him. His optics recalibrated rapidly to the light. While he blanked lied on the grass. Trying to remember where he was. 

“Euuuhgh…” He squinted to crispin the violet silhouette hovering over him. Then slowly sat up and tried to give her a grin, and chuckled in a way that probably wasn’t all that reassuring. “Sorry about the…tree there, Amethyst. I…slipped. Remind me…what were we talking about?”

Hashtag’s faceplate scrunched as she hesitated, then swiftly stomped over to inspect his optics. Odd. Then she sighed heavily as she slumped to the ground beside him. “Now I’m MORE confused.”

“About…?”

She dug her helm into her knees and groaned, “What about our conversation do you remember?”

That was a strange question. 

“We discussed alternative designations, and quite a lot about that D&D that we definitely decided we were going to play instead of that other ridiculous excuse for a “game night”. Then you decided to ruin our fun by bringing up Emberstone drama. Right? And something about the fun repercussions I’ve been experiencing, that somehow gifted you with guilt on the matter, I suppose. Which is ridiculous by the way.” His files started to get corrupted again after she’d mentioned his near miss while trying to blast that abomination’s smug faceplate. Hashtag still had a cringed expression. Had he gotten it wrong? His memory couldn’t be the problem here, so what was? The aching in his helm didn’t help with any of this.

“Yeah…and you were uh…telling me what sorta stuff goes on during your glitches. Like…do you see anything when your eyes go all red?”

He couldn’t admit to that. They already kept thinking he was insane. Besides, he knew those things weren’t real, so it didn’t matter. 

“No! No…Wait, do you mean as in hallucinations or just visual distortion?”

“Both…?”

“Well I can see just fine.” Starscream stood and attempted to salvage what apples he could from the downed tree to perhaps draw her attention to the more present predicament. “It’s nothing I can’t handle! You didn’t actually get hurt regarding that fleeting instance the other night, right? These glitches, as you call them, pass quickly enough.”

“But it’s–Oh my gosh…” Hashtag ran her servo down her faceplate. “I guess if you really want to insist on it not being a big deal, I’ll drop it, FOR NOW.” She pointed a digit at him after having stood up to pace. “You NEED to get better at telling us stuff though! It doesn’t help anyone hiding things, even if it’s hard to talk about. Plus I…it’s not just about you, Star. I hate having to be on edge around you all the time. I want to be able to really trust you after everything. But when you do creepy stuff like whatever THAT was that you APPARENTLY just forgot in 60 seconds, or don’t want to tell me what’s going on, or don’t give me any amount of context for why you’re being weird–I’m left to think the worst of it! This isn’t easy for me…and I’m tired of any time we ARE having fun together being tainted by everything else. I know that you can be a softy and a great teacher. But I also know that you’re still a scheming Decepticon, that I can never tell if whatever plot you have is for a good, or bad surprise. I thought I understood what was going on in your head before, but after what all went down with the corrupted Emberstone…I don’t know how much I can trust myself on that anymore. So all I’m asking from you, is a bit of proof that you aren’t trying to hide something to hurt my family that you’d just claim is fine because the laser gun wasn’t actually aimed directly at me.”

Starscream allowed the last apple to fall into the crate before he rested his servo on its edge. That was…a lot, and he was certainly not an expert at navigating all these intricate emotions these kids seemed to learn from the Autobots. He was supposed to find some way to relate to her struggle to receive it in the correct way, according to Bumblebee. The only primary connection he could make was her concern regarding stressing over the worst outcome. But then what could he say to mitigate the situation? Only stating that he wasn’t planning anything against them, would likely be unbelievable and unsatisfactory. He’d had plenty of ruminations against her annoying collective countless times after all; although in significantly less quantity or severity in recent times. Then, he wasn’t certain he trusted himself on such things either. So if HE wasn’t confident in his own intentions, how was he supposed to convince her?! This was impossible…

Then again, one thing he could assure her of was in fact regarding the glitches. He wasn’t hiding the intricacies of its effects for some sort of sinister purpose. It was far more out of concern that they’d perceive him in an even lower sight at the information. He didn’t want to take that risk…especially with Hashtag. Yet it seemed he was doomed either way. 

Starscream in-vented heavily as his wings fell to spite him through the anxious knot in his tank. “Alright, I get that I’m not exactly the most trustworthy mech around, but I…I’ve actually started to appreciate this opportunity. A little bit. It can still be extremely aggravating and I will admit I’ve fantasized about blowing up the place on multiple occasions–But! I wouldn’t actually do that! Anymore…” He chuckled and attempted to get himself back on track before it derailed any further. “Regardless, I promise that I’m not hiding anything of that nature. I’ve only ever used the apparent offensive capabilities of the curse for…retaliatory means.”

Hashtag crossed her arms. “Like against something you totally weren’t hallucinating the other day?”

“Yeeesss…about that…” Starscream tapped his digits together as he struggled to find the correct phrasing. “I keep having odd visions of…” Why couldn’t he get his vocalizer to work out Meridian’s blasted designation? “That human from before who stole the Emberstone for his mass murder machine. He is an extremely annoying little pest, as I am sure you can imagine. Paired with the curse’s occasional enhancement of my more violent impulses, is not exactly favorable. And as you’ve already figured out, I had been attempting to fire upon that stupid spector my processor has been projecting in an increased intensity since my exit from the Titan–or–Terratronus’ helm. I’ve gotten better at ignoring him, but sometimes it’s…difficult.” 

“So you DO see things? Is…” Hashtag paused for a moment as if scrapping a lingering thought. “Are you talking about Mandroid?”

A short spazz of the lightning shot through Starscream’s frame, but he ignored it and snapped his digits together before pointing one in her direction. “Yes! The most infuriating aspect of him constantly plaguing me is the fact that I can’t incinerate him on sight. Then I will also admit that the lapses in memory aren't new. This blasted curse has left many of my files corrupted somehow. Even so, it is not as if these things have left me dysfunctional. I can still operate just fine. Besides, any attempt I’ve made to explain it has…” Another flit of electricity flocked to his frustration at the ordeal. “Would I really be that much of a coward if I said that I just didn’t want to deal with it?! You all already think me some sort of lunatic! Forgive me if I assumed an admission of my apparent insanity wouldn’t be beneficial to my chances of proving otherwise!” 

Hashtag’s optics were wide, but her posture was looser. “Yeah…I guess that makes sense…” Then she approached him to put a servo to his arm for some reason as she looked at his own servo, which she’d slowly pulled down from its aerial position. “Thank you for telling me, and I don’t blame you for wanting to ignore that stuff. I know how horrible it is to have Mandroid in your head.” She looked up into his optics in a way that once again made him see Skyfire for a fraction of a nano-klick. “And this sounds way too much like when the creep was all up in my circuits with his dumb device before, but with like, a different level of jank. You have to ask Wheeljack, or Optimus, or–I dunno! Just-this seems more serious than just normal hallucinations if your files are getting corrupted. Plus what happened earlier was…We really need to figure out what’s going on with this. I don’t want it to make you do something worse…”

He hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t as if it could control him to that extent. Could it? Well it wasn’t as if he could remember the data needed to answer that question.

A small scoff escaped Starscream’s intake as he drifted away from Hashtag’s grip, which she held as long as he could, like his frame would destabilize as soon as she let go. “I doubt they could be of any help on the matter. Wheeljack has already done plenty rooting around in my circuits, and has already stated his inexperience with processor damage. That Prime can only claim to be an expert on his Matrix of Leadership slag. What befell the Emberstone was an unprecedented catastrophe that would require far more research to decode the extent of its warped nature. And I am not particularly keen on being a test subject for such things…”

Hashtag wrapped her arms around her chassis again, which made his spark ache in that odd way it seldom did. “Could you at least give it a shot…? I am still going to let the others know what you told me, and it’d be better to try something than nothing. I can come with you, if you’re scared of medical exam stuff or something.”

“Please. Me, afraid of something as silly as that?” Starscream laughed and attempted to brighten the mood as he stacked her crates along with his for easier transportation. “Don’t be ridiculous. If it will ease your silly concerns, I’ll do it. Even if the idea of being crammed into that blasted trailer again for the trip is sure to remind me how much I miss my missiles again.”

Hashtag’s smile returned as she relaxed a little, and followed him to pick up a pair of crates to bring to the barn. “Pff, alright, I’ll talk to Bee about it. I’m sure it won’t be that bad. And you never know, maybe since we’ll actually have a bit of an idea of what we’re checking for, we could get at least a little bit of a better idea of how to go about dealing with it.”

“Don’t get your hopes up there, Amethyst.”

“Oh I’ll send you all the good vibes I want, Pietersite. I’m that inspiration gem after all!”

“Hah, I suppose you’re right.”

They soon moved on from the topic as they met up with the rest of the Maltos, who’d completed their own little portion of the chores. Although he later noticed Tag pulled Bumblebee aside to discuss it, he could worry about what that whole ordeal would entail when it came to it. As long as he didn’t have to run into Megatron for such a thing, he didn’t care. To make sure of that, he made certain to inform Dorothy of the situation as well. Since the human had wanted to extend her mediator standing after all. 

These odd occurrences surrounding Quintus’ curse could be sorted out in no time! It wasn’t as if the Emberstone even existed anymore, anyway, and what remained of its original power was now within those cyber sleeves held by Tag’s human siblings. Such an effect as he’s found himself with, was likely only some form of ailment caused by his exposure to the rampant power lingering inside the Titan for all that time. It’d surely lull into obscurity with time.

Although perhaps, now he too was getting too hopeful.

[thatnonameuser]

Hi, glad to see you posted this part, I really liked it. You did a great job, you wrote very interestingly and most importantly many things that satisfied my hunger for reading. But I have questions.1. How is it that humans have not ended yet? It's just that if this continues, everyone will die out.2. Will the parents of the students he killed kill Crowley for not keeping an eye on him. And will the headmaster be punished for this?Personal questions:How do you feel after publishing?At what moments were you strong for stupidity and why?Did you like the story that you were able to write?And I have an idea. If in this world there is a curse that is cast on the yandere: For example, a curse that does not allow the yandere to remember his beloved and he constantly searches for her, but cannot find her. And he cannot form a connection with another, because he is tormented by visions and a wall of a couple with whom he cannot meet. Thanks again for the head. Google translator.

I’m glad you like it! Now for the questions.

I don’t think it would. With the whole ‘you have one true love that will make you whole’ thing, it doesn’t mean that people just won’t try to seek companionship from others because they’re waiting for their darling. Even if someone doesn’t have a darling, the whole within them can be partially filled by having relationships with other people. Which can result in them having kids with other people, even when they don’t have their darling. Though it’s just slapping a bandage on a bullet wound, it’s still something that happens. 

Not everyone will one day find their darlings, never finding them and death are a good reason for some darlings to never meet their yanderes. But when love is needed by the desperate, they’ll do anything to have it. And the products of the substitute love will eventually be conceived.

2. This is kind of inspired by @deceitful-darlings evil au. 

Once again, I don’t think so. Sage Island allows for most darling capture/ rival disposal methods to be legalized to prevent underhanded tactics from turning the island into a warzone. Whether you attend NRC or RSA, you get the perks of lax laws should you meet your darling there.So essentially, by agreeing to attend you’re agreeing to risk your life, but usually there’s minimal issues. If you’re willing to kill someone on the isle to get what you want, you also better be willing to risk that yourself. 

Sure, some people might want revenge, but yanderes work on a no-snitching policy. Without any witnesses, you have no idea whether or not they died in a tragic accident, or from murder. Besides, if there’s nobody, how can you tell whether they were killed or just vanished?

3. Ok, I’m gonna be  honest, I actually wait to see whether you guys like it or not. 😅 For the last chapter, I was relieved that it was over after three or so months of a lot of writing, burn out and writer’s block. But in general, I am someone that craves validation and compliments for their work so about an hour after posting, I go ‘I hope they like it’. 

It doesn’t matter if you don't, that's just how I feel especially considering how fast this kind of started.

Despite the fact that I do enjoy writing, even I have to stop and admit, ‘Yeah, that was a little cringe’. I’m not sure if you guys see it, but I think there’s a difference from when you’re reading a scene and writing it. Scenes that feel like they flow easily, actually require me to get up, stall for 30 mins, and then sit down to write it again, only to just skip to the next scene so I can avoid it. But hey, I get there in the end.

And I do like it, I really have a lot of ideas for it and I can’t wait to get to those ideas. It’s just that sometimes getting from point A to B is like climbing Mt.Everest. 

Now for your idea, I have to say the thought of a curse made to make them forget their darling forever is absolute torture to a yandere. Making them forget their darling completely tears whatever feeling of wholeness and life that they got, and replaces it back with that desperate agony. 

If they’ve been forced to completely forget them, then they’ll likely spend the rest of their lives trying to find their darlings again, but even if their darling is right in front of them they can’t feel the pull in their hearts. The yandere will likely go the way of serial yandere, attaching to whoever gives them the slight pull of their original darling desperate to feel that joy again.

That curse might be a freeing thing for darlings, because being completely forgotten from their yanderes minds is an utter blessing. With that curse, they can be freed if they desire to escape as their yandere can’t remember them being ‘the one’. 

[lordofthenerds97]

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

FIRST OF ALL

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a thousand billion more times, I love Booker so goddamn much and I would die for him your honor

I’m catching up on all the chapters I’ve hoarded like a little goblin and I laughed and I cried and I was on such an emotional rollercoaster here

AnD tHe ChEeK kIsS?!?!?!?!

Roy, honey, babe, darling, bestie, dear

You’re killing me so slowly and I’m so here for it

AND REX TO THE RESCUE AJSHEOEHEIDJWLXJWOEJFKEJDJEKDBEKEHEKEHFOWJEIEJEJDOWHDLWBFKWDOWKDOLWIFWLDKOEBEFLWBFOWNDLENEOEB

*drooling*

Also this line:

“Kenobi should keep his Jedi on a shorter leash. Not my fault she’s dressed like a whore.”

I have so many thoughts on this that I need to get out and need to digest and you can tell me if I’m wrong but let’s just dive into this for a second

So you didn’t give him a name, but you said he was one of Keeli’s men. Keeli was with Howzer (my beloved) on Ryloth, and didn’t spend a lot of time with Kenobi or Skywalker, but they definitely knew who they were. That being said, with Kenobi’s reputation, Anathorn has one of her own. And whether that’s good or bad is yet to be seen, but from this little interaction, there’s a lot to unpack-

1. Its a common assumption that either Obi-Wan is still screwing Goldie

OR

2. It’s the overall consensus that by her reputation, Goldie is Obi-Wan’s attack dog and is being given too much freedom and power

I’m definitely leaning towards 1, and if that’s the case, it’s going to become a major problem. I mean, look at the signs. Kenobi hasn’t exactly been subtle in his affection for her, and he’s kind of making it difficult to ignore. Even Cody has raised his eyebrows in previous chapters. Rex too, for obvious reasons. And if the GAR is assuming they’re in bed with each other, what’s going to happen when the council gets wind of that? Definitely more than a little slap on the wrist. That’s gonna open Pandora’s Box, and it won’t be pretty

If word has spread all the way to Ryloth about what’s going on between Kenobi and Anathorn, I think it’s safe to say she and Rex are fine 💀 But for real, if Captain Keeli’s men, in the middle of a Twi’lek resistance, can hear about “Kenobi’s Jedi”, who else has heard about it? Who else is plotting? Who else is going to use that against her?

Jesus.

I am going to devour the next few chapters and if I don’t reblog with super long rants or posts, be expecting a huge one at the end when I finish lmao

I LOVE YOU MY DEAR

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Revelation

Chapter WC: 14,918

Chapter Tags/Warnings: alcohol use, drama, blood/wound care, some description of vomiting, general drunken messiness

A/N: i don't even know what to say about this chapter. just. prepare thyself.

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

“For the last time, no.”

You quicken your stride as you descend the ramp into the hangar bay, the words spilling from your mouth with far more frustration than is probably warranted, but you don't care. You've already had this conversation five times today, and you're done. Done.

Booker easily matches your pace, his strides longer and quicker than yours, and the smirk on his face only makes the annoyance inside you grow stronger.

"It's just one night," he says, the words coming out easy and confident. Like he's certain he's going to get his way. And that only serves to piss you off even more.

"No," you repeat firmly. "We're not doing this."

"Come on," he protests. "One drink. It'll be fun. Good for morale."

"Not happening," you say. You reach the bottom of the ramp and turn towards the door leading out of the hangar, and just as you're about to step through the entrance, he plays his trump card.

"The 501st will be there."

You freeze, your footsteps coming to an abrupt halt, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see the triumphant look on his face. The urge to throw something at him is overwhelming, but you push the temptation aside and keep walking, the tension in your neck and shoulders growing with each passing second.

"Rex is coming, too," Booker continues. He leans forward, his head appearing over your shoulder as he gives you a knowing look. "He'll probably appreciate having another stick in the mud there. You know. To balance out the rest of us."

You stop, and Booker nearly collides with you, a small 'oof' escaping him. You glare at him, and he flashes you a sheepish grin.

"I'm not a stick in the mud," you retort.

"Uh-huh," he says skeptically. 

"I'm not!"

"So, you're telling me that you have fun? That you enjoy letting loose and drinking and dancing and having a good time?"

"I can have fun," you snap.

"Right," he says. He rolls his eyes and sighs, his hands rising to rest on his hips. "Sure."

"I can," you insist.

"Uh-huh," he deadpans.

“I can!”

"Really?"

“Really.”

You glare at him, and his smirk widens, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Well, if that's the case, I think it would be a good idea for the General of the 419th to attend the post-battle celebration. Don't you think?"

You groan and press your palms against your face, your fingertips digging into the skin. Why are you even considering this? You have no idea why you're suddenly willing to cave, and a part of you wants to chalk it up to the stress and the exhaustion and the fact that it's been weeks since you've had a proper night off. 

But the truth is, a small, secret part of you wants to go. You want to feel normal. And for the first time in a long time, you can actually picture yourself out there, enjoying yourself. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Just this once.

You sigh and lower your hands, turning back to Booker. Your gaze moves past him and lands on the group of troopers milling about. They all seem to perk up, their postures straightening as they try to appear more serious and focused. As if the mere act will make them more appealing and less likely to cause trouble.

It's cute, really, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. On the one hand, going to a bar with your troops would be inappropriate. You're their commanding officer, and it would send the wrong message to them and the Republic and the entire galaxy. 

But on the other hand, what's the harm in one night? One small, insignificant, forgettable night. A few hours to unwind and enjoy yourself. And maybe see Rex. Just for a bit. To say hi. Nothing more. Just a friendly hello.

Your gaze travels over the men, and the small smile on your face grows wider.

"Alright," you concede. "Fine. One drink."

Booker lets out a whoop and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a half hug. You roll your eyes and shove him away, trying to hide the smile that's threatening to break free.

"Atta girl," he chuckles. He tilts his head. "You need a ride?"

"Nah." You give him a wry look. "But I do have an outfit to find."

"I'll pick you up at 20:00," he says. "Don't be late. We're going to get hammered."

"Of course you are," you sigh, and you keep moving, turning and walking backwards as you point at him. “These are things you should not be telling your general, by the way. For future reference."

"Got it," he calls back. He winks and raises a hand in a salute, and you spin back around, making your way towards the doors. The sound of the clones' laughter carries over the air, and the grin that's been threatening to break free finally spreads across your face.

Maybe this will be fun after all. And if not, at least you'll get to see Rex.

You're already regretting this.

The moment you step into 79’s, Booker in the lead with several other troopers close behind, the music and the noise and the people make your stomach turn. The club is packed, the air hot and humid and thick with sweat and booze, and the crush of bodies is stifling. 

It’s an environment that would’ve enticed you before the war, but now, all it does is make you want to retreat to the safety and silence of your quarters. You've had more than your share of nights out, but they were nothing like this. They were quieter. Less crowded. More civilized.

"Wow," Dash mutters, his tone awed. "This is amazing."

His eyes are wide, and the expression on his face is the very definition of wonder. You can't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm, and you reach out, giving his arm a light squeeze.

"Stay close," you tell him. "And watch your drink."

"I'm not a kid," he grumbles, and you arch a brow.

"No, but I'm your superior officer, and if something happens, I'll have to answer for it. Got it?"

He gives a sullen nod, and the troopers around you chuckle. Booker turns around and flashes you a smile, his arm slung over Snap's shoulder.

"What about us, General?"

You roll your eyes, and a chorus of 'General' goes up, the men all looking at you expectantly.

"I don't think I can stress enough the fact that I am not a babysitter," you reply dryly. "Or a mother. Or any sort of authority figure. Don’t get arrested, and don’t embarrass me.”

There's a loud chorus of cheers, and several of the clones give Booker a congratulatory pat on the back, clearly taking the statement as permission to do whatever they want. You let out a small sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that this is your life now. You're going to end up in some sort of trouble tonight, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

The men are already moving towards the bar, and you follow, keeping a close eye on them while scanning the crowd and searching for Rex and his squad. The crowd is a sea of blue and orange and white, and you spot several familiar faces, but not the ones you're looking for.

It's not long before the group is broken up, leaving only you and Wise standing together. He's silent, his posture rigid and his jaw set. His hands are clasped behind his back, and the look of open disdain on his face is almost comical.

You give him a sympathetic smile and lean closer. "Not your scene?"

Wise shakes his head, his nose wrinkling as he surveys the room.

"No, sir," he grunts. He takes a step closer and puts a hand on your shoulder, leaning down. "If you need me, I'll be over here. Alone."

"Alright," you chuckle. "But don't disappear. This is supposed to be a team-building exercise."

"You’re funny," he says dryly. He pats your arm shoves his way into the sea of people, and you let out a sigh, the smile slipping from your lips.

It's going to be a long night.

You're contemplating following him to the wall and trying to avoid being hit by the gyrating bodies, but just as you're about to turn, a hand appears on your shoulder.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” a voice drawls behind you. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You—“

You smack the offender's away in a flash, and you turn and put your hands on your hips. 

Fives immediately freezes, his eyes widening in horror. His gaze darts between the hand that's still hovering in the air and the furious expression on your face, and he swallows hard, the color draining from his cheeks.

"Sorry, sir," he stammers. He clears his throat, his gaze darting between you and his boots. "I didn't think...that is, I didn't expect—"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," you cut him off. You let out a heavy sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "You can't treat every woman here like she's a potential hookup, Fives. Not unless you want to get thrown out on your ass."

"Yes, sir," he replies, his voice contrite. "I'll remember that. Sir."

"And don't call them 'gorgeous,'" you groan. "It's creepy."

"Yes, sir," he mumbles. He takes a step back, his cheeks flushed, and he gives you a pleading look. "I'm really sorry. It won't happen again."

"It better not."

You narrow your eyes, and Fives winces. You stare at him for a long moment, letting him sweat a little, before nodding, satisfied that he's learned his lesson. He exhales loudly, and a grin spreads across his face, his embarrassment replaced by the usual mischief.

"In my defense though, you do look gorgeous tonight," he quips. "Sir."

You snort and shake your head, trying to hide the smile that's threatening to spread across your face.

"Thanks," you reply wryly. "But, still. No."

"Understood," he nods. He clears his throat and gestures over his shoulder. "There's a table over there. With some of the guys. If you're interested."

You hesitate, glancing at the crowded dance floor and the sea of people around you. The last thing you want is to stand here and wait for Booker and the others to return. Or worse, get dragged onto the dance floor. 

"Sure," you nod. "That sounds great."

"Right this way, sir," Fives replies, his tone formal. He makes a sweeping motion with his hand, and the two of you weave through the throngs, dodging elbows and swaying hips. When you reach the booth, Echo and Kix are already there, deep in conversation with Jesse and Hardcase.  

“Look who I found!” Fives announces as the two of you approach.

The clones glance up at his shout, and their expressions change from confusion to shock in an instant.

Hardcase nearly spits out his drink, and Jesse's mouth drops open, his eyes wide and startled. Only Kix keeps his cool, offering a polite nod, and Echo does his best to conceal his surprise, though the faint flush on his cheeks betrays his true feelings.

"Nice to see you, General," he greets with a warm smile, and you return it.

"You too, Echo."

"What are you wearing?" Jesse demands, and Hardcase gives a loud cough, covering his mouth and looking away. He gestures at your clothing, his brow creasing. "Sir."

You look down at your attire and shrug a shoulder. Your robes and tunics have been replaced with a a cropped white shirt, a jacket, and a pair of leather pants. It’s far from the most scandalous thing you could have worn, but it does show off more skin than you normally would. And you're well aware that the effect is heightened by the fact that you've actually put effort into your appearance.

"I'm undercover," you explain. You cross your arms over your chest, the motion drawing more attention to the low neckline of the shirt, and they all glance away, their gazes darting in opposite directions.

"Underdressed is more like it," Hardcase mutters. Kix smacks the back of his head, and Hardcase lets out a quiet grunt and rubs his temple, his eyes watering slightly. "What was that for?"

"Be respectful," Kix hisses. "She's a general."

"Well, she's also—"

"Careful," Fives warns. His eyes dart to yours before quickly looking away. The five men shift uncomfortably, and you can't help the small smirk that forms on your face.

"Why are you here?" Jesse asks after a moment of awkward silence, his voice strained.

"I was invited," you tell him. You tilt your head and give him a pointed look. "To have fun. Let loose. Blow off steam. All that."

His eyes narrow. "By who?"

"Booker."

A chorus of groans and sighs echoes around the table, and Jesse rolls his eyes and lets out a soft scoff. He gives you a sidelong glance, and he shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "Of course he did."

"That's great, sir," Fives interrupts with forced enthusiasm. He looks at the others. "Isn't that great? The General wants to blow off steam. Just like us. Isn't this fun?"

"Fun," Hardcase echoes weakly. His eyes meet yours, and he forces a smile. "Yes, sir. So much fun."

You grimace. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should've just stayed home and meditated or done some training or...anything else. Anything. But you're here now, and the last thing you want is to make things even more awkward for these poor men.

"I'm not going to bite. Or report you. Promise," you assure them, and their shoulders relax slightly. "But if you're uncomfortable, I can leave."

"No," Kix replies quickly. The others nod vigorously, and he gives you an apologetic look. "Sorry, sir. We're happy to have you. We just...didn't expect to see you here. That's all."

"I can understand that," you agree. You glance around the club, taking in the sea of faces and bodies, the crush of people making the space feel smaller and hotter than before. "I didn't think I'd come either."

"Can we get you anything?" Fives asks as you slide into the open space next to Echo.

"A drink would be great," you reply, and he jumps up, the movement so sudden and quick that you have to fight the urge to laugh.

"On it, sir." 

Fives hurries away, and the tension in your shoulders eases as the rest of the group turns back to their conversation. You let out a soft breath and settle into the cushions, resting your chin on your hand as you look around the club.

It's busy tonight, the crowds a mix of civilians and soldiers, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat. It's not exactly what you'd call an ideal environment, but there's something about the atmosphere that makes it feel...normal.

Like nothing else matters. Like the war isn't even happening.

A smile lifts the corner of your mouth, and when Echo catches sight of the amusement on your face, his own expression softens. He nudges your arm and leans forward, his voice low enough that the others won't hear.

"Don't take it personally," he murmurs. "We've just never seen you dressed like this before. It's a bit..."

"Inappropriate?" you suggest. "Unprofessional?"

"Surprising," he corrects with a slight shake of his head. He checks that the others aren't listening before continuing, "You're a good-looking woman. The guys just aren't used to seeing you like this. Give them some time to adjust."

You arch a brow and give him a skeptical look, and he shrugs and sits back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lifts his glass to his lips.

“Yeah, I get it,” you sigh. You run a hand through your hair and shake your head. "Rex reacted the same way the first time he saw me without the robes."

Echo's eyes widen behind his glass, and he sputters, shooting forward and slamming his glass onto the table. You jerk in surprise as the other men start, and he gives a violent cough, his face turning a bright shade of red.

"What's wrong?" Kix asks, reaching around Hardcase to clap him on the back. "Too strong for you?"

"No," Echo wheezes. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, his eyes watering as he struggles to regain his composure. After a moment, his breathing evens out, and he wipes a hand over his mouth. "So the Captain's seen you out of uniform, huh?"

"He what?" Jesse blurts out, his head whipping around, and you groan and press a hand against your forehead.

"Not like that," you explain hurriedly. When Jesse's wide-eyed expression doesn't change, you throw your hands up. "I meant, like, in regular clothes. Off-duty. Casual. You know. Not Jedi robes."

"Right," Echo nods.

"Makes sense," Kix agrees.

"Good," Hardcase says firmly. "Glad we cleared that up."

They exchange a glance, Jesse raising his eyebrows, and Kix bites his lip and gives a slight shake of his head. Hardcase glances at you before his eyes move to Echo, who's recovered from his coughing fit, and the look he gives in return makes it clear that the four of them have come to some unspoken agreement. Whatever it is, it doesn't bode well for you, and an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.

This was a bad idea.

Jesse leans forward and gives you a knowing smile, resting his chin on his hand. The knot in your stomach twists higher.

"What?" you ask warily.

"We know," he says smugly. Hardcase nods, and the two men's expressions turn decidedly smug. Your brow furrows as he leans in closer. "We know."

"Know what?" you press. Hardcase's smirk grows wider, and the uneasy feeling in your gut increases. You have no idea what he's talking about, but the smugness is a sign that he thinks he has the upper hand. And that's never a good thing.

"That you and the Captain are—"

"Fives is back," Kix interrupts loudly. He shoots the others a pointed look, and the men glance up, the teasing grins on their faces faltering as Fives reappears, his arms laden with drinks.

He takes one look at your face and comes to an abrupt stop. The drinks wobble, the liquid sloshing dangerously, and he glances between the other clones and you, his brow furrowed.

"Uh...what's going on?"

"Nothing," Kix says, but his attempt to diffuse the situation is drowned out by the sound of Hardcase's voice as he leans over, pushing the empty glasses aside and reaching for the new arrivals.

"General Anathorn and the Captain are a couple," he announces gleefully, his hand closing around the nearest glass and pulling it towards him. "That's what's going on."

Kix groans, burying his face in his hands as Echo's head slumps to the table with a thud. Jesse grins and holds up his hands, and Hardcase gives a triumphant cackle and begins passing the drinks around the table.

Fives freezes, his eyes wide.

"What?" he breathes. "Really?"

"No!" you exclaim, and the sound is loud enough to catch the attention of the people around you. You shoot the men a dirty look, and several of them avert their eyes, doing their best to appear as if they haven't been listening. "Absolutely not. We're not."

"You're not?" Hardcase asks, the question half-whispered, and the look you give him is so venomous, he visibly flinches.

"We are not," you confirm, enunciating each word clearly.

"Oh," Fives says as his face falls. He sighs and shakes his head, setting his beer on the table and pulling up a chair. "Damn. Here I was, hoping he’d finally gotten his shit together."

"We all were," Echo adds glumly. He takes a sip of his drink, and his eyes move to you, the slightest hint of sympathy in his gaze. "But I guess not."

Your face scrunches up in confusion, and you tilt your head. They're joking. They have to be. It's just another joke. Another way to tease Rex. And the fact that you're here has given them an opportunity to get under your skin too. 

But there's something in their tone, a seriousness that you haven't heard before, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up

You look around the group, and the men stare back at you, their expressions solemn. Your mouth goes dry. It's almost like they believe it. Like they truly believe that you and Rex are a couple. Like they've talked about it before. Like they've been expecting it. Hoping for it.

Your mind races, the wheels turning furiously, trying to understand why they'd even say such a thing. As far as you can remember, the two of you had been careful. You'd made sure not to cross any lines around the men or act in a way that would cause rumors to spread. And while in private, things had gotten a bit...complicated, there was nothing about your behavior that would indicate you were involved. Nothing. So why do the clones think otherwise?

Unless...

No. That's not possible. You're overthinking this.

You've misheard. Misunderstood. There's a logical explanation. There has to be. There always is. You'll have a laugh, and you'll get your answers, and the men will be back to teasing Rex about his lack of a love life. And it'll be fine.

You can feel their eyes on you, waiting for you to respond, and your cheeks burn.

"You're kidding," you say. You force a laugh, but their expressions remain serious, their mouths set in straight lines. You shake your head and scoff. "Rex and I are just friends. There's nothing going on. We've never—"

You cut yourself off, the words getting stuck in your throat, and Jesse's brow creases. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. His expression is thoughtful, and his gaze moves to the drink in front of him, studying it for a moment.

"So, there's nothing going on between the two of you?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing," you confirm. "There never has been."

Jesse's mouth forms a hard line, and his jaw clenches, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He nods slowly, as if coming to some sort of internal decision.

The knot in your stomach makes its way to your chest as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours. His eyes are steady and intense, and there's a weight behind them, a solemnity that you've never seen before. It's unnerving. And more than a little scary.

You swallow hard, the air thick, and his mouth opens.

"That's too bad," he says softly. "Because he loves you."

You blink.

The words are soft, but they cut through the noise like a blaster shot, and your blood runs cold. You sit up straight, your back stiff. The pounding of your heart is deafening, and you feel like you're about to pass out. Your ears are ringing, and you're not even sure you've heard him correctly. It's like the words have been spoken in another language. One you don't understand. But at the same time, the meaning is perfectly, excruciatingly, crystal-clear.

There's a long, terrible pause. And Jesse's face is blank. Emotionless. The others are frozen, staring at him with shock and disbelief. The silence stretches out, a heavy, oppressive thing, hanging over the group. Your chest aches, and you're certain your heart has stopped beating. This can't be real. This is just a joke. It has to be. Right?

“He doesn’t,” you whisper.

Jesse's lips part, and his shoulders lift in a small shrug, the motion casual and easy. The reaction is so at odds with the emotions roiling inside you that you can barely comprehend it. It's like he doesn't even care. Like this is all just a game to him. Like he's not dropping a bomb on your entire world.

"Sure he does," Jesse replies. He picks up his glass and brings it to his lips. "He's in love with you."

You shake your head, and you're dimly aware of the burning in your eyes.

"No, he's not," you insist.

"Yeah," Hardcase chimes in. "He is."

"He has to be," Fives adds, his voice gentle. "It's the only explanation."

"For what?" you demand, the words coming out hoarse. "For what?"

"For the way he looks at you," Kix says. "The way he acts around you."

"And the way he's always trying to save you," Echo continues. He takes a deep breath and leans forward, his eyes pleading. "He's always so worried about you, sir. We've all noticed. He's constantly checking up on you, looking out for you. Making sure you're safe."

You shake your head again, your chest aching.

"It's because we're friends," you argue weakly. "That's what friends do. It doesn't mean anything."

"Except he does it with you," Fives replies. "Constantly."

"Always," Jesse agrees.

"He cares about you," Kix says. "A lot."

"Like, a lot, a lot," Hardcase adds. He leans closer, his eyes meeting yours, and he gives you a small, encouraging smile. "It's okay, sir. You don't have to say it. We get it."

Your gaze darts around the group, searching for any hint of deception. For any sign that they're joking. Or messing with you. But all you see is an array of faces, each filled with pity. And sympathy.

You look down, focusing on your hands, and you take a deep, shaky breath. Your head is spinning, and the your eyes are still burning, but the feeling in your chest has shifted from pain to hope. There's a small flicker of joy, the first spark of a flame, and it's so bright, so overwhelming, that it's impossible not to cling to. The words are like a balm, soothing and healing, and you want nothing more than to bask in the warmth and the light and let it fill the dark, empty spaces inside.

"I'm sorry," Fives says quietly. "We didn't mean to upset you. We thought you knew."

"It's okay," you mumble. You dab at your eyes and let out a wet laugh, and you raise your head, meeting his concerned gaze. "Thank you. For telling me. It's..." You trail off, unable to find the words, and Fives nods in understanding.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," you say, and the words sound hollow, even to you. "I'm glad you told me. Now, I can..."

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue. You have no idea what you're supposed to do now. How can you go back to the way things were? How can you pretend like you don't know how Rex feels? Like the idea of him loving you doesn't fill you with the most intense, euphoric joy? You can't. But you also can't risk losing him.

Not now. Not ever.

You take a deep breath, and the flicker of joy turns cold, the flame snuffed out by the harsh reality. If he's really in love with you, there's no way this can end well. Not with the war, not with the Order.

It's just not possible, and that's the hard truth of the matter. No matter how many times the two of you have danced around the subject, the fact remains that, in the end, it's all just a fantasy. Something that will never come to pass. It's not meant to be, and nothing will change that. It's not fair, and it's not right, but it's the way things are. It's the reality, and no matter how much you or him might wish otherwise, it will always be there.

Your gaze moves over the faces around the table, and you try to find the words, to express the mix of emotions that are churning inside you. But, just as before, there's nothing. And so, instead, you sit there, your eyes moving from man to man, and they look back at you, their expressions ranging from sympathetic to resigned.

"What's going on?"

You blink, and a familiar face comes into view, blocking out the others.

Booker stands next to the booth, his hands on his hips and a look of confusion on his face. He stares at the men, and they shift uncomfortably, their eyes moving from him to you, and back again.

"You okay?" he asks, his brow creasing. He glances at the half-empty glasses and bottles and gives a small shake of his head, his mouth twisting into a wry smirk. "I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what happens."

His gaze moves to you, and he freezes, his expression shifting from smugness to concern. He takes a step forward, the teasing glint vanishing.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "What happened?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "I'm fine."

He frowns and glances around the table, his eyes narrowing as he studies the others. The men avert their gazes, and Booker's frown deepens. He leans down, placing a hand on the table and bending towards you.

"How many drinks has she had?" he demands.

"She hasn't had any," Kix tells him. He clears his throat, his tone defensive. "She was just talking to us. Having a good time. Like you told her to."

Booker's scowl grows darker. "Well, it doesn't look like it."

Kix's mouth snaps shut, and his eyes widen. A chorus of angry retorts and denials rise up, and they all begin speaking at once, their voices blending together into an incoherent mess. It's loud and chaotic, and the other people in the bar are starting to turn, curious to see what's causing the commotion.

"What the hell are you implying, vod?" Jesse demands, and he pushes himself to his feet, his jaw set and his fists clenched. Booker immediately straightens, his eyes flashing. You wince, and Kix grabs Jesse's arm, yanking him back down.

"Not now," he hisses.

"Yeah, listen to him," Booker sneers. "Before I—"

"Booker," you snap, and the commander goes rigid. He swallows hard, the color draining from his cheeks.

"Sir," he replies, his tone contrite. You give him a long, hard look, and his shoulders sag, the fight leaving him. "Sorry, sir."

You gesture at the empty space beside you, and after a moment, he moves around the table and settles onto the bench. His eyes flicker towards Jesse, and he holds his hands up in a placating gesture, but Jesse merely glares back, his jaw clenched. The silence that settles over the group is heavy, and it's only broken by the sound of Echo's voice.

"So," he drawls, "anyone here know how to play Sabacc?"

A wave of relief washes over the group, and several nods follow, accompanied by murmured assent.

"Good," Echo replies, and he looks at you. "Care to join, General? We could use another player."

"Sure," you nod, grateful for the change in subject. "It's been a while, but I'm not half bad."

Booker snorts, and you nudge his side, a smirk lifting the corner of your mouth. His own lips twitch, and he leans back, the movement bringing him closer to you.

"Don't let her hustle you, boys," he warns. "She's a shark.”

"Don't listen to him," you chime in, and the men chuckle. You reach for the drink that Fives had brought earlier and bring it to your lips, the glass cool against your skin. "He's just a sore loser."

Hardcase's eyes light up, and he leans forward, a smirk spreading across his face.

"You're good?" he asks, his tone hopeful. "Like, really good?"

You shrug, feigning modesty, and his grin widens.

"Prove it," he challenges, and a chorus of agreements echoes around the table.

"Yeah," Kix says. "Come on. Show us what you've got."

Your eyes meet Booker's, and the mischievous grin on his face mirrors your own. You arch a brow, and he gives a small nod, the smile spreading further.

"Alright," you say, before you lift the glass to your lips, taking a long sip. The liquid burns the back of your throat, and you grimace, setting it down. "Deal me in."

Hardcase lets out a triumphant whoop. "Now we're talking!"

Four rounds and four drinks later, the mood has shifted, the tense atmosphere giving way to one of levity. The Sabacc game is in full swing, and the conversation flows freely, the drinks and the laughter and the banter making the night feel less awkward.

After a while, more of your men and a few members of the 501st appear and join the group. You’re squished in the booth, surrounded by a dozen clones, and even though the club is loud and crowded and you can barely move, you find yourself enjoying the company and the chaos. It feels nice, sitting here with the men. Normal.

As normal as it can be, given the circumstances.

At some point, Booker slides an arm around your shoulder, the two of you pressed closer together, and he tilts his head, his voice low enough that the others won't hear.

"You having fun?"

"Surprisingly," you reply, and he grins and gives your shoulder a squeeze.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice filled with pride.

You roll your eyes and elbow his ribs. "Don't get too cocky. This doesn't mean you were right. It just means I'm being a good commanding officer."

"Sure," he scoffs. He tilts his glass towards you, the liquid sloshing precariously. "Cheers to that."

You clink glasses, and the two of you take a long sip. The alcohol burns the back of your throat, and you cough and grimace, shaking your head. The taste is terrible, the smell even worse, but you've long since stopped caring. It's helping, and that's all that matters.

"Hey," Booker says suddenly. He jerks a thumb towards the bar. "Isn't that the Captain?"

You perk up and turn, searching the crowd. It's hard to make out individual faces, and the music and the lights and the throngs of people are a confusing, dizzying blur, but eventually, you spot him.

Rex is standing by the bar, his arms crossed and his posture tense. He's talking to Cody, the two of them engaged in a serious conversation, and as you watch, he shakes his head and turns, his gaze scanning the crowd for something.

The moment he catches sight of you, his entire demeanor changes. His eyes widen, and his lips part. You watch as his gaze roams over you, a look of surprise and shock on his face, and his brow furrows, his mouth opening and closing. He doesn't seem to be able to tear his eyes away, and a thrill of pleasure runs through you, the feeling only intensified by the alcohol coursing through your system.

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, and Cody follows Rex's gaze, a confused expression crossing his features as he spots you. He shakes his head and mutters something, and Rex gives him a quick glare before his gaze moves back to you. 

He tilts his chin toward the door, the gesture barely noticeable, and without thinking, you nod. He gives you one last look before downing the rest of his drink and starting towards the hall leading toward the back alley. 

You wait for Rex to disappear into the crowd before standing, the motion drawing a few curious glances from the others. You clear your throat and give them a reassuring smile.

“I'm gonna get some air," you tell the group. Booker frowns and starts to follow you, but you put a hand on his shoulder and push him back down. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"If you're sure," he says slowly, and when you nod, he lets out a quiet huff and sits back. "Okay. Just shout if you need me."

"Will do," you promise. You make your way across the club, the crowd parting before you, and it’s a relief when you duck into the hall. There are a few people milling around, but it’s far quieter here than the main area of the club, and you can hear yourself think again.

The back hallway is a maze of rooms and alcoves and side halls, the space designed to provide the patrons a place to go for a bit of privacy. Most of the doors are closed, though a few are open, the sounds of conversation and laughter and the occasional moan spilling into the hall. 

You ignore them and continue on, turning the corner and passing a group of clones who are clearly too drunk to realize who you are. One of them wolf whistles and calls a compliment, the words slurred and crude, and you roll your eyes and keep walking. You pass a few more troopers, and then, just as you're about to reach the exit, a hand reaches out and grabs your wrist.

You turn, expecting Rex, and instead find a stranger. One of the clones from the group earlier. His pupils are blown, his expression laced with a mixture of lust and booze, and his fingers tighten around your wrist as he leans towards you.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing back here?" he slurs. "Looking for a good time?"

"No," you say. You tug on your arm, but his grip only grows tighter, his fingers digging into your skin. "Let go."

"Aw, c'mon," he croons, taking a step closer. "Why don't you come with me? Let's have a bit of fun."

"No," you say again, and this time, you’re able to free yourself. You take a step back and cross your arms over your chest, giving him a firm look. "Not interested. I’d recommend that you forget about the idea, trooper."

"Don't be like that," he coaxes. He reaches for your hand, and you jerk away. "Don't be rude."

He takes another step forward, and you shift, the wall pressing against your back. You take a deep breath and force yourself to remain calm. You can handle this. You've dealt with worse. Much worse. This isn't anything you can't handle.

The clone leans in, and the scent of alcohol and sweat and whatever cologne he's wearing is so strong, you almost gag. Your hands curl into fists, and you can feel the Force building inside you, the energy crackling through your veins. But before you can do anything, a firm hand lands on his shoulder.

"Is there a problem here?"

The clone whips around, his face twisting into a scowl. But the moment his eyes land on Rex, his expression falters, and he swallows hard.

"Captain," he manages, the word coming out slightly strangled. Rex arches an eyebrow and looks at you. You shake your head, and his attention returns to the other clone, the look on his face making it abundantly apparent that he's not amused.

"You should leave," Rex says flatly. "Now."

The clone glances at you, the look on his face uncertain. Then, his expression clears, and he smirks.

"It's alright," he says, though his voice has lost some of its bravado. "We were just having a bit of fun. She was asking for it."

Rex's nostrils flare, and his expression darkens. It's a look that would've sent a chill down your spine if it were directed at you. You've never seen Rex this angry before, never seen him so livid. His entire body is rigid, and the anger rolling off of him is so strong, you can practically taste it. 

"Careful, vod," he says quietly, the words dangerously soft. "That's no way to talk to a General."

"General?" 

The clone shifts, his eyes darting from you to Rex and back again. He blinks, his brow furrowing, and the realization dawns on him a moment later.

"Wait a minute," he mutters, the words half-slurred. He takes a step forward, and Rex immediately moves in front of you, blocking his path. "I knew you looked familiar."

"Leave. Now."

"But—"

"Before I make you," Rex threatens, and the clone hesitates, his eyes flickering between the two of you. You glare back at him, and the clone shrinks under the weight of the stare. He wets his lips and gives a jerky nod.

"Fine. I was tired of her, anyway," he mutters, turning away. He glances over his shoulder and sneers. "Kenobi should keep his Jedi on a shorter leash. Not my fault she’s dressed like a whore."

You inhale sharply, and Rex surges forward. His fist connects with the clone's face before the man can react, the blow landing with a force that sends him stumbling back. Rex follows him, grabbing the front of his armor and slamming him against the wall.

The clone yelps, the sound muffled by the hand covering his mouth, and he tries to squirm out of Rex's grasp, but Rex holds him in place, the strength and power behind the grip leaving no doubt as to who would win in a fight.

"Apologize," Rex orders. When the clone doesn't immediately comply, he raises his fist again, his knuckles bruised and bloody. "Now."

"I'm sorry," the clone manages, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. Please."

"Not to me," Rex snarls, and the clone's eyes widen. He twists in Rex's grip and glances over his shoulder, the expression on his face filled with panic. You shake your head and cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow and staring him down.

"I'm sorry," the clone wheezes, his breath ragged and desperate. "Please, General. I'm sorry."

"Better," Rex says coldly. He releases the clone and takes a step back, his shoulders squared and his fists clenched. "If I ever hear about you harassing any woman like this, you won't have to worry about the war anymore. Understand?"

The clone nods frantically, and Rex stares at him for a long moment before nodding.

"Get out of here," he snaps, and the clone scrambles past the two of you, his gaze focused on the floor. Rex watches him go, and once the two of you are alone, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

You watch him, waiting, and it's not until he opens his eyes that you speak.

"Rex, are you—"

"Are you alright?" he interrupts. His voice is tense, and his jaw is clenched, the muscle twitching. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," you assure him. He exhales heavily and presses a hand to his forehead, the relief in his expression enough to make your heart clench. "I'm fine."

"Good," he breathes. 

He closes his eyes again and leans his head against the wall, his breathing slow and measured. You stand next to him, giving him the space and time to compose himself. After a few minutes, he lets out a ragged sigh.

"Are you okay?" you ask quietly.

"Yeah," he says. "I will be. It's...it's been a rough night."

"It's been a rough year," you murmur, and he lets out a soft huff, his lips curling into a smile. "You shouldn't have done that."

Rex looks down, his gaze focusing on the bruises forming on your wrist. He reaches for your arm, and you let him take it, the gentle brush of his thumb over your skin sending a shiver through you.

“You can’t go around punching people just because they look at me wrong," you tell him, and his gaze flickers up.

"I know," he mutters with a grimace, pulling away to wipe the blood off his knuckles. “But he insulted you. He called you a...well, I'm not going to repeat what he said. I'm not going to sit back and let someone disrespect you like that. Especially not a brother."

"He was drunk," you say, and he scoffs, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

"Doesn't matter," he says. He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. "Look, if someone treats you the way he did, then I'm gonna have a problem. You deserve better than that."

"Rex," you protest, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

"You do," he says firmly.

He's staring at you, his expression so intense and earnest and full of emotion that it makes your heart ache. It's nice, the knowledge that he'll stand up for you, the fierce protectiveness a welcome change from the indifference and neglect of the past.

But his reaction also serves as a reminder that his feelings run deeper than friendship, and the memory of what Jesse had said resurfaces.

Rex loves you.

You swallow hard and look away, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach. You can't think about that right now, not after everything that's happened tonight. It's not fair. Not to him. Not to either of you. Not while you're both drunk and vulnerable and raw.

You step away, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.

“There you are," a familiar voice interrupts. Booker comes around the corner, his gaze flitting between you. “Did you see one of Keeli’s boys come through here with his tail between his legs? He didn’t bother you, did he? Because I can...oh."

He comes to a stop in front of Rex, his mouth dropping open as he takes in the bloodied knuckles, the look of annoyance on the Captain’s face, and the tension in the air.

"He did bother you," he says flatly. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," you reply. "It was nothing. Rex took care of it."

"Rex took care of it," he echoes, and you nod, crossing your arms over your chest. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his hands curling into fists. "Alright. Alright. That's fine. Good. Fine. So where is he?"

"Booker," you start, but the clone is already looking at Rex, his eyes hard.

"No, it's fine," he says. His voice is light, but the expression on his face is anything but. "Really. Where is he?”

“You’re not going anywhere, and that’s an order,” you tell him, and when he opens his mouth to argue, you give him a hard look. His eyes flicker from you to Rex, his shoulders tensing, and after a moment, he lets out a heavy sigh and gives a stiff nod.

"Yes, sir."

"And you are bleeding," you snap, turning to Rex. You grab his wrist, tugging him closer, and inspect his knuckles. They're a mess, the skin torn and bloodied, and he winces, his fingers curling. "Let's get this taken care of, and then we'll call it a night, okay?"

"I'll be fine," he says dismissively.

"You can't go back to your men looking like that," you argue. "They'll ask questions, and—"

"I said I'll be fine," he cuts you off. When he sees the irritation on your face, he lets out a heavy sigh and gives you a pleading look. "Look, it's nothing. It's fine. Really. I'll take care of it when I get back.”

You scoff, but he holds your gaze, the stubborn set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes making it abundantly apparent that he's not backing down. Unfortunately for him, you're far more stubborn than he is. And you have no intention of letting him win this fight.

You turn and pull him towards the restroom, the motion making him stumble slightly. He grunts and tries to pull away, but you hold fast, tightening your grip and not looking back. 

“Shut up and walk,” you mutter, and Rex sighs but allows himself to be led, his wrist still clutched in your hand. 

"Wait, wait," Booker calls, hurrying after you.

He catches up just as the two of you reach the women’s room. There’s a line of a half-dozen women outside, but you ignore them, catching the door just as a Twi’Lek leaves and shoving Rex inside. Booker tries to follow, but when the women outside the restroom protest, he gives them a sheepish look and takes a step back, his hands raising in surrender.

"I'll, uh...I'll just stay out here," he calls after you as you close the door, cutting off his protests.

You lock the door and turn back to Rex, whose gaze is roaming around the room, his expression somewhere between shock and bewilderment. You roll your eyes and grab his arm, tugging him over to the sink.

"Stop gawking and put your hand under the water," you tell him, and the command snaps him out of his stupor. He turns the faucet on and puts his hand under the spray, hissing quietly. You lean closer, inspecting the wounds. "How does it feel?"

"Not bad," he says. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and a hint of a teasing smile appears. “You should see the other guy.”

"It's not funny, Rex," you snap. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I disagree," he replies. He flexes his fingers, and after a moment, he pulls his hand from the stream. He leans against the counter and lets out a heavy breath, the humor fading as he studies his knuckles. "That brother is lucky all I did was punch him. If he'd tried to hurt you..."

His voice trails off, and his expression darkens, the threat hanging unspoken between the two of you. You swallow hard and pull away, reaching for the paper towel dispenser. You rip off a piece and turn back to Rex, and when he sees you approaching, the frown on his face deepens.

"Stop," he mutters. "Don't bother."

"Hush," you say. You move closer, pressing the towel against his knuckles, and his brow furrows. "Hold still.”

He obliges, watching you clean the wounds, and it's not until you toss the used paper towel away that he speaks again.

"You don't need to do this," he says quietly. "You should be back at the table with the others. Enjoying yourself. Not wasting your time with me."

"It's not a waste of time," you murmur. You tear off a fresh piece of paper towel and dampen it, your gaze focused on the task. "And I'm not leaving you alone until this is cleaned up."

He chuckles, and the soft noise makes you look up. The smile on his face is warm and affectionate, the fondness in his eyes almost enough to make you stop. Almost. But you force yourself to remain calm, to keep your emotions under control, and you focus on cleaning the last of the blood off his knuckles.

It's a task that would be far easier if your hand wasn't shaking, if your stomach wasn't twisting into knots, if you weren't acutely aware of how close the two of you were. It's a task that would be far easier if everything wasn't shifting, changing. It would be easier if you weren't afraid.

"Look, I'm not going to scold you. I know it's important to you, the respect thing," you mutter. You press the towel a bit harder against his skin, and he sucks in a sharp breath, his gaze flicking up to yours. "But it's not your responsibility. I'm not your responsibility."

"You are," he says, and the response is so quick and sure and certain, it makes your heart skip a beat. "You are. Always. And I know I can't always be there. But I'm always going to try. You can't stop me from doing that."

"I know," you admit with a sigh. You throw the paper towel in the trash and turn to wash your hands, giving yourself a moment to collect your thoughts. The silence is broken by the water running, the quiet splashing a welcome distraction.

When you finish and turn back, Rex is watching you.

“When are we going to stop having this argument?” he asks quietly.

"When you start listening to me," you retort.

His brow furrows, and his lips curl into a pout. It's a look that's meant to appear annoyed, but the effect is ruined by the warmth in his eyes. 

"I'm always listening," he tells you. "Even if I don't agree."

You give a wry smile, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"Yeah," you mutter, "that's the problem."

You tilt his hand, examining the wound. It's not too bad, but the skin is raw, the bruises already starting to form. You press your fingers against the area, and he flinches, the motion making you frown.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," he replies, a little too quickly. When you look up, the sheepish expression on his face makes it abundantly apparent that he's lying. "A bit."

You shake your head and close your eyes, your free hand hovering over his knuckles. You take a deep breath, but before you can begin, his hand moves, his fingers wrapping around your wrist.

"Don't," he murmurs, and you look at him. His gaze is steady and intent, and his touch is light, his thumb brushing across your skin. "Don't. Please. It's fine."

"Rex," you say, and he shakes his head.

"No," he says. He shifts away, pulling his hand out of your grasp. "You're exhausted, and the last thing you need to be doing is healing anyone. Especially not me."

"Rex."

"You're not doing it," he insists, his voice firm.

"I don't care," you reply, and his frown deepens.

"Don't be reckless."

"Me?" you repeat, the question more of a demand than a query. You cross your arms over your chest, and his gaze drops, his attention drawn by the movement. You let him stare for a moment before clearing your throat, and his head snaps up, his cheeks tinged pink.

"Don't be stubborn," he counters, and you roll your eyes.

"Pot. Kettle."

He huffs, the breath leaving his lungs in a quiet hiss, and the annoyance on his face is so familiar and so endearing, it's hard not to smile.

"You are the most infuriating person I've ever met," he mutters. "Do you know that? Sometimes, I swear it's like you're trying to drive me crazy."

"Likewise," you retort. He snorts, his mouth twisting into a smirk, and his eyes drop to the floor. When they return to yours, the heat has faded, replaced by a gentle affection.

"We make quite the pair, don't we?" he murmurs.

The words hit you hard, the meaning behind them even more so. You inhale sharply, and his gaze drops to your mouth, lingering long and slow. A shiver runs through you, and you're dimly aware of the fact that this is the closest you've been to him in weeks. It's easy to forget why it's dangerous, the way he's looking at you. The way he's always looking at you.

And it's getting harder and harder to pretend. To lie.

To hide.

“Give me your hand,” you tell him quietly, and he obeys without hesitation, holding his hand out to you. You take it in both of yours, running your fingers over the damaged skin. His breath catches, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing, and his eyes are filled with something more than just pain.

You take a deep breath, centering yourself, before closing your eyes.

"Hold still,” you murmur.

“You shouldn’t—“

“Shh, I’m concentrating."

Rex sighs, but he doesn't fight you. Instead, he falls silent, the only sound the music from the club and the murmur of voices, the bass pounding a steady rhythm that vibrates the floor. You open yourself to the Force, feeling it flow through you, and when you're sure that you're connected, you focus on his wounds. It's a simple injury, nothing like the time you patched up his leg. A cut. Some bruising. Easy.

But still, it takes a moment, the pain from his bruised flesh seeping into your bones and leaving you breathless. You're more tired than you thought you were, and the alcohol isn't helping, the dizziness and the exhaustion making the task more difficult. 

You can feel the strain in your body, the ache in your muscles, and the heaviness in your limbs. And yet, it's worth it. All of it is worth it, the pain and the discomfort and the exhaustion, because Rex is the one who's hurting, and he doesn't deserve to suffer. He deserves better. He always has.

Finally, the last of the wounds knits itself together, and the connection breaks. Your eyes flutter open to see the skin is whole, the bruises gone, and the only sign that he was ever injured is the few flecks of dried blood still left there.

"See?" you say, your voice coming out more breathlessly than intended. "No big deal."

Your vision blurs, and you blink hard, the world swimming for a moment before coming back into focus. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder, and let out a heavy breath.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. He lays a hand on your back, his fingers pressing lightly against your spine, and the sensation makes your skin prickle. "You shouldn't have done that. It must've hurt."

"It's nothing," you assure him. "It was worth it."

"Worth the pain?" he asks. When you nod against him, he huffs a quiet laugh, his arm curling around you. "Infuriating.”

"Don’t pretend you’re not the same,” you mumble as your eyes drift shut, a small smile spreading across your face. His fingers begin tracing lazy patterns along your spine, and you let out a soft hum and shift closer.

“I’m not the one healing people against their will."

“No, you’re just the one who got in a bar fight," you point out, and he snorts, the movement making your hair sway. "Which was unnecessary. And stupid."

"Yeah, well, you're worth the trouble," he says quietly. He pulls away from you and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thank you."

"Anytime.”

You let out a soft yawn, and his hand moves from your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of your cheekbone. The touch is gentle, and you instinctively lean into it, savoring the warmth of his palm against your skin.

"You look exhausted," he murmurs.

"Thanks," you drawl, and he grins, his head ducking.

"Sorry."

The two of you stand there for a long moment, neither of you moving, neither of you wanting to break the spell. It's easy to pretend, in the silence, that things are different. That the war is over, and the two of you aren't a Jedi and a clone. That the galaxy isn't at war. That there aren't a million reasons why nothing can ever happen between the two of you. It's easy to pretend that this is real, that the feelings are reciprocated, that everything isn't falling apart. It's easy to believe the lie.

And then, a bang echoes through the room, shattering the fragile silence.

"Is everyone alright in there?" Booker calls. Rex’s hand falls away, curling into a fist. "Because this line is getting really long. Also the door's locked. Are you guys alright? Is she alright?"

Rex frowns and lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze flickering to the ceiling. You can't help the giggle that bubbles up and spills past your lips at his exasperation. The scowl on his face deepens, though the corners of his mouth lift slightly.

"I should've hit him, too," he mutters, and you let out a snort.

"We're fine!" you call out. "We'll be out in a minute."

"Take your time," Booker shouts back. "I'm sure no one else is dying to use the restroom."

You roll your eyes, and Rex lets out another huff, his head dropping forward.

"If he weren't a brother," he grumbles, though the words are lacking the bite. He runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. "Alright. I think we should get out of here. Before he breaks the door down."

"Yeah," you agree, nodding. "We should probably do that."

Neither of you move, though, the reluctance on both of your faces unmistakable. Rex opens his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting. Then a second bang echoes through the restroom, and he sighs, his mouth snapping shut.

He leans back, giving you some space, and crosses his arms over his chest, his expression guarded.

"Okay," he says finally, the word coming out strained. "Let's go."

"Wait."

You reach for him, and he turns to you, the surprise on his face giving way to concern.

"What is it?"

You don't know what prompts the action. Maybe the alcohol. Maybe the loneliness. Or maybe it's the look on his face, the tenderness and the vulnerability and the worry, the mixture of emotions so pure and true that it makes your chest tighten.

Whatever the reason, you don't stop yourself from reaching for him. Your hand rests on his shoulder, your thumb brushing the skin above his collar, and you stretch onto your toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. It's nothing more than a peck, a brief, chaste touch, and yet, the moment your lips meet his skin, he freezes. His entire body goes rigid, the muscles under your fingers going taught, and his breath catches, the small, strangled noise echoing in your ears.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide, his jaw slack, and he blinks, his throat bobbing. The expression on his face is priceless, and if the situation were any different, you would've laughed. But as it is, you just smile and pat his chest.

"Thank you," you tell him quietly. "For looking out for me. I appreciate it."

His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out, his lips moving uselessly. After a moment, he manages a jerky nod, and a faint noise escapes his throat. He takes a shaky breath and tries again.

"Always," he croaks, the words coming out hoarse and rough. He clears his throat and straightens. "I should, um...we should...uh..."

"Go?"

"Yeah," he breathes. He gives a jerky nod. "Yeah. Let's, uh, let's do that. Let's go."

"I'll see you out there," you reply, and before he can respond, you turn and unlock the door.

You step outside and let shut the door behind you, the noise from the club assaulting your senses in full force. Booker is slumped against the wall, his head drooping, his arms crossed over his chest. You nudge him with your foot, and his head snaps up, the movement making him sway.

"Hey," he greets, his voice slurring slightly. He squints at you and frowns. "Everything okay?”

"Perfect," you tell him. You glance over your shoulder to see Rex stepping out into the hall, his gaze focused on the floor. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and he runs a hand over his mouth, the gesture doing little to hide the pink tint in his cheeks. "Everything's fine.”

Booker follows your gaze, and his eyebrows lift.

"I, uh...should I even ask?"

"No," Rex answers flatly. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Booker a firm look. "And if anyone asks, you never saw us in here."

"My lips are sealed," Booker promises, miming zipping his mouth closed and throwing away the key. He straightens, pushing off the wall and staggering a bit before righting himself. "Though, if I were to say anything, it would be about the lipstick on your cheek, Captain."

Rex's eyes widen, and his hand flies to his face. He wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, and his brow furrows as he inspects the smear of color on his skin.

"Oh," he mumbles, his fingers brushing the spot where you kissed him. The look on his face is somewhere between embarrassed and pleased, and his gaze flicks to you, a hint of a smile appearing. "I...um..."

"Don't worry," Booker says with a lazy grin. "Your secret's safe with me.

The words hang in the air, and Rex's expression hardens as a jolt of panic races through you. Booker seems to realize the double meaning, his mouth dropping open.

"Uh, I mean...the, uh, fight. Not that other thing. Not that there's an 'other thing' or anything. Because there's not," he stammers, and Rex gives him a withering look. "I'm, uh...yeah, I'm gonna stop talking now."

"Good," Rex nods.

"Good," you repeat, and you clear your throat and turn, gesturing down the hall. "We should get back. The others are probably wondering where we are."

Booker lets out a sigh and runs a hand over his face, his eyes squeezing shut.

"They'll live," he groans.

You arch an eyebrow at him, and his shoulders droop. The earlier bravado has faded, the fatigue and the alcohol taking their toll, and his face is pale, the circles under his eyes pronounced.

"I'm ready to leave," he mutters, his voice slightly hoarse. "My head's killing me."

"That's because you've had too much to drink," you scold, and he scoffs, giving a weak wave of his hand.

"I have not," he says. At your disbelieving look, he smiles sheepishly and scratches the back of his neck. "Maybe a little. Would it be alright if we went back to the barracks?"

You consider him for a moment, and when he doesn't seem to be joking, you sigh and nod.

"Fine. We'll call it a night," you concede. You turn back to Rex. "Are you coming with us?"

"I'm gonna stay a bit longer," he replies. "See if I can track down Hardcase and the others. Make sure they don't get into any more trouble."

"Oh," you murmur. You feel a slight pang of disappointment, but you force a smile and nod. "Alright. Sounds good. Have fun. I'll see you later, then."

Rex steps forward, reaching out and resting a hand on your arm. His fingers slide down your skin until they find your wrist, and his thumb brushes the soft skin just above your pulse point. The touch is featherlight, and yet the effect sends a shiver through you.

"I'll message you later," he promises, his voice quiet enough for only the two of you to hear. “Let me know when you get back safe, alright?"

"Of course," you tell him, and his face softens. His hand slips from your wrist and down to your hand, and he squeezes gently before releasing you.

"Have a good night, sir," he tells you, his tone shifting back to formal. Without another word, he turns and disappears around the corner, leaving the two of you alone.

You watch him go, the disappointment and the affection inside you mixing until the butterflies in your stomach are almost unbearable.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" Booker asks, and you startle.

"Everything's fine," you assure him, though your voice sounds a little too breathless to be convincing. You shake your head and meet his eyes, trying to keep your face neutral. "Let's go. I think we could both use a good night's sleep."

"Fine with me," he agrees.

The two of you make your way down the hall, and once you've pushed through the crowd and stepped out into the street, the cool night air hits your skin. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, the fresh air chasing away the last of the fogginess in your brain. When you open your eyes and turn to Booker, he's leaning against the side of the building, his head tipped back.

"Are you going to make it?" you ask.

"Mhm," he mumbles. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head, his expression determined. "Yeah. I'm good. Let's get going."

The two of you begin walking towards the barracks, the streets quiet except for the occasional vehicle and the chatter from the bars. Booker's pace is slow, his steps heavy, and you glance over at him, taking in his slumped posture and glassy eyes. He looks tired. Drunk. And you have a feeling that by morning, he'll regret the number of drinks he's had.

You sigh and move closer, and he glances at you.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," you tell him. You loop your arm through his and pull him toward you, the motion making him stumble slightly. His brow furrows, and you smile. "You just look like you need a bit of help."

"Thanks," he grumbles, though his arm tightens around yours. He leans his weight against you, and the two of you continue down the sidewalk, your steps falling in sync.

"So," Booker starts after a while. "What happened back there?"

"Nothing."

"Didn’t look like nothing."

"Drop it, Booker," you tell him, your voice firm. "It's none of your business."

He lets out a heavy sigh, and for a moment, you think he'll listen. Then his arm tightens around yours, and his head drops to the side, his frustration giving way to a pleading look.

”At least tell me if you’re okay," he pleads. "Please."

You consider him for a moment, and the genuine concern in his eyes makes you swallow.

"I'm fine," you murmur. "Honestly."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," you say firmly. You give him a gentle nudge and offer him a smile that you hope is reassuring. "I'm alright. Really. Why do you ask?"

"Because," he starts, before he sighs and looks down, kicking a stray piece of trash. "Because you've been through a lot lately. And well...you seem upset. And if he did anything, or said anything, or—"

"It's not him," you say quickly. The interruption seems to surprise him, and you take a deep breath and try again, the words slower and more controlled. "It's not Rex. I swear. He'd never hurt me."

You hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth in them, and he finally nods and glances away, his shoulders sagging.

"Then, what is it?" he presses. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up. "I thought...I mean, earlier, at the bar, I thought that we were having a good time. But you looked upset when I came to check on you, and then you disappeared, and Rex looked like he was ready to kill someone, and you two were alone for a long—“

Booker stops abruptly, forcing you to a stop, and the sudden change in momentum causes you to stumble. You're about to complain, but the look on his face makes the words die in your throat.

"You two weren't..." he begins. He lets out a noise that sounds like a cross between a cough and a choke, his hand flying to his mouth. "Oh. Oh, no."

Your stomach drops, and the blood rushes to your face. You try to pull away, but his arm is like a vice, the grip unwavering.

"That's not—"

"I'm so stupid," he mumbles, cutting you off. His gaze is distant, his expression dazed. "Why didn't I see it before? The looks. The touches. The way you two act together. I'm such an idiot."

"We're not—"

"When he came in looking for you in the medbay, and the way you looked at each other. And he brought you that blanket the other day, and after, in the woods…" he continues, the words tumbling out faster and faster. He blinks hard and turns to you, his mouth hanging open. "Wait, wait. Is he the one you've been messaging? And calling?"

You hesitate, the truth caught in your throat. The answer must be written on your face, because his jaw snaps shut, and he takes a step back, releasing his hold on your arm.

"Oh, Maker," he breathes. "You and him? Really?"

"No," you deny immediately, shaking your head. You cross your arms over your chest and take a step forward, lowering your voice. "Nothing's happening. Nothing can happen. We're friends. That's all."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, the words heavy and sour, and you swallow and shake your head.

"We're just friends," you repeat, the words a little easier this time. "It's nothing. So don't get any ideas, okay?"

His gaze flits over your face, the concern on his expression shifting into something softer.

"Do you want something to happen?" he asks quietly, and you stiffen. "Is that why you've been acting weird?"

You open your mouth, but the words refuse to come, the answer stuck in your throat. You can't force them out, either the truth or the lie, and so you turn and keep walking, leaving him to follow or not.

After a moment, he sighs and catches up with you. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. It isn’t until you’ve walked two blocks in silence that he clears his throat and glances at you.

"I think it's nice."

You blink and turn to him, the surprise making your mouth drop open.

"What?"

"You and Rex," he says with a shrug. "If something did happen, I'd think it's nice. It's better than...than a lot of things. If you two were happy. It'd be good. Really."

"But—"

"Look, if it's a Jedi thing, or a rank thing, or a...whatever thing, I get it," he cuts you off. He gives a sharp shake of his head. "I don't agree, but I get it. And I understand why it's complicated, but..."

He trails off, and you look at him, waiting.

"But what?" you prompt, and his brow furrows as he turns to look at you.

"But just so you know, if you do feel that way about him...well, there are ways around it," he tells you. Booker gives a small shrug, the movement lacking the confidence and arrogance from earlier. Instead, it's a simple gesture, a hint of vulnerability that's rarely seen. "Things we can do to keep it a secret. To protect the two of you."

"We?" you repeat, and he smirks.

"Yeah, 'we'," he confirms. "I could help, if you wanted me to. And I know the rest of the boys wouldn't hesitate, either. Any of them. If you told them, they'd do whatever it took. They'd cover for you, help hide it, whatever. The 501st too. Hell, maybe even the 212th would join in."

"Really?"

"Really," he nods. He turns to you and offers a crooked smile. "I'm not just saying that, either. I'm serious. If you asked us, we'd do it."

"Booker, I..."

You trail off, and he looks at you, waiting. The street around the two of you is empty, the late hour and the cool breeze keeping people indoors. It's just the two of you, and the silence feels deafening. You glance around, your gaze falling on a bench, and you make your way over, Booker following without question.

Once you've sat down, you take a deep breath and release it slowly, looking up at the night sky.

"You can't say anything. To anyone," you tell him quietly. You glance over to see him looking at you, the seriousness in his eyes mirroring the tone in your voice. "Please. Not a word."

"I won't," he promises.

You search his eyes, looking for a lie, but you find none. He holds your gaze, steady and sure, and the anxiety in your stomach fades slightly. After a moment, you nod and turn back to the sky, staring at the stars.

"Rex and I, we're not...It's complicated," you begin. "There's feelings, but...they can't come to anything. There's too much at stake. For both of us. And I won't risk his career for my own happiness. I can't. I won't. No matter how much I want to."

"But—"

"No, Booker," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You know what would happen to him if we got caught. He'd be court martialed or sent to reconditioning. Maybe worse. And I'd get a slap on the wrist and a stern talking-to. But for him...he'd lose everything. And for what? Just so we can be happy for a little while?"

"Yeah, but—"

"And that's not even considering the other complications," you add. You lean back against the bench and tilt your head up, watching the clouds roll by. "It'd never work. The long-distance, the stress, the pressure. How could we ever have a future? A real future. We can't."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is," you insist. You look at him and sigh, the disappointment and the regret settling in your stomach. "You know it is. There's no future for us. Not really. So whatever this is, it can't go any further. It won't. Because he deserves better. More."

"And you?"

"Me?"

"What about you?" he repeats. He rests his forearms on his knees, leaning closer. "Don't you deserve to be happy? Even for a little while? Doesn't he?"

"Not if it means putting his life on the line," you say. "Not if it means losing him. Because that's the end result, isn't it? Whether we get caught or not, I'll lose him."

"You're gonna lose him anyway."

You blink and stare at him, and he gives a one-shouldered shrug, his expression resigned.

"That's the reality, isn't it? We're clones," he points out, the words making your heart clench. "We're not meant to have forever. None of us. But does that mean we don't deserve a chance? At least a little happiness? Before we're gone?"

His words settle heavily in the silence, and you shift uncomfortably. After a moment, you let out a heavy sigh and meet his gaze.

"That's not fair," you tell him, your voice thick. "And it's not right."

"Maybe not," he admits. "But it's the truth. Us clones don't get a lot of choices, but this is one thing we should have a choice in. We should be able to make our own decisions, and our own mistakes. That's not yours to worry about. And he'd choose you. You know he would. In a heartbeat."

The words echo in your mind, the truth in them settling into your bones and sinking deeper, until it's almost suffocating. The thought is both wonderful and horrible, and it fills you with hope and fear. Hope that the two of you can have a future, no matter how brief, and fear that the future will be ripped away, leaving nothing but pain and heartbreak behind. It's a painful cycle, and the uncertainty is almost too much.

Your shoulders sag, and you lean forward, resting your head in your hands. Your fingers tangle in your hair, the motion tugging at the strands, and a small part of you wishes that it would hurt, that the sharp pain would chase away the confusion and the fear and the doubt.

"I don't want him to," you whisper, the words coming out choked. You swallow and try again. "I don't want him to give up everything he's worked for. His entire life, his identity, his freedom...I don't want him to throw that away, just for me. I'm not...I'm not worth it."

"Hey, hey," he says gently. "Of course, you are."

You shake your head, the movement causing the tears to spill down your cheeks. You let out a shaky breath and press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to stem the flow. It doesn't work, though, and the tears continue to fall, the quiet hiccuping sobs making your chest ache.

"Oh, c'mere," he murmurs.

He reaches over and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. You curl against him, pressing your face against his chest, and his fingers stroke your hair, the touch comforting. You close your eyes and let the tears fall, the weight on your chest easing slightly.

You don't know how long the two of you sit there, his hand in your hair and his arm around your shoulders, his quiet murmurings of reassurance filling the silence. Eventually, the tears dry up, the hiccuping sobs becoming sniffles, and he lets out a chuckle.

"This is nice," he murmurs. "This is the most affection I've gotten from you, ever."

You roll your eyes and huff a watery laugh, and you pull away to glare at him.

"Seriously," he adds, smirking. "I like this side of you. Very snuggly. You should let yourself cry more often."

The comment makes your eyes well up again, the tears threatening to fall, and the smug expression on his face melts. He frowns and pulls you closer, his fingers continuing their soothing motion.

"Too soon?" he asks quietly, and you nod. "Sorry. I'll stop."

You nod again, and the two of you sit there, his fingers working through the tangles. The silence lasts for a few moments before he clears his throat and speaks, the words coming out slowly.

"Do you love him?" he asks, and you swallow hard, the question catching you off guard. "Do you love him?"

"Yes," you admit, the word escaping before you can stop it. You pause and shake your head, the confession spilling past your lips. "I think so. I do. I love him."

Booker doesn't say anything, the only noise the wind blowing past and the occasional passing vehicle. You sit there, your eyes shut, your heart pounding, the confession weighing on you. It's the first time you've said the words out loud, even allowed yourself to think them, and the weight of them is enough to leave you breathless.

When Booker speaks again, his voice is quiet and careful, the words soft.

"Does he know?"

"I don't know," you whisper. "I don't think so. I don't...we haven't..."

Your words trail off, the sentence unfinished, but the unspoken meaning is apparent.

"Oh," he murmurs. His hand moves to your shoulder, his grip gentle. "Oh, well...that makes things complicated, doesn't it?"

"You think?"

The dry response makes him huff a quiet laugh.

"Well, if it helps, I'm pretty sure he loves you too," he says, and your heart skips a beat. "I mean, it's not exactly a secret. The way he acts around you, the way he looks at you, the way he talks about you...it's pretty kriffing noticeable."

"Really?"

"Definitely," he nods. "I knew the first time I saw you two together."

You pull away and look at him. "How can you be sure?"

He lets out a short laugh, the noise tinged with disbelief. "How can I be sure? Are you serious? Look, I might not have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but even I can see it. I can't imagine a clone being as close with a Jedi as Rex is with you and not loving them."

"It's not like that," you protest. "We're just friends."

"Friends don't kiss each other."

"I kissed him on the cheek."

"Right, because that's such a normal thing to do," he scoffs, and your cheeks heat. "You two aren't friends. Or if you are, you're friends with some seriously confusing boundaries."

"Booker," you say warningly, and he shakes his head, raising his hands in surrender.

"Look, the point is," he begins. He lowers his hands and lets out a heavy breath, his expression softening. "It's a tough situation. And it's complicated, and risky, and...well, honestly, it sucks. But it's also a good thing. It could be a really good thing. For both of you. You just need to stop being a coward."

Your eyes narrow, and an offended huff leaves your throat.

"A coward," you repeat. "Really?"

He nods. "Really."

"You really have a way with words, you know that?"

"So, I've been told," he agrees. He offers a small smile, the look fading into one of thoughtfulness. "And maybe it's the alcohol, but I'm feeling a bit philosophical right now. So here's another piece of advice. Do what makes you happy. Life's too short to be miserable. And if anyone tries to make you feel bad about it, they can go fuck themselves. Or better yet, we'll beat them up for you. The boys would love a chance to take a swing at someone."

You snort, the noise escaping before you can stop it. The visual is ridiculous and absurd, and yet, somehow, you're sure he's not kidding. If anything, the idea of the men taking turns laying into anyone who gives you grief, and thoroughly enjoying it, is the most believable part of his speech.

"Thanks, Booker," you tell him, and his grin broadens. "That was, uh, surprisingly insightful."

"It's a gift," he replies. He stands and holds out his hand, and you take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. You sniffle and wipe your cheeks, giving him a grateful smile. It's a bit wobbly, and it's a struggle to keep your lower lip from trembling, but you manage to hold it together.

You let go of his hand and wrap your arms around his waist, squeezing gently. He stiffens, clearly not expecting the embrace, but after a moment, his arms fold around you. His chin comes to rest on the top of your head, his body warm and solid.

"Thank you," you mumble into his chest, and you pull back slightly, tilting your head to meet his eyes. "Really. Thank you. For listening, and...well, everything else. I really appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

He ducks his head, his cheeks turning pink, and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Don't go soft on me," he mumbles, the words laced with embarrassment.

"Right," you laugh, and you cross your arms. "Sorry. It's just with all the compliments, and the advice, and the kindness, and the compassion...I thought that we were friends. But if you'd rather we go back to being strangers..."

You turn and begin walking away, and a hand closes around your arm, stopping you.

"Hey, no," he protests, pulling you back. "Nope. No take-backs. We're friends. Good friends. Best friends, even. Just don't expect any more kind words or deep conversations, okay? At least not when I'm sober."

"Okay," you agree. You hold out your hand, and he takes it, his grip firm. "Deal."

"Deal," he nods.

Booker looks down at your hand, his grin faltering slightly, and you notice for the first time just how much he's swaying. His face has gone from flushed to pale, and his eyes have a glassy sheen. His jaw is clenched, his mouth pressed into a tight line, and his gaze is fixed on a spot somewhere above your head.

"You alright?" you ask. When he doesn't respond, you step closer, peering up at him. "Are you going to be sick?"

He blinks, his brow furrowing, and he turns his attention to you.

"Yeah, just..." he mutters, and before he can finish, a gag escapes, the sound making your stomach turn. “I’m gonna go throw up in that trash can now, if that's okay with you."

"That's fine," you say quickly.

You take a step back as he shuffles away, stumbling a few feet before stopping in front of a nearby trash can. He leans over it, his shoulders heaving, and you wince and look away. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" you call, and he lifts his hand and waves his arm in a dismissive gesture.

"Never better," he chokes out.

The reply is followed by a retching noise, and you grimace. You sigh and walk over to him, pulling his hair back and giving his back a few reassuring pats. The two of you stand there, the sounds of traffic and gusts of wind filling the air, until he finally stands upright and takes a shaky breath.

"Sorry," he mutters, his face pale.

"It's okay," you assure him. You take a step back, giving him room to breathe, and he sighs and runs a hand over his face.

"Let's never do this again."

"Agreed."

Booker nods and takes another breath, his brow furrowing. "I don't feel so good."

"Come on," you tell him, reaching for him. You wrap an arm around his waist and help him stumble forward. "We'll get back to the barracks, and I'll fix you up. Then we can put this whole mess behind us."

He nods, his movements jerky, and he lets you lead him down the sidewalk.

“You’re a good friend, too," he mumbles after a while.

You glance up at him, and his head is drooping, his eyes half-closed. You let out a quiet laugh and squeeze his waist.

“Thanks.”

You tighten your grip on him, and the two of you keep walking, the silence more comfortable than it was before. You look up at the stars, and despite the pain in your chest, the heaviness in your limbs, and the tears on your cheeks, the knot inside your stomach eases slightly.

You're not sure what will happen. Whether Rex really does the same way. If the two of you will have a chance, a real chance, or if this is all you’ll ever be. You don't know if the war will ever end, or if it'll consume everything, and you don't know if either of you will make it out alive. But the one thing you do know is that the path you've chosen, the road ahead of you, is a better one than the life you had before.

Because even if it's not meant to be, even if it's too much or not enough, at least you have people who care about you. And that's better than nothing at all.

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@sugarrush-blush @lunaastars @capricornrabies @champagnejaig @silly-starfish

[writingtraumaforever]

Uncontrolled Chaos: Chapter 45

Notes: Kinda mad about this chapter because I feel like it started off pretty good, and then a lot happened during this week family-wise that threw off my whole groove. Everything is okay, though, and that's what's important! However, when I tried to finish it this weekend, we were under a constant tornado watch and dealing with some rough storms, so my brain was just-- AHHH. But anyway. Here ya go. Lol

Summary: Tails and Eggman struggle to find their groove. Sonic and Sage have a talk.

UC Masterpost!

Link to my AO3!

Start:

“Stop touching my stuff!”

“How am I suppose to help you, you dumb rodent, if I can’t touch anything in this confounded shop!”

“Where’s your tools??”

“I brought what I could in the Flying Egg! Forgive me for not having invented a way to store infinite materials in a small space, yet!”

“Maybe you’d have more space to bring stuff if you’d lose some of the extra weight!”

“Why you little—!”

“Hey! Hey! What is going on out here??” Sonic walks into the garage from inside the house carrying sandwiches for himself, his little brother, and the doctor. The human had been demanding to be fed, needing to ‘power his brain’, so Sonic had begrudgingly excused himself to go inside and whip them up a quick lunch. Mostly because he wasn’t sure when the last time Tails took the time to sit and eat a proper meal even was. 

“He keeps swiping my tools when I turn my bad, and I need them to work!” the agitated kit huffs, baring his teeth with clenched fists at his sides at the egg-shaped man towering over him.

“I’m working too! And I only have so many resources here!” Eggman immediately counters with a growl.

Sage is floating behind her father looking as though she’s experiencing a headache from all this bickering— even though that’s quite literally not possible given she’s only an AI being.

Looks like even AI aren’t immune to Eggman’s grating voice..

“Maybe you guys should- I dunno- work together??” Sonic suggests as he places the tray of sandwiches down between the two on the workbench. His hands moving to rest on his hips as he looks from his little bro to the evil doc and then back to his bro and shrugs, “Just a thought.”

“I’m trying, Sonic!” Tails insists, not even wanting to let his big brother down, but looking quite at a loss right now, “ But how am I suppose to work with someone who’s so— so difficult!”

“‘Difficult’?! I resent that! I am not difficult!.. Are those gluten free?? And I don’t like the crusts still being on my sandwiches.”

Sonic looks between Eggman and the sandwiches he just made, his quills bristling in agitation now.

Yeah.

‘Not difficult’ alright.

“You didn’t say they had to be gluten free when I went to go fix them,” Sonic grumbles between clenched teeth.

“Well I wasn’t aware you’d be making sandwiches. I have to watch my diet, you know! Unlike you insolent cockroaches, some of us aren’t graced with the metabolism of a twelve year old,” the man huffs, patting his stomach.

“Maybe if you’d get out of your ‘Flying Egg’ now and then, your metabolism wouldn’t be so shot,” Tails mutters from behind Sonic, the blue hedgehog sighing and glancing back at his little brother before looking at the doctor.

“We don’t have gluten free bread here.”

“Then run to the store and get some! You’re the fastest thing alive, surely that’s not too much trouble,” the doctor teases with a menacing little grin and twist of the tip of his ‘stache between his thumb and index finger.

“And leave you here alone with Tails??? Not a chance,” Sonic huffs with an eye roll, “I’ll find something in the kitchen that works.. in the mean time, at least try to work together??”

“Easier said than done,” Tails huffs, turning back to the workbench to grab a sandwich and take a bite.

“I work better alone,” Eggman agrees with a gruff little ‘hmph’ and crossing of his arms.

Sonic felt more like a babysitter than a hero in this moment.

Sighing, Sonic tried to mediate.

“Come on. We have less than five days before the world explodes or somethin’. I know you’re both stressed and probably feel a lot of pressure right now. But you guys are easily the smartest people I’ve ever met— don’t push it, Egghead.”

Sonic had seen him about to tease Sonic for the compliment, and he wasn’t having it.

“My point is that if anyone can put their heads together and figure this out with plenty of time to spare, you two are our best bet. Besides.. you both can’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious as to what you can accomplish with your combined smarts. You’re always on opposite sides! Take advantage of the rare occasion where you’re working together and pick each others’ brains and stuff! You’re both people of science, you’ve gotta be dying to learn from each other at least a little..”

There’s a pause.

Tails looking from his sandwich up to Eggman.

Eggman side-eyeing the fox from his arms-crossed position beside him.

then they both deflate with a sigh.

Nodding their heads at one another definitively.

“Alright,” Tails agrees reluctantly, “I’ll share my stuff.”

“And I suppose I’ll try and be less.. difficult,” Eggman mutters a shrug.

“That’s the spirit!” Sonic grins, moving to ruffle his brother’s bangs to which the kit grins and shoves his hand away, “I’ll get on the gluten free lunch.”

Sonic spins on his heels to make his way back inside. He’s not much of a chef, honestly. His food-making skills only range so far. 

..

Shadow was always the one to cook..

He frowns at the thought.

He misses him so much..

He hopes he’s handling all this well in the other world. He’s gotten much better at taking on high-stress situations over the years, but Sonic can’t help but worry still. 

At least they got one good conversation in before being told they couldn’t use the radio anymore.

Making his way into the kitchen, he takes a moment to just.. breathe. It’s hard being the hero sometimes. A lot of times, actually. Shadow always helped. Would assure him he didn’t have to carry the load alone or put on a brave face for the sake of everyone else.

Starfall Islands had been a hard lesson learned for Sonic on the fact that he can’t take everything on alone.. he doubts any of that would’ve ended well for him mentally or physically if Shadow hadn’t been there with him..

But Shadow isn’t here now.

He’s in some other world, and Sonic is left feeling once again like everyone is depending on him to put on a brave face and fix everything..

Sometimes it’s all just.. too much.

He leans forward against the counter, head in his hands with elbows propped on the countertop. He rubs down his face and lets his eyes shift over to the coffee maker resting there.. untouched and unused for weeks now..

“Do you have chicken??”

“Woah!” Sonic nearly jumps out of his skin, quills raising defensively as he spins around to find Sage floating there before him.

He swallows. Takes a deep breath and sighs out, “Gaia, Sage, don’t sneak up on a hog like that..”

“Baked chicken is an easy gluten free alternative. I usually pair it with broccoli and ranch sides.”

Sonic blinks at the AI, quirking a brow before nodding and, “Yeah… yeah, we’ve got chicken. And broccoli in the fridge, I think.”

He moves to open the freezer and pull out the chicken, turning on the sink water to a lukewarm to let it fill a bit before resting the chicken in it to thaw. Then he’s moving to grab out the broccoli stalk and place it on the cutting board to chop up. Grabbing a knife, he holds the step and begins cutting off the florets in bite-sized pieces.

He’s silent as he does this. Eyes focused on the task at hand. He ain’t great with his cutting skills or a knife in general, so it takes him a bit longer than most.

A few minutes pass.

”You are uncharacteristically quiet,” Sage interrupts the silence, floating behind Sonic still with her monotone voice, “Scans do not show any signs of physical illness. Perhaps it is a mental distraction?”

“Just got a lot on my mind, Sage,” the blue hedgehog responds non-committedly, shrugging his shoulders as he continues cutting.

“Is it because your partner is gone?”

“Probably,” Sonic smirks a bit, quirking a brow back at the AI girl before looking back to the broccoli.

“…I am sure Shadow is alright. He showed great initiative and quick thinking skills on Starfall Islands. His survival chances are very high if the end of the world is dismissed.”

“And what are his chances if the end of the world isn’t dismissed??” Sonic asks before he can think better of it.

“Slim to none.”

Yeah. Bad idea asking. Sage was pretty brutally honest.

“Sheesh, no sugar-coating with you, huh??” Sonic chuckles awkwardly, “Though, I guess all our chances are slim to none?”

“That is correct.”

Sonic lets out an amused huff through his nose, finishing the broccoli and moving to preheat the oven now, “great..”

“But… I have seen you and your friends overcome these odds before,” Sage adds. And Sonic would say she was almost trying to sound optimistic. He quirks a brow at her, pulling out an oven pan and setting it down before grabbing out the chicken from the sink that wasn’t even halfway thawed. Oh well. It’ll thaw in the oven.

“Yeah. We’ll get through this. I ain’t sweatin’ it,” Sonic shrugs with a wink. Sage doesn’t seem too convinced of his confidence. Though, it’s really hard to read Sage’s face in general.

Sonic moves then to remove some of the chicken from the bag and place it on the oven pan before setting it right inside to roast, hopping up to sit on the counter and absentmindedly eat a few of the broccoli pieces he cut up.

Sage watches him. Sonic isn’t exactly sure why she’s in here rather than outside with her father and Tails, but he chalks it up to Sage always being curious about the ways the organic mind works in stressful situations. He remembers how she’d follow him around on Starfall Islands insisting he stood no chance and constantly being pessimistic just to watch how he’d respond. Like it was all some sort of simulation to her and nothing more..

Though, by the end of it, he’d say she came considerably closer to feeling legitimate emotions and processing them.. 

He knows there were plenty of times she’d stalk Shadow, too..

He remembers one time in particular when Sonic was experiencing the worst of the cyber corruption, and Shadow forced him to take a breather and rest for a bit..

He remembers waking up to the sounds of Sage questioning Shadow as his boyfriend rubbed his fingers through the blue quills resting in his lap..

‘You too experience the same amount of corruption as him, and yet.. you pretend it is easier for you and put his needs before your own. Why??’

‘…He pushes himself too hard.. if he doesn’t have someone slowing him down, he’ll run himself to death..’

‘And he lets you slow him down??’

‘…I suppose he does.’

“Shadow wouldn’t approve of your fake smile,” Sage says abruptly, snapping Sonic from his memories. 

His brows furrow at that, looking at the girl with a little tilt of his head before he offers a chuckle and, “Come again?”

“Your smile. It focuses primarily on your mouth with little to no eye movement. My observations have shown that a true smile involves the muscles around one’s eyes.. your smile is not real.”

Sonic frowns then, rolling his eyes and looking away, “Yeah, well… I’m just trying to be brave is all. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“There is also nothing wrong with slowing down,” Sage responds all too knowingly, Sonic’s eyes snapping back to her.

He doesn’t speak.

“…It is alright to be scared right now. All things considered, it’s more troublesome for you to be happy in such a disorienting time.”

“What are you, my mom??” Sonic snarks.

“Being defensive will not solve your problem.”

Sonic sighs at that, looking away as he kicks his dangling feet back and forth over the side of the counter.

“…I’m just-… I miss Shadow,” Sonic admits finally, “He was my rock during times like this.. the only person I felt I could be vulnerable with. And he’s not here.. and now he—… he might not ever be here. And the fate of that lies in the hands of my little bro and Baldy Nosehair, and all they can do is bicker and fuss and—...”

He sighs and rubs a hand back through his own quills before shrugging and looking back to Sage.

“..I just wish I could skip forward to five days from now when everything is okay and back to normal. Because I know it will be eventually. It always is… it just doesn’t feel that way right now.”

Sage is quiet as she listens. Processes…

And then she floats closer to sit herself next to Sonic.

“I have watched you and your friends beat the odds time and time again.. this time will be no different. You will reunite with your significant other.”

Sonic can’t help but smile a bit at that.

With his eyes this time.

Then he snorts as he looks the girl up and down,

“What happened to our chances being ‘slim to none’??”

“Statistically, they are,” Sage responds simply making the hero chuckle and roll his eyes.

“Alright then. And so where’d the confidence come from??”

Sage hums. Ponders this a moment. And as glitchy blue eyes meet tired, emerald ones, her answer feels more fitting than ever.

“Inevitable fate.”

[anadrym]

Extended Author's Notes for Left Behind Ch11.

Spoilers!

Chapter title is from "Unbecoming" by Starset, one of my all-time favorite bands. If you're into hard rock, I cannot recommend them enough.

The bite of croissant is gone. Cait's running on a few bites of buttered roll. She's fine.

The Baroness's assignment for Caitlyn was just "go to this address and kill the man who lives there." Nothing more specific. Almost like it's just a random address and a random victim.

I went back in just last week to add in the thoughts about how they're going to get out because I want it to be very clear that they have no plan. Yes, Caitlyn is very practical and tries to plan ahead, but she is overwhelmed and exhausted and running on a single buttered roll. There are so many things standing between them and their freedom.

Crassus is totally asking for what he gets. I hate him. :)

I really like the bit about monsters and circumstances vs. choice. It's been seven to eight years since the events of S2, so Cait's had a lot of time to think about and come to terms with that difference.

We are establishing right here that Caitlyn has learned to pick locks. This might be something to remember during chapter 13.

As I'm reading through this, I'm realizing that I don't have a whole lot to say about this chapter. Fun fact: this is the shortest chapter so far at just over 3200 words. My general goal is 3000-5000, but I really try for upwards of 3500.

Hmm. Something about the man potentially reaching for a weapon and Caitlyn pointing her rifle at his wife. Something about threatening someone's loved one to make them comply.

Had to throw in a baby. Not just to tug at y'all's heartstrings, but also to get to Caitlyn. All of this started because she lost her father. And now she's aiming for another innocent, about to rob another child of their dad.

I never did decide whether it was the Baroness or Crassus who wants this guy's death to be as painful as possible.

I absolutely LOVE delving into Caitlyn being selfish. Because she both is and isn't (as most people are). She is fiercely loyal to both her ideals and her loved ones, and she's constantly struggling to find the balance between the two. Because she is willing to do absolutely terrible things to avenge/protect her loved ones, but she's also got a strong sense of justice. She took power, but still tried to not be cruel with it. She had the chance to kill Jinx and didn't. As Ghost, she's tried to only take bounties on actual criminals and only killed people who she really felt deserved it. She executed two people at the commemoration, but it was partly out of mercy. I think she's a lot more aware of the bad things, so she sees herself as more selfish than she is.

Crassus reporting early that Cait had completed the assignment... that seals his fate. Now whoever's monitoring the radio expects Crassus and Caitlyn to both return, with Crassus keeping Caitlyn "under control." No one is expecting her to come back without him, or to attack them as soon as she returns.

The whole "what did he do?" exchange is inspired in part by a scene in the Bourne movies.

The parallels of our girls both thinking about all the blood on their hands. :(

I debated having Crassus threaten to "shut that thing [baby] up" but it didn't really fit.

OKAY. So. There's two things about Caitlyn thinking about how Vi would hate this: First, one of you pointed out that Vi stopped Cait from killing the Baroness's men in the last chapter and, now that Vi's not here, Cait kills Crassus. Excellent point that I honestly hadn't even thought of! Second, Cait muses that Vi wouldn't want her to kill innocent people. So she doesn't. But this is one of those things that she'll feel selfish about, because she did just permanently maim an innocent person.

I actually don't have a whole lot to say about killing Crassus except that he totally deserved it and I hope it caught you at least a little by surprise. ;)

Also, I find it so funny that Cait starts this chapter with "I want to hit him in the face" and ends it by just straight up killing him.

Caitlyn refuses the title of Sheriff. Earlier, she told Petra that she was supposed to protect the people of Piltover and Zaun, but fled during the Purge instead of staying to fight for them. But here she is, taking out a direct threat (Crassus) to protect her people (her target and his family).

"He may never walk again" - Baby girl, you blew his knee apart with a rifle. He definitely will never walk again, at least not without a mobility aid or prosthesis.

Yeah, just to clarify, this family has absolutely nothing to do with the Baroness or any of her enemies or allies. They were chosen completely at random. Originally, I had the idea of having Caitlyn sent after a traitor, but I think this would be a better test. She could justify killing someone with ties to organized crime. But not innocents.

Will this man get medical attention? Will the Baroness send someone else after this family out of sheer spite? We'll never know.

Caitlyn about Crassus' body: (John Mulaney voice) "Hm. Gross. Clean it up!"

It's not really important, but the husband is from Piltover and the wife is from Zaun (which is why she says what she does).

Originally, the voice on the radio was one of Crassus' buddies, another guy who was in on the bet. But I changed it. Without giving too much away, it's a woman's voice and she's calling for people to come to the mansion specifically because it's vulnerable without the Baroness and a number of her men there.

"Who would dare attack Renata Glasc?" Well...

Teaser for next week (major spoiler?) (I'm so fucking excited for this one, guys):

"Number 6."

That is not my name.

"Kill."

There is fire welling up in her chest, burning in her veins. She looks, one more time, at her reflection and the tattoo below her left eye. Then she meets the cruel purple gaze in the mirror.

"No," Vi says.

[bubblegumrabbitwriting]

Dev update/blog

Hi Guys,

I thought I would do a bit of a dev blog, as there haven't really been any updates from me for what feels like a while. At the moment I feel like I'm in a weird place with Blink, where I'm not getting anywhere near as much done as I would like, but I'm way happier with the overall quality of the writing and have a lot more of a solid outline and plan for what I want the story to be and hopefully convey.

Originally I wanted to have the whole of chapter 1 done by the end of February; I don't know if I was just being overly optimistic or if I just overestimated how much I could write, but that obviously wasn't possible. The new plan is to have the rest of Chapter 1 split in two, with the rest of the mansion infiltration coming out by the end of March and then the rest of Chapter 1 coming out by the end of April.

Once both of the above parts are done, I will be working on some of the customisation flavour text and then doing a merge of all the chapter 1 files just to make it easier for me to keep track of.

The timelines might be done sooner, as I'm basing them off the amount of writing at the moment, which has mostly only been one day every week due to overtime I'm having to do at work and some personal commitments, but hopefully I should be able to free up some time to get my teeth stuck into just writing the story to the best of my ability.

I just wanted to say a big thank you to you guys for asking questions and just actually being interested in the character, the world and the story overall. The idea of 50 people being interested in the story was amazing for me to see that so many more people have actually taken a chance to read the story. Even with some of the flaws with grammar and pacing in the earlier parts of Chapter 1, it is amazing, so a massive thank you to you guys. 💖

There should be more updates and answers to asks soon; thank you all again. 😊

[goldenlionprince]

wash away our sins

and another part for @sorenphelps The Bodyguard AU! So let's see what happens now after James shot Voldemort. Art mentioned in this chapter is the comic "the Grim returns" as well as the shower scene (my favourite piece of art ever, I'm not biased at all) "guard down" (look at it and scream about it with me)

This one got long. Please blame Lau for it 😂

if you want to check out previous parts of mine, I have a collection on AO3 for all of them. tags for @neverenoughmarauders @lovelymasks

.

The way out of the steel room is a bit of a blur to James. There is screaming, Death Eaters are running. Chaos.

And a lot of blood.

James makes his way down the wide hallways, still clutching the gun in his hands, until there is a familiar voice mixed into all the screaming. He follows it until he finally finds Sirius, stabbing repentantly into a Death Eater on the floor, screaming at the man to die.

By the look of the stabbed body he already did just that.

But James doesn't really care for the Death Eater. All he sees is Sirius. He drops the gun, which is probably unwise in this situation, and drops down on his knees, hugging Sirius from behind, which is probably also unwise because of the knife. “I'm here,” he says into the back of Sirius' neck, holding him even tighter. “It's okay. You can stop now. I'm here.”

The gasp that comes out of Sirius doesn't sound healthy. He sounds like someone drowning, finally coming up for one precious breath of air. “James?”

“I'm here.”

The knife clatters to the floor and just like that James has his arms full of Sirius, clinging to him in a way that will probably leave bruises, sobbing into his shirt. The words coming out of his mouth, muffled against fabric and skin, are incoherent, jumping between confessions of love and pleas for forgiveness. For what, James isn't entirely sure.

“I thought I was too late.”

“I'm okay,” James says, brushing away tears from blood splattered cheeks. “I'm fine. It's okay.”

The ring of a phone interrupts Sirius' panicked spiral. He pulls away from James, just a little so he can get the phone out of his pocket. The phone screen shows a dinosaur emoji.

“Do you have him?” Remus asks as soon as Sirius picks up.

“Yes,” Sirius answers, the word sounding punched out of him

“You need to leave.” Remus' voice is urgent now. “Grab James and get out of there as fast as you can. Do you understand? That's your top priority now.”

“Understood,” Sirius says and hangs up. And just like that his whole demeanour changes. It's eerie to watch him put his feelings firmly behind a wall, a whole meltdown put away just to push himself further. He wipes his eyes one more time and then gets up, focused like a hunting dog with a new mission.

“Come on,” Sirius says and James gets up as well, blood sticking to his shirt and sweatpants now. Sirius grabs his wrist and they make their way to the exit.

More bodies line the way. More blood.

And then they are outside and James recognizes the burned warehouse. He's been here before with Rosier Jr. and his people when all the things with his knee shot had happened.

James wonders if Rosier is one of the many bodies on the floor.

Sirius pulls him along, his bloody fingers tight around James' wrist, like he's afraid that if he lets go of James he'll just vanish. James stumbles after him over the debris on the abandoned parking lot until they get to a car parked behind a partly collapsed wall.

James has seen this car before. He recognises it from Sirius' days off. It's the same car that usually brings Sirius back to James' apartment after a day spent with Remus.

“Get in,” is all Sirius says, finally letting go of James so he can get around the car to the passenger side, but his eyes won't leave James even for a moment. He only gets into the car too when James closes his door.

“Did you steal Remus' car?” James asks, putting on his seatbelt.

“Borrowed,” Sirius says and selects one of the saved addresses on the GPS screen, then immediately gets them out of the parking lot without even putting on a seatbelt first.

They drive in tense silence that's only interrupted every now and then by the computer generated voice of the GPS telling them where to go.

James doesn't know what to say. There is a lot he probably should be saying after their fight and the kidnapping and Sirius' little breakdown, but for the first time in a long while James doesn't know how to get words out of his mouth.

How do you say thank you to someone when thank you feels like the most inadequate thing ever?

Sirius' knuckles are white around the steering wheel, at least the bit of skin that peeks through the blood on his hands. He's staring at the road like that's his new mission, still James can feel the car swerve a little every now and again.

“Are you okay?” James finally says into the silence of the car.

He only gets a grunt for an answer. Then the car jerks again.

James frowns. Even with his jaw clenched and his eyes focused, Sirius looks more and more exhausted. His hands shake a little, even with their tight grip. His breathing sounds off too. Tears still cling stubbornly to his lashes.

“Stop the car.”

Sirius sighs like he was waiting for James to say that, and jerks the steering wheel to the side. It's not elegant at all but the car stops at the side of the road and not in a ditch, so that's something.

Closing his eyes, Sirius leans his head back on the headrest of his seat. James unbuckles his seatbelt, but before he can open the door or say anything at all, the car fills with the raspy sound of laughter.

Sirius laughs, but it doesn't sound like his usual barking laugh full of joy. This one sounds exhausted and resigned and on the edge of spiralling again.

James watches him concerned.

“If you want to walk from here, it will take you quite a while,” Sirius says when his laughter subsides a little. “Let me drive you at least a little closer to the city before you get out of the car.”

“What?” James asks before he realizes what Sirius is saying. “I'm not leaving the car or you, I'm taking over. Saving my arse will be totally pointless if you kill us both on our way to safety.”

“But I'm so good at killing. It would be a very Shakespearian end to it all, don't you think? He'd love that.” Sirius laughs again, the sound of it a little unhinged as he looks at his bloody hands on the steering wheel. “I am in blood. Steeped in so far, that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er.”

James frowns. “Are you quoting Shakespeare?”

“Why should I not, seeing as he is so right about things?” Sirius asks, a much posher London accent peeking through. His head falls forward, resting on the back of his hands. “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

“Okay,” James says slowly. “I'm still taking over the car.”

“I'm fine,” Sirius snaps. What a stubborn piece of work.

“Sure you are.” James opens his door, not in the mood for another argument. “I'm still gonna drive.”

He gets out of the car and walks around it to the driver's side, then opens Sirius' door since he hasn't moved yet at all. “Move over, Soldier Boy.”

Sirius looks up at him, then sighs and, much to James' surprise, really moves over to the passenger seat without arguing more.

James slides into the driver's seat and closes the door behind himself, then checks the GPS. It's not a super long drive but it will still take them about twenty minutes. “Where are we going?” James asks as he gets the car back onto the road.

“My flat,” Sirius mumbles, his eyes closed. He looks like he's halfway to sleep already, which is probably a good thing. “Yours is trashed.”

That sounds about right. Fighting the Death Eaters in his flat was not something that left a lot of his furniture intact, not to mention the possibly broken lock on his front door.

It will be the first time James gets to see Sirius' flat. He's kind of excited about it. It just would have been nice not to need a kidnapping first to get an invitation.

They drive on, following the road back into London.

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?” Sirius mutters under his breath but James still catches it. It makes his heart stumble, reminding him of every one of Sirius' sobbed 'I love you's back in the warehouse.

James looks over at him, that beautiful stubborn man, a fond little smile spreading on his lips. “I love you too,” he says, testing out the words on his tongue. They fit perfectly.

Sirius doesn't hear them though. He's already asleep.

****

James finally parks the car in a relatively quiet neighbourhood. It's nothing special, looking just like any other neighbourhood in this area, blending into the city. Just rows of identical, grey houses, bland copies of each other.

Somehow he isn't surprised about that choice. It's perfect if you want to stay off the radar.

James gets out of the car, taking a deep breath of night air, then walks over to the passenger side and opens the door carefully, a bit unsure how to proceed. He needs to get Sirius out of the car and into a proper bed. Carrying him can't be that hard, right?

“What are you doing?” Sirius mumbles and blinks his eyes open, just as James is unbuckling his seat belt.

“Contemplating if I should bridal carry you into the house or if I should just throw you over my shoulder,” James says, pulling back and giving Sirius some room to sit up properly.

“You'd break your back either way.” Sirius rubs at his eyes, wincing at the feeling of dried blood on his hands, flaking off his skin.

“Hey! I'm stronger than I look!”

“Sure you are,” Sirius says and gets himself out of the car, refusing James' hand to do it. “No need, though. I can walk.”

James isn't so sure about that so he follows Sirius closely, just in case he needs to catch him before he falls.

They make it to the front door of the first building on the road without any such incident. Sirius pushes the front door open and James follows him inside, then up the stairs to the first floor. They stop at the door closest to the stairwell and Sirius pulls his keys out of one of the many pockets on his cargo pants. It takes a bit until he gets the door open though since there are three different locks on it and his fingers seem to be unwilling to cooperate.

Finally he manages and James steps into Sirius' flat for the first time.

It's small and clean, everything is in order and nicely put away. It has everything a flat is supposed to have but still feels a little empty. There are mismatched mugs on the counter and a blanket thrown over the backrest of the couch. There are books on the bookshelf that look like someone has raided a second-hand bookshop, taking everything from classics to those romance novels with half naked hunks on the cover, but it doesn't look like a very personalized collection. No photos or picture frames anywhere.

The most personal items seem to be the rocks and pebbles lining the front of the bookshelf and a small plush dinosaur.

The door closes behind James and Sirius locks every single lock again, then adds a chain for good measure. The way he leans against the door makes James wonder if he needs to stay close even inside the flat, just to make sure he won't fall over.

“I need a shower,” Sirius says eventually and pushes away from the door. He looks utterly exhausted, drained in a way James has never seen him before. He had looked tired in the car but now it seems to get worse by the second, the nap having only helped a little bit.

He walks past James without looking at him and crosses the small living room to a hallway that presumably leads to the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes. His movements look sluggish and instinctually James checks his body for any wounds and blood that might be his. It's hard to tell with the amount that's on him. Most of it doesn't look fresh though.

Sirius vanishes around the corner without another word and James wonders if he should follow him. James could use a shower too. He feels sticky with blood and sweat and washing off the whole experience of the past two days feels like a brilliant idea.

The urge to wash off wins in the end and James strips out of his clothes quickly before following the sound of running water down the hall.

The bathroom isn't very big either but thankfully the shower looks big enough for two.

Sirius' eyes are closed, his forehead resting against the tiles in front of him as the water beats down on his body. James slips underneath the spray behind him, fingertips brushing along his side. “Hey,” James says quietly. Sirius flinches under his touch before his whole body relaxes into it, so James keeps his hands where they are, a gentle reassuring point of contact.

“I'm fine,” Sirius mumbles against the tiles. “You don't have to be here.”

“I want to,” James says, his fingers sliding along wet skin. He leans closer, his lips brushing Sirius' shoulder as he speaks. “Let me take care of you.”

“I don't need –“

“Please,” James interrupts Sirius' weak protest, a soft plea not to be pushed away now. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“I had a sandwich,” Sirius says. James does notice that he's not elaborating on when exactly that was.

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

Silence meets James' question. That's enough of an answer.

“Let me help you clean up,” James says softly, lips brushing against wet skin once more, making Sirius shiver. “And then we'll get some sleep.”

“You don't have to –“ Sirius starts, turning towards James, but James stops him with a soft brush of lips against his own. It startles Sirius back into silence, like he didn't expect to be kissed after what went down in the warehouse.

James can't have that, can't have him thinking he's the only one who messed up things in there. “I've shot Voldemort.”

Sirius stares at him. “You... what?”

James shrugs and reaches around Sirius for the shower gel, just to have something to do with his hands. “There was a gun. One of the Death Eaters had it and I took it and I … I kind of shot him in the face. He's not dead, I think, but his nose might not look so good.”

Sirius keeps staring at him with a mixture of awe and absolute bafflement. “How are you even real?”

“I could ask you the same.” James looks at Sirius, the man who came for him when he needed him the most. The man who has never judged James for any of the stupid decisions he made. He thinks once again of all the sobbed out love confessions, his heart thudding almost painfully in his chest, as he gently washes blood splatters off Sirius' face.

Sirius sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against James. Water rushes down around them. It's almost peaceful.

“Come on,” James whispers after a while in the barely there space between them. “Let's clean up.”

****

They shower until the water stops running red. It takes a while for that.

James helps Sirius scrub blood from skin and out of hair, the latter seeming to melt Sirius more and more into a relaxed puddle. The warm water makes James drowsy too so by the end of the shower they are both half asleep.

It feels good though, like the water and soap has washed away more than just blood and sweat.

They dry off, leaving the towels on the bathroom floor to deal with later, then stumble to the bedroom across the hall. Hair still damp, they slip beneath the blanket.

A content sigh escapes James' lips, the contact of slightly damp skin to skin exactly what he needs. He closes his eyes, arms firmly wrapped around Sirius.

Sirius reaches over to the nightstand and pulls out the drawer, but instead of reaching into it he brushes his fingers along the underside of it until he finds what he's searching for. Tape rips as he pulls the flash drive free that's hidden there, sticking to the bottom of the drawer.

“Here,” he says, sleep heavy in his voice as he presses the flash drive into James' hand. James looks at it with a frown. “My military file,” Sirius explains. “Everything you should know about me. About what I've done.”

James' frown deepens. “I don't think that's necessary.”

“Look at it,” Sirius insists, his voice slurring slightly as he folds James' fingers around the flash drive.

James looks at him, then pulls his hand free and places the flash drive onto the nightstand along with his glasses. “We'll see.”

“James –“ Sirius starts but James quiets him with a soft kiss, then cuddles closer again, face buried in Sirius' neck, breathing him in.

“Sleep,” James murmurs against his skin, but Sirius' breathing has already evened out. It's probably the first time that Sirius has fallen asleep before James.

Exhaustion sits heavy in James' bones but he feels warm and safe. He listens to Sirius' even breathing, fingers tangled in damp hair.

Sleep finds him soon after.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

go to @sorenphelps comic "guard down", I beg you!!!

[autism-autobot]

I've seen so many characters act as foils to each other. Now that I write stories, I love exploring how different relationships can act as foils to each other.

The primary foil pairs:

Wukong & Nezha / Macaque & Li Jing

Married(n't) couples foils:

Wukong & Macaque / Wukong & Ao Lie

And as you pointed out:

Macaque & Wukong / Macaque & Li Jing

Macaque and Jing are definitely a cat and owner pairing. Macaque tried to pull this with Wukong, but Wukong ain't buying into any of that. Wukong was a bit worried and did have his doubts, but Macaque's random nighttime strolls became so frequent that Wukong grew more tolerant of the wait and eventually learned to live life altogether without him.

Macaque doesn't just pull this sort of thing during the nighttime. He'd do it for hours a day, too. Being gone for 24+ hours was a rare, but not impossible circumstance.

Wukong's job as king, plus having children to raise (which, by the way, you were so close to guessing the number I had drafted for the two) made it so that Wukong ran out of shits to give in that department. He just doesn't have the time or energy.

Wukong knew he wasn't cheating, but some of their kids had speculations.

One of their sons didn't realize Macaque was his father until his late teen years. He thought that Macaque was another random monkey that liked to hang out at the palace. He thought that DBK was his father, which, given that DBK didn't have a spouse at the time and hung out with Wukong and the kids a lot, wasn't a too far out there theory.

It's not as big of a problem now that Macaque divorced Wukong, and all of the kids are grown up (at least the ones that are still alive). Jing's different from Wukong, which allows Macaque to be how he wants with minimal consequences.

This bonus chapter is one of the very few consequences but one that he's willing to work through. He never leaves without notifying Jing and telling him approximately how long he'll be gone and will update + send pictures when necessary.

Jing gave him Nezha's old phone with a new number to stay in contact. Macaque's taken a liking to taking pictures, so Jing got him a better camera.

There's now a room that acts as a photo gallery with items to make scrapbooks with.

Macaque is living his best life now.

Has macaque ever been home super late before, and Li Jing get very nervous over it? And when Mac gets bothered thinking he’s being overprotective, Jing just goes all “I just want to make sure you’re safe” and Mac just melts.

𝔹𝕠𝕟𝕦𝕤 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕌𝕟𝕝𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕

Home By Now

It was one in the morning, and Macaque still wasn't back yet.

Li Jing called his son at around ten to talk to Wukong about Macaque's late night outing, to which the other monkey responded:

"Yeah, he did this all the time back when we were married. Don't worry. He'll come back eventually, but don't expect it to be while you're still awake."

Jing didn't know that the two were ever married to begin with, let alone that they at some point had gotten divorced.

Even then, Jing didn't, no, couldn't just fall asleep while Macaque was still out there.

~~~

Hours passed

3am...

4am...

5-*whoosh*

Jing had almost given in to Wukong's advice of just leaving it be when he heard that sound. That wonderful sound of Macaque's shadow teleportation.

Jing: Macaque! *runs to him*

Mac: Jingle Bells? What's up? Is something wr-

Jing: *hugs him tightly*

Mac: Jing? What the heck, man?

Jing: Why did you take so long to come back? Where were you? What happened?

Mac: *pulls back from hug* I was just out for a stroll, no biggie.

Jing: *raises voice a bit* Well, it's big to me!

Mac: *getting defensive* It's fine! Nothing happened, and I can take care of myself.

Jing: *with genuine concern* I know you can, but I still worry! At least let me know when you're leaving and where you're going!

Mac: *even more defensive* Why?! Why do you worry about me?!

Jing: *quiets a bit* I... I just want to make sure you're safe.

Macaque could practically hear the walls around his heart cracking and crumbling.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and his face felt warm.

Mac: Really? Like, you're serious, you just want me to be safe?

Jing: *notices his teary eyes* Yes, yes, I do.

Jing: *holds his arms out, offering a hug*

Mac: *leans into hug* *starts crying*

Jing: *holds him* *wipes away his tears as they fall*

Masterpost

@istopaskingmemate @starrclown @swkbiggestdefender @ainnur @weaverpop @fruit-fight

[lunarcloak]

Blue Lock Chapter 262: Visual Storytelling

Can we talk about the visual imagery this chapter?? Kaneshiro is always cooking but Nomura cooked extra hard this time with his own illustrative storytelling

An almost entirely white panel. Except for the black spot of Kaiser's hunched figure. Almost as if he's the stain on an otherwise perfect game from BM right now. (He's thrown off balance.)

Here, in the first picture, this is Isagi's view of where Kaiser is right now. On top of a puzzle piece— a symbol of Isagi's power, and also a symbol of how off kilter he is. The second picture is part of a larger paneling of how he's being left on the ground as Isagi runs past him in a flurry of puzzle pieces. Almost as if Isagi's kicking the pieces of his perfect puzzle astray, leaving him to rebuild them from scratch. (The theme of this chapter.)

You can tell he's only barely listening. Eyes are always a huge indicator of visual storytelling— i picked this up from looking at BSD panels for too long. Here there's virtually no pupils, smaller, wider eyeballs because he's not listening to Ness's words. They're going in one ear out the other. Because Ness's words are superficial— He's trying to help, he is, but that is desperately NOT what Kaiser needs right now. He needs to figure out how to FIX this. Not to retreat back into the safety of his cocoon so that he can pretend he's still the star on the field.

NOTICE HOW EVERYTHING IN THE SECOND PANEL CAN DIRECTLY BE RELATED TO ISAGI. The offer from Reale— what if Yoichi gets it instead of me? The throne in this team— what if Isagi takes that, too? Am I about to lose everything I worked to get myself? The whole world is watching my worst performance in years. I can't lose here. I can't be defeated here. Not here, of all places, in Blue Lock.

Negative colouring. The previous, prominent memory I have of this is when Rin went to his "flow" state. It's specifically to emphasise the "HUMAN" wording. It's usually used to showcase a very prominent moment, in this case it's Kaiser realising exactly what the core of his worry is right now. It isn't the defeat, not beating Isagi, not anything. At the moment, he's afraid of losing the very humanity he had thought he clawed himself into. To emphasise this, the black and white being reversed are to indicate that time almost freezes, completely changing his perspective and line of thought at that moment.

Less dramatic, still negatively scaled panel. Emphasising how he's really digging into his psyche here and going "Oh, I'm scared. I'm afraid of losing everything I've got for myself." The last time this happened was when his secret money stash was found— he didn't care as much then, because there was nothing to lose that he hadn't already lost. But now? Now, it matters a lot more. Because he's built himself up on an entirely shaky foundation. Note how he's also sliding below here, losing his footing, like he's lost the stable ground he thought he had.

The angle of this panel makes it look like he's climbing upwards, and he's just lost his grip on the wall before him, and is in the process of falling. It's extremely well done.

Plenty people have already pointed this one out— yeah Isagi's just reached a height that's similar to Noa's. The position Kaiser thought he used to have, but now he's not even on the staircase to victory and the treasure he thought he would attain soon is now inching towards his most challenging rival to date.

You will never see him this tired, this defeated, or this melancholic ever again. At this point, his eyes are no longer that wide, shocked stare of not seeing. Now he's comprehended his stance, and he's come back into himself.

Each petal is a memory, a visual representation of the crumbling of the rose he once held. It's gone now, there's no rose in his hand anymore (nothing for him to hold onto anymore). When you have no roses in hand, you grow a new bouquet. When you have nothing, there's nothing to lose if you go reaching for something to hold onto again.

But HERE, the petals can be interpreted in two ways— either he's being reformed from the petals of a new rose (blank petals, not representative ones). OR, you can interpret it as those very petals dissipating from his being, leaving him as this black, blank slate to rebuild himself. Zero— as in no colour, no petals, no gardens to flourish anymore. Only way to move now is up.

Also I'd like to draw your attention to the negative paneling again— inverted this time, the exact opposite of the previously conveyed emotion. Now he's the one in the black, working to redefine himself. He's already redefined the external aspects.

Your Zero— Your Beginning. I LOVE this page, even if it's a repeat. It conveys so much. Kaneshiro and Nomura are such a GOOD TEAM

A black hand clasps around the core memory— the memory of when he truly had only his football. He can't let that petal float away, that's one he wants to keep. That's the idea he wants to hold onto. He crushes the petal into his hand, assimilating it into his new beginning. That's the one he'll hold onto, to recraft the person that is Michael Kaiser.

[moeblob]

What if I straight up didn't explain myself? What if I just said trust me on this? Would you?