#rex shut up challenge

[1-800-crscnt]

-jobs I think some clones would have in a post-war “clones are legally seen as people” universe-

Cody: plant + animal farmer. sees it as both a new experience/challenge (land, terrestrial plants and animals) but also slightly similar to what he was used to as a marshal commander. likes the hard work & care required for this lifestyle but cares more about the payoff of it all. will underestimate mint at some point.

Rex: fisherman of some kind. i don’t really have a reason for this, it just seems very likely to me. probably enjoys the peace and solitude it can bring after years of being in the situations he’s been in, but likes the learning aspect and self-sufficient parts of knowing how to fish. could also like the thrill of wrestling large fish that have bodycounts and going to competitions about it, maybe all of these options at once. possibly worries a lot about everyone else and is always sending them photos of him fishing so they respond with their own thing.

Fox: nice try. stays unemployed in a comfortable cabin in some isolated town and loves it. if he needs money, he’ll cash in on favors or do small favors for his brothers.

Wolffe: also tempted to stay unemployed, but gets restless + depressed, becomes a woodworker. doesn’t care about it at first since it’s just a way to get money and stay busy, but develops a liking towards the methodical work and the feeling of creating something very meaningful and/or beautiful with his own hands. ends up liking to create furniture for his brothers getting settled down as a hobby, but creates gothic decorations to sell as his main thing. possibly gets less depressed.

Bly: security guard, would quit, then become a geologist. liked how similar being a security guard was to being a marshal commander at times, but overall hated being reminded of how a lot of people saw/see clones. found more peace in geology bc of how delicate/patient/focused he had to be (helps reinforce his belief that he’s not a violent machine capable of nothing else), also loves learning and sharing knowledge in general. doesn’t really like working with other geologists, tends to not communicate being angry since he’s used to shutting up to get a job done. but he’s dealing. sort of.

Doom: would probably also be unemployed but because he keeps quitting any job after about a month. just can’t find anything that calls to him or keeps him happy, but knows his end goal is to have a life involving lots of plants. doesn’t enjoy being unemployed because he tends to see it as a personal failing on his part, ends up very stressed. Wolffe tries to give advice on just jumping right into plant stuff and making money off it, but Doom is hesitant to make something he loves into a job he might end up hating and quitting again.

Bacara: part-time piercer, part-time bounty hunter. likes to call them both his “piercing jobs” to the discomfort of nearly everyone else. prefers bounty hunting since he thinks it’s more necessary + familiar, but would give it up first if he was forced to only choose one (more stable pay + might live longer). backup plan is to fake his death (unnecessary & regardless of situation) and become a librarian or historian with a fake accent. sort of a nerd anyway, so this isn’t the end of the world for him, and likes how he can get away with dissociating more than he used to.

Neyo: surprisingly, professional racer. refuses to explain how he got this idea, his motives, and where the next event will be, but likes it when his brothers somehow show up. loves the exhilaration, risk (huge adrenaline junkie) and how his outfit looks. also likes the bragging rights. backup plan is to fake his death (again, unnecessary & regardless of situation) and secretly live with Bacara, becoming a chef because he likes working with knives + feeding hungry people fulfills his desire to be useful in some way. has yet to tell Bacara any of this, actually finds not saying anything about it really funny.

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-One: Cascade

Chapter WC: 10,188

Chapter Warnings: um? general emotional turmoil

A/N: This one kicked my ass. Like genuinely probably the hardest chapter I've ever written, and I'm not sure why. But I'm very much looking forward to next week's chapter!

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

Yaddle's lightsaber hovers in the air before you, the blade humming softly. It's been a week since the Council's decision, and you've yet to leave your rooms. The lightsaber has become a focal point, a symbol, a reminder of what was taken from you. It's also a comfort.

Your connection to her.

Your eyes narrow, and you focus, the energy gathering in the pit of your stomach, the power building. The saber spins, the green blade rotating slowly. A bead of sweat drips down your forehead, and your hands begin to shake, the exertion taking its toll. 

You're not even sure what you're doing. You're not practicing. Not really. You're just...playing. Trying to distract yourself. Trying not to think.

You've been doing a lot of that lately.

The hilt tilts, and the blade nicks the side of the chair, slicing through the metal. You curse and lower your hands, and the lightsaber clatters to the ground, its light extinguishing. The sound echoes in your rooms, and you grimace, running a hand over your face.

"Kriffing hell," you hiss. You sigh and cross the room, kneeling to pick up the lightsaber. 

You're getting worse. You're barely sleeping, the stress taking its toll, and your emotions are all over the place. You can't seem to focus. It's as if everything you touch, everything you try, is doomed to fail.

You've never felt more useless.

You run a hand through your hair and slump, dropping onto the couch, your head falling into your hands. The tears sting, but they won't come. They haven't for days. There's a hollow ache in your chest, a dull pain that refuses to fade. Your throat is tight, and the guilt is threatening to swallow you whole.

You don't know what else to do. For so long, all you've wanted was to bring justice for Yaddle. To find the truth. But now that the truth has been uncovered, and justice has been denied, there's nothing left. Nothing except this hollow, empty ache. And a lingering feeling of betrayal.

You know you were out of line, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. Obi-Wan shouldn't have kept quiet. He shouldn't have just stood there and watched, his eyes averted, his face impassive. He could have said something. He should have said something. Anything. Instead, he did what he always does. He went along with the Council, playing the dutiful Jedi. Never challenging, never questioning, never speaking his mind. Always keeping his mouth shut. Always toeing the line.

The line of thinking that had been torturing you for days doesn't bring with it the usual anger or frustration now. There's nothing left. No emotion, no energy. Nothing. Just the cold, numbing pain.

You've never felt more alone.

Obi-Wan had tried to reach out, had tried to contact you, had even come to your door. But you hadn't answered, and you know the lack of communication is hurting him. You can sense it. It's a constant nagging at the back of your mind, a tugging in the Force.

The bond between the two of you is frayed, the threads pulled taught, the strain threatening to snap. But still, you can't bring yourself to speak with him. He's reached out to you countless times, and you've refused him. Each time, he's recoiled, the pain and confusion radiating through the bond. It's a physical blow, and each time it hits you, it knocks the wind out of you.

You know it's hurting him, and that hurts you, but you can't bring yourself to end the silence.

Rex has called, too. You haven’t answered. Not once. He doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what went wrong. He hasn’t stopped trying, though. 

Every day, multiple times, calls and messages coming in over and over, the light of the screen flickering in the dark of your rooms. After the second day, you buried your comm underneath a pile of dirty laundry. By the third day, the battery had died from its constant use, and the room was cast into silence. You've heard nothing since then. Still, the guilt lingers. And the longing. And the regret. You miss him. You miss him, and you want him here. You want him next to you.

You know what you’re doing. It’s a reflex at this point, as easy as the basic combat forms drilled into you, as mindless as running. Pushing people away. Drowning your feelings. Hiding.

Running away.

Your eyes flick to the saber in your hand, and you run a finger over the hilt, tracing the intricate design, the ridges and curves, the dips and angles. It's familiar. It's comforting.

A part of you is still clinging to the hope that the Council will change their minds, that they'll realize their mistake, that they'll come to their senses and seek justice. It's a foolish hope. A childish hope. But, it's the only thing keeping you from giving up completely.

The truth is, you don't know what else to do. You're at a loss.

Your gaze moves past the saber, your eyes focusing on the viewport, on Coruscant's skyline. The buildings are a blur, a mass of lights and colors, a sea of endless noise. It's beautiful, in a way. An ever-moving, ever-changing kaleidoscope of life. But it's overwhelming, too. A reminder of what's out there, of what you're missing.

You've been cooped up in your rooms for too long. The walls are starting to close in on you, and you can feel your anxiety building, a low thrum in your chest. You need to get out, to go somewhere, to do something. Anything.

You stand, and a wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to grab hold of the back of the couch, steadying yourself. You're weak, and lightheaded, and exhausted. You've barely eaten, and you haven't slept, not really.

Not since.

Since.

The images flash through your mind, unbidden, unwanted, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You swallow, forcing down the nausea, and the tears well up, hot and burning.

You can't stop it, can't control it.

"Fuck," you hiss. You throw the lightsaber across the room, the hilt bouncing off the wall with a satisfying thud. It clatters to the floor, and you stare at it, breathing heavily, the anger and frustration boiling over. "Fuck. Fuck."

It's not enough. Nothing is.

Your hands ball into fists, and you clench your jaw, a surge of fury coursing through you. It's like a drug, and it's an instant rush, a brief respite from the pain, but it brings with it a shift in the Force. A tremor, a vibration, a change in pressure that's too intense to ignore.

You close your eyes, and you focus, reaching for the energy, letting it flow through you. But the more you focus, the more you grasp, the stronger the energy becomes. You're not controlling it. It's controlling you.

It's too much.

Your eyes fly open, and you cry out, your hands moving of their own accord to the sides of your head. The pain is intense, white-hot, blinding. It's as if someone has pressed an iron spike through your skull, and you scream, unable to hold it back. You can't move, can't think, can't breathe, can't see. All you can feel is the pain, the agony, the torture. And it's everywhere, consuming you, tearing you apart.

One of your hands pulls away from your head, and you watch it happen as if in slow motion, as if through a fog, as if through the eyes of another. The criss-crossing pattern of scars on your palm seem to pulse and glow, the flesh reddening, the skin rippling and bubbling. You stare, mesmerized, transfixed.

And then you turn and release it all. Directed outwards, away from yourself, the Force is a violent blast, a burst of raw energy. It rips through the room, shifting furniture, shattering a lamp, and knocking a shelf clean off the wall. The items go flying, and a vase explodes on impact, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor. You don't notice. You're too focused on the destruction, the release, the relief. It's like a high, and the euphoria is overwhelming, a heady rush of adrenaline and endorphins and power.

"Fuck," you gasp, the word coming out a strangled hiss. You take a step back and stumble, the pain finally subsiding, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your knees hit the couch, and you slump, falling onto the cushions, breathing heavily. The anger has ebbed, and the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness, the bone-deep exhaustion, and a new wave of guilt. 

You've haven't lost control like that in years, and it frightens you. This…whatever it is, this thing that’s been building inside of you since Dooku attacked you a decade ago, it's getting worse. And you have no idea how to stop it. No idea how to contain it. If this is what's going to happen every time the pain becomes too much...you can't keep doing this.

You need to get out. You need fresh air.

You need help.

The thought makes your skin crawl, and you grimace, pushing it away, refusing to acknowledge it. You don't need help. You don't want help. You just want this all to stop. To go away. To be gone. But, the Force isn't listening.

"Get ahold of yourself," you mutter. "You're better than this."

But, you're not. Not anymore.

The words are a familiar mantra, something you've repeated over and over, day after day, since you were a child. Since you first began training. It's not enough. You're spiraling, and you know it, but there's no one to pull you back, to ground you, to keep you from falling.

You grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms, forcing yourself to breathe. In, out. In, out. You will yourself to picture a serene place, a calm place. Somewhere peaceful. A forest. A lake. A field. None of them work. The images are hazy and distorted, and the pain is still there, a low throbbing ache. You can't make it go away. Can't make any of it go away.

The golden field from your dreams is suddenly thrust to the forefront of your mind, and a strange warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, the pressure slowly easing, the tension ebbing away. You haven't had the dream since Saleucami, and you haven't thought about it since. Until now.

The sun is warm on your skin, and there's a breeze, and you can smell grass and flowers and dirt. The scent is familiar and calming, and it fills your senses. It's real. More real than it's ever been. There's the murmur of voices, children laughing, someone calling your name. You look around, searching for the source, but no one's there. Only the field, the sun, the breeze. And the sense that, somewhere, something is waiting. Someone who needs you.

You feel a hand settle on your shoulder, warm and gentle and strong, and you turn to face the figure beside you. But, the moment you do, the sun fades, and the warmth is gone, and the voices are muffled, the laughter muted. And, then, everything goes black.

You open your eyes, and you're met with chaos.

Your rooms are a mess. The broken lamp is lying on its side, the cord dangling. The shattered remains of the vase are strewn across the floor, the water from the flowers spreading, soaking into the carpet. The shelf is in pieces, and a datapad has joined the mess of objects that were previously displayed. There's a dent in the wall where the hilt of Yaddle's lightsaber struck it, and the door to the refresher is open, the lights on and flickering.

It's a disaster.

You slump, the exhaustion setting in. You're not even sure how long you've been cooped up here, alone. It's been days, at least. Maybe a week, maybe longer. It's hard to keep track. Time seems to lose all meaning when you're locked away like this.

Your gaze lands on Yaddle's lightsaber, and you wince, guilt gnawing at your stomach. She'd be disappointed. She'd tell you to pick yourself up, to get back out there, to move forward. She'd remind you of the Jedi teachings, of the Code, and she'd tell you to embrace the Light.

But she'd also tried to leave. She'd tried to get away from the Order, from the Code, from the war. She'd wanted something else, something more.

Something better.

Your eyes narrow, and the decision settles in the pit of your stomach, sinking deep into your bones. Maybe it's time to do the same.

It's not like you have anything to lose. Obi-Wan will survive. He has Ahsoka and Anakin. And Rex...Rex will be okay. He'll be fine. He’ll be better off without you, anyway. He doesn't need the drama. He deserves better. You'll miss him. A part of you will always long for him. But, he's not yours. And he never will be.

It's a coward's move, and you know it. It's selfish. But, maybe that's what you are. Maybe that's all you've ever been. Maybe that's all you'll ever be.

Maybe it's time to accept it.

You've just finished packing when a knock sounds on the door. You frown, and your eyes narrow as the sound echoes in the room. You weren't expecting anyone. There's no way Rex could get inside the Temple without clearance, and you would've sensed Obi-Wan before he got close enough, even in your state. But the person behind the door is radiating concern, worry, fear. You know that signature, know the energy. It's one you'd recognize anywhere.

The door slides open without your prompting, and the light from the hall filters in, blinding you. You wince and squint as a figure appears in the doorway, a shadow against the light. 

"I locked the door," you say flatly. 

Anakin snorts. "And?"

He steps inside, the door sliding closed behind him. His gaze travels across your room, and his eyes widen, taking in the destruction. You've done what you could to right everything, but there's still evidence of your tantrum. There's water on the floor, a few pieces of glass, a dent in the wall, clothes discarded on the table. You grimace and run a hand through your hair, pulling at it.

Anakin’s eyes fall on Yaddle's lightsaber on the floor, and you quickly summon the weapon, the hilt flying into your palm. It clatters onto the desk in front of you, and you turn, avoiding his gaze.

"And, what are you doing here?" you mutter.

"What am I doing here?" Anakin repeats, and he walks forward, his eyes wide, his voice incredulous. "What are you doing here? You weren't answering my calls. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Ahsoka's. Or anyone's. I thought something might've happened."

"I'm fine," you say stiffly. "Nothing happened."

"Clearly," he deadpans. He reaches down and picks up a piece of glass, and you watch as he tosses it into a small trash bin. "Other than a complete breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown," you snap. You wince, and your voice softens, dropping to a whisper. "I didn't."

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes scan the room again, pausing on the dent in the wall, before moving back to you. The judgement is obvious, and you glare at him, daring him to speak. He doesn't. He just stares at you, his eyes boring into yours, the worry evident. After a moment, he sighs, and his shoulders sag, the concern radiating through the Force.

"I didn't," you repeat. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.

"Then, what happened? And why is Rex, of all people, asking me if you're okay?" Anakin asks. He gestures around him, his gaze landing on a pile of dirty dishes, an overflowing laundry basket, an open duffel bag on your bed. "Or, better yet, why are you packing a bag?"

The mention of Rex's name sends a sharp pang through your chest, and you flinch, trying to hide it.

"I'm not," you lie, and his expression turns to exasperation.

"Right," he says slowly. Anakin leans against your desk, his arms folded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Because we both know you're just standing here, in front of a packed bag, for fun."

"Shut up," you mutter as you return to packing. You shove a shirt into your bag, not bothering to fold it, and you turn away from him, heading for the refresher.

Anakin's eyes widen, a strangled sound escaping his throat as follows after you. He rushes to block the door before you can get any further, and his arms cross, his body a wall.

"Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this," he says.

"Anakin, move," you order.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Move," you repeat, and you raise a hand, shoving him aside with the Force. He stumbles, and he lets out a noise of surprise, his eyes wide, his mouth dropping open. You step into the refresher, and you grab the rest of your toiletries, tossing them onto the counter, your movements sharp and jerky.

"Okay," Anakin breathes. His eyes narrow, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the mess. He spots a broken perfume bottle on the floor, the contents dripping down the wall, and he winces. "That bad, huh?"

You're silent, ignore him and returning to packing. The bag is almost full, and you curse, realizing you'll have to take a second. You didn't think this through. You should've started packing yesterday. Or last week. Maybe last month.

"Where are you going?" Anakin asks. He's leaning against the door frame, watching you with an intensity that's unnerving. "Are you going somewhere? Where?"

"Leave me alone," you snap, and you turn, shoving him away, but he catches your arm, stopping you. His grip is firm, but gentle, and he holds you there, his brows knit together.

"Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to yell at you, or lecture you, or whatever it is you think I'm here to do," he says softly, his expression sincere. "I'm here because I care. I'm here because Ahsoka cares. And Obi-Wan—"

"Stop."

"—is worried sick about you," he finishes, ignoring your interruption. "Whatever's going on, whatever's happened, we can help. Just talk to us. Tell me what's going on. Please."

You look away toward your desk, your eyes falling on Yaddle's lightsaber. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you swallow, fighting back the tears.

"Come on," he urges. His hand moves, squeezing your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your defenses crumble. You're tired of holding everything in, tired of hiding, tired of pretending. The fight drains out of you, and you deflate, your shoulders slumping, your eyes falling to the ground.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice low. "You're not usually...this. At least, not lately."

"No," you agree.

"So, what is it? Did you have a fight with Obi-Wan?"

"No," you say, and you wince. "Yes. Not exactly."

"Then, what is it? You can tell me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter how much of a pain in the ass you are."

You scoff, the noise muffled by your sleeve as you wipe your eyes, and a smile tugs at your lips. "Asshole."

"Brat," he replies, and his hand drops from your shoulder. "Now, talk."

"It's not that easy," you mumble. You sniff, and your gaze flickers to him, taking in his expectant expression. "There's just...a lot. I don't know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," he says. "Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll listen."

You walk away and settle back on the couch, and Anakin follows, sitting next to you. He watches you and waits, his silence urging you to speak.

You take a deep breath, and you begin.

You tell him everything. Starting from the moment you met him on Naboo, ending with the Council's decision, the entire story tumbling out of your mouth, the words flowing freely. The only thing you leave out is Rex. Your friendship with him, the attraction, the connection. It's too personal, too private, too intimate. That secret will stay between the two of you.

Anakin listens. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't speak. He doesn't offer advice or suggestions. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, letting you speak, listening to every word, hearing every syllable.

Somewhere along the way, you start to feel it again. The anger and the frustration rising up, threatening to break free. It's only when it's nearly pouring out that you realize it's not just your own feelings. Anakin's anger is mingling with yours, and his face is dark, his jaw clenched. The shadows in the room seem to lengthen the longer you talk, and he's breathing faster, his hands curling into fists, his muscles tensing.

By the time you're finished, you're both fuming. The energy in the room is thick, the anger almost tangible. You feel your skin crawl, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, and you shift, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Anakin's gaze is fixed on the floor, and he's staring, his eyes hard.

"This isn't the first time the Council's done this," he says quietly. "Taken credit. Made decisions behind our backs. Put their agenda ahead of ours."

"I know," you murmur, and you run a hand through your hair, a bitter laugh escaping. "It's not just me. They're always like this. Always."

"That's not how it's supposed to work," Anakin growls. His eyes are narrowed, and he shakes his head, his frustration seeping through the Force. “This is bullshit. All of it. I can't believe they did this to you."

"I shouldn't have expected any less," you sigh, and you shake your head, the tears starting again. You scrub at your face, and your hands fall to your lap, fingers twisting together. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I knew better. I know better.”

"Don't," he snaps. His head turns, his gaze finding yours, the intensity of his eyes almost startling. "Don't do that. This isn't your fault."

"I just...I thought that bringing evidence would make a difference. That it would mean something. That it would actually count," you mutter, and you look away, staring out at nothing. "I didn't want to give up. I didn't want to quit. But it's not my place. It's never been. I'm not..."

Your voice trails off, and Anakin scoffs. 

"If you're about to say you're not good enough, I'm going to punch you," he threatens. "Hard."

You snort, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "You're so violent."

"I'm serious," he says, and his eyes narrow, his face turning solemn. "Don't let them do this. Don't let them push you around, or guilt trip you, or whatever it is they're doing. You're a Jedi. Just because they're not willing to fight for justice doesn't mean you can't."

"They're not going to change their minds," you say. You rub your eyes, and a shuddering breath escapes. "They won't."

"So what?" Anakin argues. He turns toward you and leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. "So what if they don't? Who cares? You said it yourself. She was a mentor to you. And now, her killer is out there. Free. And you're not going to do anything about it?"

"It's not my place," you repeat, avoiding his gaze. "She's dead. She's gone. Nothing I do is going to change that. What's the point?"

"The point is she was your Master, and she was murdered," he says sharply. "You can't let this go. You can't just walk away. You can't leave it like this."

"Why not?" you mutter. Your fingers twitch, and you clench your fists, trying to calm yourself. "It's not as if there's anything I can do."

"There's plenty you can do," he argues. He sits forward, his hands braced on his knees. His face is flushed, and his voice rises, his words growing more and more passionate. "They gave you a whole legion of troopers, ships, unlimited resources. They gave you everything. So, use it. Do something. Anything."

"They did it because they thought I needed a distraction," you say. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes. It's too much. "Because they were worried I'd do something stupid."

"Or, maybe they just finally realized that you're more than capable," Anakin counters as he sits back, his tone softening slightly. "They wouldn't have given you a position of power if they didn't think you were worthy of it."

"Worthy?" You scoff, and you shake your head, a humorless smile forming. "That's a first."

Anakin lets out a frustrated noise, and he slams his hand on the table, the noise reverberating through the room. You flinch, startled, and he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"You're being difficult," he complains.

"Yeah, well, that's me," you say. "Difficult."

"This is serious," he says firmly. His expression is grave, and his eyes find yours, holding your gaze. "Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But, I think it's a mistake if you don't."

"I know," you admit. "But, it's not as easy as you think. I can't just go after him. I have no idea where he is, or where to even start looking. Besides, I have a job to do. I'm a general. I'm supposed to be leading my troops into battle, not hunting down one man.”

"And, who said you can't do both?" Anakin asks. He arches an eyebrow, and a smirk spreads across his lips. "It's not like you haven't done it before. Besides, he's made it pretty clear that he wants to get your attention. You might not have to look very far."

You frown, and you bite your lip, mulling over his words. It's true, and you both know it. Dooku's not trying to hide. He's practically taunting you, his presence lingering in the background of every encounter. It's only a matter of time before he crosses your path again, whether you like it or not.

"I can't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"You can," he insists. He's leaning forward again, his elbows on his knees, his face close to yours. "You can, and you should. You have a choice. You can do something, or you can run away. Which is it going to be?"

"Anakin," you say, but you can't manage more than his name, and it falls flat.

"I'm serious," he says. "Make a decision. Right now. Stop sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, and do something."

Your hands ball into fists, your nails digging into your palms. You stare at him, your gaze darting over his face, taking in his determined expression. He's right. He's absolutely right.

"Do something that matters. If not for you, then for her," Anakin presses, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on yours. "She deserves that much."

"Anakin—"

"What would she want?" he asks, cutting you off. "If she were here, right now, what would she tell you to do?"

You're silent, your mouth opening and closing. Your eyes fall back to Yaddle's lightsaber, and a knot forms in your stomach. You don't have to think about it. You already know. You've known for years. She would've done whatever she could, no matter what. 

As much as you'd like to believe she would've walked away from this, you know that's not true. She wouldn't have turned a blind eye, wouldn't have ignored her duty. She would've fought, tooth and nail, until she couldn't fight anymore. Until she couldn't draw another breath.

And she did. She died fighting. You know that much.

Anakin is watching you, waiting for your answer, and your throat tightens, your eyes burning. You swallow hard take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You're still angry, still hurt, but you can't deny his words. Can't ignore them.

"You're right," you whisper. You close your eyes, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself. "I want to help. I have to."

"Then, do it," he says, his tone resolute.

You open your eyes and find him smiling, a gleam in his eyes. You can't help but grin, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. He's right. You can do this. You have to try. You owe it to her to keep going.

"Thank you," you murmur, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Anakin stiffens, and he awkwardly pats your shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably go crazy," he jokes, and he pauses, adding, "Crazier. If that's possible."

You laugh and pull back, shaking your head. "I'm serious."

"I know," he chuckles. He slaps his hands on his knees and stands, a grin lighting up his face. "So, do you need a ride to Kamino?”

"Yeah,” you sigh. “I'd appreciate that."

"Consider it done.” He looks around the room and nods. "We're heading back out tomorrow anyway. Gotta pick up some more men before we head out to Bothawui. You can come, meet your troops." He smirks, his gaze dropping to the saber. "See how they measure up to the 501st."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do just fine," you say dryly. "Thank you."

"Anytime." 

Anakin gives a nod and heads towards the door, his movements smooth and quick. He reaches for the pad, but the door slides open before he can touch it. You sense him at the same time Anakin does, and both of your heads snap to the left, toward the hall.

Obi-Wan freezes, and he takes a step back, his eyes widening as his gaze falls on the two of you. You hold your breath as he scans the room, taking in the bags on your bed, your disheveled appearance, and the broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor. 

His face turns white, his expression stricken, and the bond between the two of you begins to hum, the energy buzzing. It's overwhelming, and it makes your stomach lurch, a lump forming in your throat.

"Ah," he says, his voice tight. "Am I interrupting something?"

Anakin glances at you, and his eyebrows raise.

"No, no. Just leaving," he says quickly, his voice bright and cheerful. He moves forward and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder, and he glances back at you, giving you a quick nod. "See you tomorrow, Goldie. Bright and early. And, uh, sorry about the lock. I...I'll pay for it."

"Uh-huh," you mumble. Your gaze never leaves Obi-Wan, and his doesn't move from yours. You can feel his anxiety, his tension, and it's a weight in your chest, a physical pressure. Anakin's voice filters through, but his words are lost, and you don't bother to listen. He's moving past Obi-Wan, heading down the hall, and the sound of his footsteps fades until all that's left is silence.

You stand, and Obi-Wan inhales sharply, his eyes flickering around the room, finally landing on Yaddle's lightsaber. You're suddenly hyperaware of the mess, the state of your clothes, the darkness under your eyes, and you cringe, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He walks into your rooms, his steps slow and cautious, and he stops, a few feet away.

"I..." Obi-Wan starts, and his voice trails off, his mouth open. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowing, and he takes a deep breath, collecting himself. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. For a week."

"I noticed," you mutter.

"I came by, a few times," he continues. His hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and his eyes flicker around the room, looking anywhere but at you. "I wanted to talk. About...about what happened. What I said."

"Nothing to talk about," you say, and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of anger in them.

"Nothing?" he asks, and his tone is incredulous. "We haven't spoken since—since it happened. The Council's decision, everything, and now, I find you packing a bag? I would think there's plenty to discuss."

"I'm not—" you start, and you bite your lip, stopping yourself.

"You're not what?" he snaps. He gestures around him, his hand waving at your bags, his gaze darting from your desk, to your bed, to your wardrobe, and back. "Packing? Leaving? Running away? Which one is it?"

"I'm not running away," you say, and you can't hide your annoyance. Your shoulders straighten, and you square off, facing him, your hands falling to your sides. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Not my business?" he repeats. Obi-Wan's eyebrows rise, and he scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course, it's my business. You're my friend. You're my—" He cuts himself off, and he winces, his mouth twisting. "I have a right to know what's going on. What happened."

"Why? So you can run and tell everyone else?" you shoot back, and his eyes widen. "So, you can report back to the Council and let them know how unstable I am?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he hisses.

"Then, stop making it so easy," you snap.

The two of you stare at each other, neither of you saying anything, and the anger builds, the tension rising. You can't tell who's more upset, him or you, and the bond between the two of you is humming, a steady vibration, the energy almost tangible. It's making your head hurt, and you wince, rubbing your temple. His gaze softens, and he takes a step toward you, but stops.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, his tone low and concerned. "What are you doing? Packing a bag, shutting yourself in here, not answering my calls, not speaking to anyone? Have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe I have," you growl, and his eyes narrow, his mouth falling open, as if to argue. You cut him off before he can. "But, maybe it's none of your business. Maybe I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he says, and his eyes move over the room, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes, you seem to be doing quite well on your own."

"Obi-Wan," you groan. Your fingers press into the side of your head, and you close your eyes, breathing deeply. You can't do this. You can't. You don't have the strength, the energy. You're exhausted, and you just want him to go away. To leave you alone. "Just leave."

"Not until you explain yourself," he argues. Obi-Wan moves closer, his arm reaching out, his fingers brushing against yours. "This isn't like you. I know things haven't been easy, and I'm sorry, I really am. But, this isn't you. I thought you were getting better."

"Better?" you scoff, and his jaw tightens, a muscle twitching.

"You know what I mean," he says stiffly. "The nightmares have been less frequent, the visions. You've seemed more stable. Less volatile. Or, at least, not as bad. You haven't had an episode in months." He pauses, his gaze searching yours, and his fingers tighten around yours, squeezing. "What happened? Tell me."

"Maybe I'm not getting better," you say quietly. You shrug, and your gaze moves past him, staring out the viewport. "Maybe I was just hiding it. Pretending."

"You're not," he says firmly. His voice is steady and sure. "I would've noticed."

"You've noticed a lot of things lately," you mutter, and your eyes find his again, the pain flaring. He winces, his shoulders sagging. "And you've done a great job keeping them to yourself."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Isn't it?"

"It wasn't my decision to give you your own command," he replies, shaking his head. “I know you think it was, but it wasn't." His eyes move over your face, and his voice lowers, a note of regret coloring his tone. “For months, I tried to change their minds. For months, I argued, pleaded, fought, everything. But, nothing I said or did worked. The decision was made. I’d only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.”

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice breaking, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says softly, and his eyes close, his face turning away from you. "You'd just started feeling better, and I didn't want to upset you, or set you back." His jaw clenches, and his eyes open, his gaze finding yours, the pain visible in his expression. "And, I was worried you'd do exactly this."

You let out a humorless laugh, and you step away, his hand dropping from yours.

"So, what? You thought ignoring the issue would fix it?" you say, your voice rising, and his eyes widen, his brows furrowing, confusion written across his features. "Keeping me in the dark was going to help? What did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," he sighs. He runs a hand over his hair, and his hand falls, gesturing weakly. "I was hoping...that maybe if I could stall long enough...maybe they'd change their minds. Maybe the war would end, or you would find the closure you needed." 

His eyes meet yours again, and the regret is plain on his face, his words coming out a whisper. "I was trying to give you a chance."

"And look how well that turned out," you mutter bitterly, and you can't hold his gaze, your eyes dropping to the floor. You turn and walk toward the window, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield yourself from the cold.

“It was a mistake," Obi-Wan admits quietly. He lets out a frustrated noise, and the room falls silent. After a moment, his footsteps approach, and he appears next to you. “But you can’t leave. Not now. There's a war going on, in case you haven't noticed. There's too much at stake."

"I'm not leaving," you insist, and his expression turns skeptical, his eyes narrowing. You roll your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping you. "Not that I hadn’t thought about it."

"You can't," he says firmly. "Whatever it is, we can work through it. We'll figure something out. I promise."

"There's nothing to work through," you say. You run a hand over your hair and glance at him, avoiding his gaze. "Anakin talked some sense into me. He...he helped."

"What do you mean?" he asks, and his brow furrows. He looks confused, his expression bewildered, and he shifts, crossing his arms. "What did he say?"

"Just...that I can't leave it like this," you mumble. You look away from him and out the viewport. You can see the sun beginning to set, and the sky is painted with hues of orange and red. "I have to do something."

"Something," Obi-Wan repeats, his tone wary, and you nod, avoiding his eyes. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet," you admit. “But for now, I’m going to Kamino. I’m picking up my troops. I’m doing what you wanted. I'm getting back out there. Back in the field. That's something."

"Is it?"

"Yes," you say, and the word comes out sharper than intended.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to reply, but his voice catches, and he shakes his head. His gaze drifts to the floor, and his eyes narrow, his forehead creasing, his expression conflicted. You wait, watching him, and you can feel his emotions warring with each other, the battle playing out on his face. It's a whirlwind, and you can't tell which one is winning. Anger. Frustration. Worry. Fear. Guilt.

After a long moment, his face falls, and he nods, his shoulders slumping, his muscles relaxing.

"Fine," he relents, and his voice is low, resigned. "Fine."

“Is that what you wanted to hear?" you ask sarcastically, and his jaw tightens, a flash of anger flickering in his eyes.

"What I want is for you to be safe," he snaps, and he turns, glaring at you. "What I want is for you to be okay."

"Well, tough," you mutter. You move away from the window and cross your arms over your chest, your fingers digging into your arms. "Because neither of those things is likely to happen."

"You have no idea how much I wish things were different," he says quietly, and his face falls, his expression solemn. "That none of this had ever happened. Despite what you might think, I do care about you. Very much. I want what's best for you."

"What's best for me?" you repeat. Your lips twist into a sneer, and a harsh laugh escapes. "I'm not sure that exists anymore."

"You don't believe that," Obi-Wan chides gently. He's staring at you, and his voice is calm and even. "You know better than anyone that the Light is always there, no matter how far you fall."

"I used to," you say bitterly. Your throat tightens, and a lump forms, tears burning your eyes. You can't look at him, can't stand the concern in his gaze. "It's not like it matters, anyway. The Council's made its decision. Yaddle's killer is still out there, and we're just going to pretend like nothing happened. Just like we've been doing for years."

"That's not true," he says softly.

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be like this," he argues. His voice is quiet, and he steps forward, closing some of the distance between the two of you. His hand reaches out, and he gently touches your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin. You stiffen at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and his fingers move, trailing up to your shoulder, coming to rest there.

"The Senate is building a case," he murmurs. "They're gathering testimony, evidence, anything they can find. Once Dooku is captured, they'll bring him before a tribunal. There will be no denying what he's done. No escaping justice. It may take time, but it will happen. And, when it does, Dooku will pay for his crimes."

Your eyes narrow, and a part of you knows that he's telling the truth. But, it's not enough. You can't just sit back and do nothing, and a dark, selfish part of you wants him to suffer. To pay for what he's done. To hurt as much as he's hurt you. And, a larger, angrier, more violent part of you wants him dead. It doesn't matter if it's justice. Doesn't matter if he's brought to trial. Doesn't matter if he confesses. You want him dead. And if that makes you a bad person, so be it.

"He's a traitor," Obi-Wan adds. His expression hardens, his mouth thinning, his grip tightening. "He betrayed everything we stand for, and he deserves whatever punishment they deem fit. He'll pay."

"Will he?" you ask. You shrug off his touch, stepping back, and his hand falls to his side.

"You don't believe me," he states.

“I believe that it's what you want to happen," you respond, your voice quiet. You move around him, going to your desk and grabbing your lightsaber. You hook it onto your belt, and you reach for Yaddle's saber, your fingers curling around the hilt. The cool metal is comforting, and a feeling of calm washes over you. You take a deep breath, centering yourself, and turn, finding Obi-Wan staring at you.

"You want justice," you continue, and you pause, swallowing, pushing down your doubts. "So, do I. But, we both know how these things end. We've seen it happen, again and again. Dooku will escape, or he'll be released, or he'll plead innocent, or he'll disappear, or—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "It doesn't matter. The result will always be the same. He'll walk free. It's how these things work."

"You're wrong," he says, his voice hard. "Things are changing. The Separatists are growing bolder. The Senate is more unified than ever before. Even the Chancellor has taken a stronger stand against them."

"Forgive me if I'm not reassured," you snort, and his mouth twitches, irritation flashing across his face. "Chancellor Palpatine is a politician. A career politician. And politicians aren't known for their honesty or their integrity. Or their ability to put others first."

"Master Yoda believes it," he points out.

"Well, then, I suppose that settles it," you deadpan, and you can't hide your sarcasm. "If Master Yoda believes in it, then, it must be true. Because he's never been wrong about anything. Ever. In his entire life. Certainly not his Padawan. Right?"

Obi-Wan's expression hardens, and he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "Now, you're just being difficult."

"Maybe," you concede. "Or, maybe I'm being realistic. Maybe, just this once, I'm seeing things for how they are, instead of how I wish they were. Is that such a crime?"

"No, it's not," he says. His stance relaxes, and his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders slumping. "It's not. I understand why you're frustrated. You're allowed to be. But, this isn't like you. You're not usually this...this..."

"This what?" you ask, and his brows draw together, a crease forming on his forehead. "Say it. You'll feel better."

"Selfish," he snaps, and his gaze holds yours, his eyes searching yours, trying to understand. "Is that what this is? Are you angry because the Council decided not to pursue the killer of your Master? Because you didn't get to hunt down and kill him yourself?"

"What if I am?"

"Then, it's a good thing we stopped you from running away," he mutters, and you scoff, turning away from him. You pace around the room, trying to quell your anger, and his eyes follow, watching as you move, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "It's a good thing Anakin was able to talk sense into you."

"Sense?" you snort, and you stop, facing him. Your hands fall to your hips, and you lean forward, your gaze hardening. "How is this making any sense? How is letting a murderer go free make sense? How is sitting around and waiting for justice make any sense? How is any of this making any sense?"

"It's not," he agrees. "None of this is making sense. None of this is right. But we're doing the best we can with what we have."

"And, what if that's not good enough?"

"It's going to have to be," he says softly, and his head shakes, his gaze drifting to the ground, his expression weary. "That's all we have. All any of us has. It's the best we can do.

"I know," you mutter.

"Do you?"

"Yes," you sigh. You rub a hand over your face and run a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands. "I'm just...frustrated."

"I can see that," he says dryly.

"I want him dead," you confess. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes, can't face his judgment. "I know that's not right. I know that's not how it should be. I know that I should want him brought to justice. But, I don't. I just want him gone."

"I know," he murmurs.

"But it's not going to happen," you continue. Your eyes find his, and his face softens, his gaze gentle. "Is it?"

"No," he admits. "It's not."

You nod and avert your gaze, your eyes falling to the floor. You can't keep looking at him. Can't stand the disappointment, the sorrow, the guilt. You’re exhausted, the conversation draining what little energy you have left, and your shoulders slump.

“You should go," you whisper. "I'm not good company right now. And I have a long day tomorrow."

"You need to eat," Obi-Wan says softly. His footsteps echo on the floor as he walks towards you. His hand brushes against your cheek, his palm cupping the side of your face, and he tilts your head, forcing you to look at him. "And sleep. Please."

"Not hungry," you mumble, and you step back, breaking the contact. "Not tired either."

"That's not the point," he argues, and he takes a step toward you, reaching for your hand. "You need to take care of yourself."

"Don't," you snap. You move away, and his hand drops, his expression stricken. "Don't try to pretend like you care. Don't try to act like you know what's best for me. Because you don't."

"I..." Obi-Wan trails off, and he frowns, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing, his gaze darkening. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you, and he stares down at you, his face inches from yours.

"I do know," he hisses. "You're the most important person in my life. I've cared about you since the day I met you. I've fought for you. Loved you. Supported you."

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he cuts you off, his eyes blazing, his face turning red, his tone sharp.

"No. You don't get to pretend like I haven't been here, every step of the way. You don't get to act like this is all on me," he says fiercely. "Because it's not. This is both of us. This is our fault."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to," he snaps. He's shaking his head, his voice rising, and his hand lifts, gesturing wildly. "You've made your opinion quite clear. You blame me. Fine. I can take the blame. But, you have to admit, this is partly your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he says. He's moving, pacing, his voice rising with each step. "We've been doing this dance for years. Going in circles. You and I. We've been playing this game since we were kids. Since the day we met."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he cuts you off, and he stops, turning toward you, his eyes flashing. "You've been doing this, using me, for as long as I've known you. You know that."

"Using you?" you repeat incredulously. "I'm not the one who used our friendship as a tool."

"I never—"

“You mean you haven’t kept tabs on me? Or monitored my activities? Or reported them to the Council?" you snap. "Or tried to control every aspect of my life?"

"I have only ever wanted to help you," he insists.

"And, that's all this is, isn't it?" you mutter. Your hands fall to your hips, and your eyes narrow, your gaze fixed on his. "You're trying to fix me. You've always been trying to fix me."

"Of course I am!" Obi-Wan snaps, and his eyebrows rise, his expression incredulous, as if you've said something ridiculous. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not your responsibility," you say through gritted teeth. "You can't fix me. And you certainly can't save me. No matter how much you might want to."

"Maybe not," he agrees quietly. His eyes find yours, and his shoulders sag, the anger fading from his expression. "But, that doesn't change the fact that I care about you."

"You say that," you mumble.

"And, I mean it," he replies. “You're one of my closest friends. My only friend, really. And if you're hurting, I want to be there for you. I want to help. I can't do that if you won't let me."

"You can't help me," you say, and his expression shifts, hurt and confusion crossing his face. You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's not your fault alone. I know that. And you’re right. We’ve been playing this game for years. I've relied on you too much. But that has to stop. I can't let myself depend on you anymore. I have to...to fix myself. If I don't...if I don't..."

"What?" he presses.

"I'm going to lose myself," you finish. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at you, a sad look in his eyes. “I think you know that already. That's what scares you."

"Of course it does," he sighs. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, fixing you with a firm stare. "I've seen what you're capable of. What you can become. What you're still capable of. I've felt it, and I'm not going to lie, it’s frightening. The things I've felt...from you...from within you."

"You're scared of me," you state, and it's not a question.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes," you answer honestly.

"And, yet, here we are," Obi-Wan says softly. His eyes are locked on yours, and he shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Neither of us can walk away."

"I tried," you murmur. "You can't imagine how much."

"I have a fair idea." His hands fall to his sides, and his shoulders sag. He lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head, his mouth turning down, his brows drawing together, a troubled look on his face. "This isn't...what I wanted. It's not what either of us wanted."

"What did you want?" you ask. Your voice is soft and low. "When we were kids. When we first met. What did you want?"

"You know the answer to that," he says.

"Tell me," you press.

"I wanted...more," he answers, his tone careful, measured. "I wanted us to be more than friends. More than...this."

"So did I," you admit.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I hoped," he confesses. His eyes meet yours, and his mouth twitches, his lips pulling into a grim smile. "I hoped for a lot of things."

"Me too," you whisper.

"Things have changed," he continues. "I know that. I understand that. You're not the same person. And neither am I."

"No, we're not," you agree, and a part of you is sad, a bittersweet ache forming in your chest. "We're not the same. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise."

"I suppose it is," he concedes quietly.

The two of you are silent, neither of you speaking, neither of you wanting to break the spell, the fragile moment. The bond between the two of you hums, the energy vibrating, and you can feel his emotions, the conflicting feelings, the war raging within him. You wonder if he can sense yours. If he can feel the pain and sorrow and longing that's swirling through you.

After a moment, Obi-Wan clears his throat and runs a hand over his hair, straightening himself. He steps back, putting some space between the two of you, and he crosses his arms, his eyes meeting yours.

"You'll be careful," he states.

"I will," you promise.

"And if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first person I call," you finish.

He nods and looks away from you, his eyes finding the ground. His gaze falls to Yaddle's saber, his forehead creasing, a hint of worry flitting across his face. He stares at it for a long moment, lost in thought, and when he looks up again, his expression is resigned.

“Have you heard from Rex?" he asks, and his voice is light, his tone casual. It does nothing to assuage the sudden spike of anxiety in your chest.

"What?"

"Rex," Obi-Wan repeats. He turns slightly, facing you. "He cornered me after a briefing yesterday. Asked if I'd heard from you. He seemed very concerned. About you.”

"Oh," you mumble, and you glance down, your cheeks burning. You fiddle with your lightsaber, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, um, no. I haven't talked to him. Not since the diner."

"Really?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, and your stomach flips, a lump forming in your throat. "That's surprising. You seemed quite...cozy, when I called on you."

"We were just talking," you say, and it's not a lie, not really, but the words sound weak, even to your own ears. "He...he knows about Yaddle.”

"I'm not surprised," he murmurs. "He was quite upset. It was almost amusing, watching him try to act professional and hide his concern." He pauses and gives you a pointed look, his eyebrow arching, his tone teasing. "You're lucky I didn't tell him about your propensity for running away."

"Lucky," you repeat weakly. "What did you tell him? About me. About what happened."

"Nothing," he replies. His eyebrows rise, and he shrugs, letting out a small laugh. “I told him you would speak with him when you were ready. Why? Did you want me to say something else?"

"No," you say quickly, and his smile widens, a knowing glint in his eye. You bite your lip, a sigh escaping you. "I mean, it's not that I don't...it's not that I wouldn't want..." You trail off, frustrated, and your shoulders slump. “He's worried about me. I get it. It's just...not necessary. That's all."

Obi-Wan stares at you for a long moment, studying you, his eyes narrowed. After a minute, his face softens, and he gives you a wry smile and shakes his head.

"You're an idiot," he declares, and you scowl, your mouth opening to argue, but he waves a hand, cutting you off before you can start. "Don't even bother. It's pointless. You know I'm right."

"I'm not—"

"If there's anything I've learned in all the years I've known you, it's that you are the most stubborn, single-minded, foolish individual I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," he says flatly. "It's exhausting, being around you sometimes."

"Gee, thanks," you mumble.

"And, yet, despite your many, many flaws, you have the uncanny ability to draw people to you," he continues. His gaze meets yours, his expression serious, and his tone turns thoughtful. "You've always had that. Even as a youngling, before the incident, you were charismatic, charming, and people gravitated toward you. You could make anyone like you. And I think it's the reason you have so many people that care about you. Including me."

"Obi-Wan—"

"What I'm trying to say," he interrupts, his voice rising, "is that I know Rex cares about you. Very much. That man is completely enamored by you, and has been for a long time. Anyone can see it. Anyone except you."

"That's not true," you argue weakly, but it's a lie, and the both of you know it.

"It is," Obi-Wan retorts. He shrugs, and he glances over his shoulder, checking the hall. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered. "You should talk to him. Before you leave. You might not get another chance."

"Why would I...I don't..." you stammer, and your hands fidget, twisting in front of you. “You know why I can’t—why it can't...why I can't do that. You know."

"I do. But, maybe that doesn't matter," he says. His eyes meet yours, and a sad smile forms. "Don't forget, we're in a war. Anything could happen. You should be happy while you can."

"Obi-Wan," you mutter, your tone scolding.

"You should talk to him," he repeats. His gaze moves, scanning your rooms, and he nods toward your bags, his voice becoming softer. "While you still have a chance. Take it. While you can."

"You're a romantic," you joke, and he laughs.

"So, they say," he replies. He sighs, and his expression shifts, growing serious. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, I'm set," you nod.

"Then, may the Force be with you," he murmurs. He looks at you one last time, and then turns, heading for the door.

You watch him walk away, a heavy feeling settling in your chest, and you open your mouth, about to call after him. To tell him that you'll miss him. That he's been the best friend you've ever had. That you don't know what you'll do without him. That you wish things could be different.

But, you don't.

The door opens, and he walks through it, disappearing down the hall. The bond between the two of you flickers, and a dull ache forms in your stomach, spreading outward. It feels strange, like an emptiness. A hollowness. You take a deep breath and exhale, pushing the feelings aside, and the ache dissipates, the pain fading.

You're not sure what you expected. This is how things are between the two of you. Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe this is what's best.

You're not sure. But, a part of you knows it's better this way. That, as much as you care about him, as much as he cares about you, the two of you have come to an impasse. He can't help you. You can't help him. And trying is only going to hurt the both of you.

You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Your eyes fall on Yaddle’s lightsaber, the metal glinting in the dim light.

Tomorrow, you'll pick it up, and you'll leave. You'll go back out into the field. Into battle. To save lives. To win the war. It's a noble goal. Something worth fighting for.

Maybe the Council was right. Maybe this is what's best. What's right. Maybe this is what's needed. What the Republic needs.

Maybe.

You can only hope.

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@heaven1207 @808tsuika @aanncummings @lugiastark @maniacalbooper

@sensitive-shark @kashasenpai @kkdrawsdecently @isaidonyourknees @awkwardwookie

@sugarrush-blush @lunaastars @capricornrabies

[rachetmath]

Robyn: So Arc-

Jaune: You can call me “Jaune”. I’ve been here for five months.

Robyn: Well okay. Jaune um… what’s your day like with Fiona.

Jaune: Normal.

Robyn: Really? Nothing’s going on with you two?

Jaune: No. I just help her out. That’s it.

Robyn: Really?

Jaune: Yes.

Somewhere else

Nora: So Fiona. How long have you and Jaune been a couple?

Fiona: We’re not couple. What makes you think that?

Nora: You see him everyday. More than me.

Fiona: He helps me with the orphanage.

Nora: Nothing else?

Fiona: No!

Jaune and Fiona were in the Orphanage.

???: Mr. Arc? Mr. Thyme?

Jaune: What is it Rex?

Rex: Are you and Ms. Thyme a couple?

Fiona: Oh my- Robyn!

Robyn appears only to have May and Nora with her.

Jaune: Nora, you too?!

Nora: Look d-

Jaune: Nora.

Nora: *forgot the kid* Oh.

Jaune: Rex go to your room.

Rex: Okay. *leaves*

Jaune: Now what the hell wrong with you two?

Fiona: Why are you so obsessed with this?

Robyn: Because you two-

May: Look Fiona I been watching you two a lot and I have to admit it’s hard not to believe you’re not dating. In fact, I wouldn’t be surpise to call you both a married couple.

Fiona: Ugh you too May. Seriously wat-

May: You and Jaune do Laundry together.

May: Spend time with kids together.

May: In fact, when Jaune’s training leads him to get hurt, you are the first to drag him to the nursery and patch him up. Even when he tells us “Don’t worry about it.”

May: In fact you two are always in the kitchen together making dinner.

May: And Jaune, boy what Nora told me about you was damn lie. I saw what you did. Slow dancing in the night.

Nora: He was that smooth?

May: Smooth as Micheal Jackson.

Nora: Oh no.

Fiona: Um.

Jaune: Damn.

Nora: Oh yes. Finally. Fuck you Pyrrha! He go get right. *pulls scroll out her pocket and makes a call*

???: Hello.

Nora: Fuck you Weiss. You lose. He found someone better. He found the princess and gone make her his queen.

Jaune: Nora, calm down.

Nora: Fuck off Jaune. This is my victory.

In the twilight.

Pyrrha: Okay bitch, what did I do?

Adam: I mean you left the guy and died a meaningless death like Summer.

Summer: I gave birth to another silver eyed warrior. That has to count.

Hazel: Does she know how to use her eyes though?

Summer: Shut up.

Ironwood: And she destroyed Atlas and got Penny, Vine, Clover and myself killed so she’s kind a misfortune upon us.

Summer: Okay ya’ll need to stop disrespecting my daughter. Ya’ll made mistake.

Ironwood: Or so you say.

Summer: We can fight. We can fight right now James.

Pyrrha: I don’t understand.

Penny: Friend Pyrrha you are the main source of his trauma and pain.

Pyrrha: B-you know what… fuck all you.

Roman: Whoa Invincible Champion, it’s not our fault your ‘boyfriend’ decided to break that little curse you placed on him.

Pyrrha: Oh come on- I’m leaving. I don’t need this.

Summer: My death had meaning. My daughter has a mystery to solve.

Adam: So finally one of your daughters is actually trying to know what happened to you. It’s too bad they have to find the same woman that took one of them many years to find.

Summer: Oh my god.

Roman: Not to mention at least Penny’s death served a purpose. Winter’s alive. She kept thousands of people alive. While your death, Pyrrha, caused more suffering than good.

Pyrrha: You know what who wants to fight first? Who? Cause I’ll show you why they written me off. Name one. Who can body me? Who?! Step up. STEP UP!

Adam: Oh I never run from no challenge. Especially no One-V-One, come on bitch.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Lights, Leather, Action!- Part One

Cold-ridden, snzy stripper shit coming your way lol.

Grimm and Indigo are sent on an undercover assignment where neither knows the extent to other's role.

Imagine Indigo's surprise when he's dropped off at the local strip club and his lover is the fucking entertainment. Neither is allowed to break character. Neither can risk allowing their connection to each other to be known. But there's no rule that says they can't pretend to get to know each other as "strangers."

And Grimm loves a fucking challenge. And he's just come down with a the most horrible cold. However will he manage being a sexy AF "stripper" with something like that? -dramatic music intensifies-

Grimm's dance is done to this version of this song.

_______________________________________

“This is absurd.”  Indigo finishes buttoning his shirt and glances over his shoulder.  “Why would I not be informed of the details of this mission?”

“Because,” Grimm says. “You gotta pretend you’ve never seen me before in your whole goddamn life.”  

He gives his reflection the once over and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind one ear.  Typical black t-shirt.  Ripped jeans. Same old boots.  Yep, Indigo wouldn’t suspect shit. 

Well, except for the fact that he is currently nursing one hell of a cold.  Which Indigo is, in fact, all too well aware of.  The man had been watching him like a hawk all afternoon. 

When he wasn’t forcing Grimm to drink whatever gross-as-fuck tea he’d concocted. Not that any of it had done a damn bit of good. Grimm’s voice already had plenty of gravel, but this is a new level of rough depth.  Probably not a bad thing, considering just what he was about to do.  

The near-constant prickle in his sinuses surges to a sudden burn and he clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle a shuddering “Hhkg–UHhSSCHu! –uuhHKGISCCHHshu!”

Damn. Should've grabbed a tissue for that shit.  Maybe a towel. 

“Bless you,” Indigo says, his tone a mix of exasperation, concern, and plenty of “come fuck me now.”

Which would have to wait.  

He does, however, pass Grimm a generous handful of tissues.  Because this ain’t something a handkerchief handle.  Needs a “once and done” kinda thing. 

“Thanks, Indy.” Grimm gives himself a much-needed sinus clearing and tosses it into the trash without so much as looking. “Look, I gotta go.  Rex is gonna drive you out there.”  

Indigo says nothing.  Looks cross as hell.  Grimm smothers a laugh into his palm.  Yeah, no surprise there.

“I’d say ‘don’t worry about it,’ but you’re gonna.”  He grabs his partner by the front of his belt and jerks him into a tight embrace.  “I’ve been doing this shit my whole life. It’s gonna be fine.” 

“I know that,” Indigo mutter-hisses into his shirt.  “It is your health that concerns me.” 

More chuckling. “It’s just a cold, Indy.  I ain’t dyin’.” 

“Yes, yes.”  Indigo fists a handful of the black fabric, tilts his face up to get a better look at Grimm’s expression.  “Regardless of that fact, I would much rather have you in my care.” 

“Uh huh.” Grimm smirks.  “I just bet you would.” 

Before he can so much as protest, Indigo has tugged him into a kiss that has a fuckton of heat and zero concern for catching whatever Grimm might actually have. 

“Go on, then.” Indigo brushes Grimm’s hair away from his face.  “Do as you must.” 

Oh, he would, alright. 

Grimm pulls at the fabric of Indigo’s gray trousers with a decisive snap.  “Hope you don’t like these pants.” 

______________________________

“Rex, where in the name of the gods have you taken me?”

While Indigo is more than familiar with the city and all of its grandeur, this is just beyond its limits, somewhere on the outskirts verging on questionable territory.

“You’re about to find out.”  Grimm's associate shuts the SUV off and grabs his keys from the console.  “Come on. Just pretend we’re two gay-as-fuck bros out for a good time.”

Indigo huffs. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m so totally serious.”

“Great gods.” 

While Indigo has never entered such an establishment, he is aware of its purpose the moment his foot touches the inordinately tacky carpet.

Surely not.

“Rex.” Indigo grabs his arm and presses himself against the other man’s body so as to be heard over the booming absurdity attempting to call itself “music.”  “You cannot be serious!” 

“You said that already.” Rex runs a hand through his black and blond hair and offers him a lopsided grin.  “Come on, Indigo.  I’ll buy you a drink.” He throws an arm around his shoulders and leads him through the crowd.  “A strong one.”

Well, he would need more than that to cope with the barrage of sensory nonsense currently assailing him. Strobing, multicolored lights. Headache-inducing bass thumping through his entire being. Carpet that looked as if it had been designed by an acid user.  Not to mention the hoards of screaming women.  And more than a few gentleman as well.  To use the term loosely.

And enough naked male flesh on display from both patrons and dancers alike. 

Despite being dressed in casual modern clothing, Indigo himself feels as if he is on display, given the lurid gazes of those in the crowd.

“Don’t sweat it,” Rex says. “They just think you’re pretty.” 

Indigo doesn’t inform the man of what he truly sees.  Amidst the sweltering throng of humans are Others.  At least one for every ten humans.  An inordinate number gathered here, indulging in the perversion of sexual excess and libations. 

Behind the rims of his glasses, his eyes flash brilliant blue but for a moment before he stills his instinctual overdrive. He is here merely as an observer. A “human” observer.

Is Grimm posing as some sort of bouncer?  It was not as if he hadn’t done that manner of work before. 

Rex hands him some manner of clear liquid in a shot glass which he does not bother to consume.  The level of alcohol it would take to so much as touch his consciousness would cause the demise of several grown men. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Rex has guided him to the front of one of several stages, which was absolutely not where he wishes to be under any circumstances.  

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” He starts to stalk in the opposite direction, but Rex clasps his wrist with a firm, decisive grip.

“Nope. We’re standing right here.” 

Indigo shoots him a look that could freeze lava. “I think not.” 

The deejay’s voice booms over the sound system, announcing the end of one dancer’s routine and welcoming another to the stage.

“Alright all you ladies and gents out there, we’ve got a debut performer for you tonight and goddamn, it’s a good one. Make some noise for Remmington Wolf!” 

Indigo rolls his eyes. Honestly, where did these men find these ridiculous–

The raucous, sexual noise of guitars assaults his ears, but it is not the ungodly noise that stops him short.

No, that would be “Remmington Wolf” swaggering onto the stage, clad in leather and straps.  

Indigo’s jaw nearly drops before he catches his composure in the midst of crumbling.

Grimm. 

Grimm, strutting across the stage like he owns it.  Grimm, ripping that black tank top from beneath the straps that cross over his extremely naked and tattooed chest.  

And approximately one hundred screaming humans suddenly crowding the stage from every angle. 

Great gods.

Grimm drops to the floor, his hips grinding suggestively against a shadow of nothing, body undulating in ways that were never meant for public consumption. A shower of money and frenzied attempts at touch surround him.  The “leather” pants are suddenly gone, ripped from his body much like the shirt and discarded who knows where, leaving him standing in the shortest excuse for black spandex shorts Indigo has ever seen. 

And the boots.  Knee high and covered in straps and buckles that match the ones criss-crossing his chest.  

It is then that his gaze locks onto Indigo and he drops to his knees, crawling towards him some sort of lurid predator intent on the certain demise of his prey. 

Sweat beads Indigo’s brow at the sexual slink of Grimm’s approach and he stands frozen, unable to retreat or react. Grimm rises to his knees and reaches for him, hand tangling in his hair, the roll of his hips an obscene invitation. 

Screaming, hormonal madness in every direction. Grimm’s face so intensely close to his, mere increments from his lips, that lascivious smile curving his mouth. Energy crackles between them, unseen to those around them, but clearly visible to Indigo.  

Grimm is a fantasy of leather and sex, his body bending in ways that Indigo did not think him capable of. 

He pulls back and rises to his feet, his wandering touch focusing on one of the many women absolutely begging for his attention.  Just for a moment. 

Indigo doesn’t miss the hesitation in his stride, the way he suddenly ducks into the crook of his elbow, the unmistakable shudder of those broad shoulders. 

Once. Twice. Thrice. 

Heat suffuses his entire being as Grimm’s wandering gaze targets him and that cocky smile curves one side of his mouth.

The bastard.  The absolute great bastard!

Everything about his partner has been reduced to strutting, undulant carnal deviance. And all Indigo can do is stare at him like one of the slavering buffoons stuffing handfuls of money down those indecorous shorts.

The music tapers to silence and the audience emits a collective shriek of inane delight worthy of several pairs of earplugs. 

Somewhere above it all, the deejay is rambling whatever drivel comes after a performance, but Indigo’s attention is locked onto his partner who is currently at the opposite end of the runway-like stage, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, laughing with raucous enjoyment over something a bouncer has said. 

It takes every ounce of control Indigo can muster not to part the crowd with his raging appetency and drag Grimm into the nearest corner and—

“You good?”  Rex nudges his shoulder and Indigo blinks, snapping back to reality.

“Yes,” he lies stiffly. 

Rex laughs. “No?”

Indeed not. Rex truly has no idea.

_____

Grimm pops the cap off of his third bottle of water and takes a deep swig. That had been a lot of damn energy.  Funny, because he doesn’t feel even a little bit tired.  

He should, though. Even if his cold was just some garden variety bullshit, that didn’t excuse him from the relentless symptoms.  

One in particular. 

He snatches a handful of napkins from the bar and barely manages to clamp them over his mouth and nose.

“---UHSCCHHHu! Hhh’uh-KGSSSCCHHuh!” 

Damn. Barely any warning. Maybe if it wasn’t so fucking cold in this place. A double whammy for sure.

He takes a moment to struggle into some actual leather pants, which doesn’t do a goddamn thing, but it doesn’t matter.  He’s got better shit to do.  

Making his way through an ocean of admiration is only moderately weird, but he’s interested in one particular target and that’s the one currently giving Rex an earful.  Fuck, he can only imagine. The kid is laughing, which probably isn’t the smartest thing, but at least Indigo doesn’t look too pissed.  “Frustrated” is definitely the best word for that look.  He’s seen it pointed at him more times than a firing squad.

As if sensing his approach, Indigo ceases whatever he’s dishing out to Rex and turns to face him, expression neutral, posture proper but deceptively normal.

Grimm isn’t buying it. Not for a second. 

He adopts all of the cocky bullshit he can muster and puts a deliberate swagger in his stride. 

Rex excuses the hell out of himself before Grimm reaches the edge of the table where neither Indigo nor Rex had actually sat, leaving Indigo to fend for himself against whatever advances he might make.  That is, if he tried to do that shit. 

“Hey.” He tosses his dark hair over his shoulders with all kinds of ridiculous finesse.  “Saw you watching.  You like what you see?”

Indigo arches one perfect eyebrow with such an air of boredom, Grimm almost buys it.  

Almost. 

“Perhaps,” he says. 

Hmm, he’s good. 

Grimm steps closer, the fingers of one hand grazing the sleeve of Indigo’s shirt with a feather-light touch. “You got a name?” 

His partner does not so much as flinch. “I do, but you may call me ‘Ice’.” 

Grimm almost chokes on the laugh that bursts out of him before he can even do a damn thing to stop it. “Hmmn, okay, Ice.” He lowers his head just a touch, a gleam in his eye. “Guess you heard who I was since you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.”

“I believe I missed it,” Indigo “Ice” says.  Like he’s so goddamn disinterested, he can’t stand himself.  

Well, now. This shit is gonna be fun. 

“Remmington,” Grimm says. “You think something that long will fit in your mouth, Ice?”

Indigo lifts his chin. “I suppose it would depend on if you prefer ‘Remming’ or not.” 

Did he just . . .

Grimm leans against the column beside the table. “You’re a real smartass, aren’t ya.” 

“You are not the first to accuse me of such a thing.”

Maybe Grimm would have said something equally smartassy back, but standing under an AC vent has won over a spicy comeback.  And this is way better.

He brushes a knuckled finger against his nose with a cringe, makes a show of standing there for a moment, fights against it with more visuals than necessary. Indigo’s gaze is cool and steady, his posture now straight, but not rigid.

Grimm’s expression begins the descent from brash to desperate, his breath hitching with an uneven, almost ragged stammer. 

“Hhh-huuh!  Hhuuh. . .! UHCHSSHu! Hkgh’UHSSCCH’u! —Uhh-KGSSSSSH!”  

To hell with covering. He leans to one side and gives Indy the full fucking show, right down to the full body shiver.  Which he can’t help anyway, but fuck it.

“Goddamn,” he says with a shake of his head. “Fucking freezing in hee-hhhuh! Hh–NXGT–shhuh!” He leans against the support pillar with a thick, congested sniffle.  “Fuck. Excuse me.” He flashes Indigo a lascivious smile. “Might have a cold or some shit.” 

“Bless you,” Indigo says with such polite indifference that Grimm laughs like a stupid asshole. “Perhaps this would be of some use to you?”

The icy bastard waggles a folded handkerchief at him, holding it between two fingers, and Grimm smirks. “You won’t want it back when I’m done with it.” 

“I had no intention of wishing for its return,” Indigo says.

Grimm takes a step towards him, his fingers sliding to clasp the thing, but caressing the edges of Indigo’s pale hand in the process, taking his time to pull it free of the proffering grip.  

Just in time, too. Grimm buries his nose in the folds with a dramatic disaster of an encore, doing nothing to stop himself from unleashing hell from whatever the fuck his sinuses are doing right now.

“UHHKGSSCH!-UHSSCHu! UHH-KGISSCHHUu! Good goddamn.” 

Indigo’s expression softens just for a split second and Grimm nudges the tip of his dress shoe with one boot. 

“Bless you,” Indigo says, the frost in his tone warmed for the briefest instant, a context clue no one but Grimm could possibly decipher. 

“Thanks,” Grimm says. He barely manages to stop himself from saying “Indy.” He recovers with another, more subdued nose blow and pockets the handkerchief.  “Wanna buy me a drink?”

Indigo “Ice” chuckles with a thread of something wild.  “I suppose I might.” 

(TBC....)

[remperoni-melt]

I’d Ground You If The League Didn’t Already (REPOST FROM OLD BLOG)

Dom!Matt Rempe x short!alt!sarcastic!fem!Reader

TW:// NSFW, p in v, oral (m receiving), unprotected, hate fucking???, very rough handling, ANGSTTTTTTT, sarcasm, bullying out of love, lowkey CNC??, HARD kinks, Kinda porn with a plot

(Credit to @amourtoken for the idea)

*kinda rushed but I was excited to get this out 🤷‍♀️

“Matthew Rempe! You’re fucking lucky I respect your mother so much or I’d beat her ass in the street for raising such a bitch.” I exclaimed as I let myself into my best friend’s apartment. Matt and I always gave each other shit but it was always out of love. Our relationship was built off of bullying each other. That was just our dynamic. We wouldn’t be us without it.

“Oh my god, how does something I can punt so easily manage to catch such a big attitude?” Matt groaned and ran a hand over his face in frustration. “I know I fucked up, okay?! Do you think I’m happy about the suspension?” Matt snapped at the short girl that had just barged into his apartment.

“Well, you didn’t seem too bothered when you got ejected!” I snapped back at him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I saw that little smirk on your face. You didn’t care about your actions until you got in trouble!” I scoffed and rolled my eyes at the 6’9 man I had come to know as my best friend. “I mean, Jesus fuck, Matt! 8 fucking games?! I’d ground you myself if the league hadn’t already done it for me!” I all but spat at him.

“Fuck you, ankle biter! You don’t know what the fuck I was thinking!” Matt yelled, his patience wearing even more thin as the tiny woman dug into him like the first person to find a T-Rex skeleton. He couldn’t deny that she had a point. All he heard was the cheers. All he felt was the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He hadn’t even considered the consequences until they were laid out in front of him.

“Regardless, it was reckless.” I said sternly, as if I was scolding a child. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair before I spoke again. “Listen, Matt. Maybe I just don’t want my best friend qualifying for a tear drop tattoo.”

“Oh my god, I’m not gonna fucking kill anyone.” Matt rolled his eyes at the petite woman’s dramatics.

“Well you came damn fucking close this time.” I said bluntly, calling out the giant man with the confidence of a man taller than him. “I fucking love you, Matthew.” I said in anger. “And the next time you do some dumb shit like that, I won’t fucking hesitate to fold your clothes with you still in them.” I threatened him. Was it stupid? Yes. Did I care? In the moment I didn’t. Not really.

“God, do you ever shut the fuck up?” Matt groaned. “Any time I get into a fight, all you fucking do is bitch and moan. I get you care but… fuck, woman! Hop off my fucking dick!” Matt yelled with a scoff and a bitter chuckle. “Y’know what? Better yet, choke on my fucking dick since you can never shut the fuck up! Maybe with something in your mouth I won’t have to hear you whining about decisions I make in my fucking career!” Matt shot at her. He knew his words were harsh but he was stressed. They both were. And god dammit, he just wanted her to shut the fuck up for a minute.

I scoffed and bit the insides of my cheeks as I took in his words. I nodded slowly, pissed off at his audacity. Someone that looked like they left Gumby in the oven too long was talking to me like that? Is he on fucking crack? The next words to leave my mouth were not my own but that of a demon clearly trying to sabotage and kill me.

“Make me.”

POV switch - Matt

At the sound of her words, my resolve crumbled. Her lips curled up into a sinister smirk, her gaze on me hard and challenging. This pint sized little bitch genuinely thought she was indestructible at times.

Fuck, I can’t wait to break her.

I pressed my lips together in a tight line and stomped over to her. I grabbed a fistful of her black hair and dragged her to my bedroom. The sound of her yelping in surprise, or maybe it was pain, just caused a dark chuckle to escape my throat. I roughly pushed her down on my bed and swiftly slapped her across the face, making sure to support the other side of her face with my other hand. I squatted down in front of her, smirking at her as she held her probably bruising cheek in shock.

“I’m gonna beat your pussy up like it fucking owes me money.” I said with a smile. “But first, you’re gonna choke on my dick like the pathetic little fucking slut you are.” I said bluntly and stood back up straight. I quickly pulled my gray sweats down, my dick slapping against my stomach. I chuckled as she gasped and looked up at me with those damn doe eyes. Fuck, those eyes. I roughly grabbed her chin and yanked her closer. “Open.” I commanded.

POV switch - Reader

I opened my mouth, almost on instinct. My eyes met his in a look that begged ‘please, Matt. Please fuck me. Take me. I’ll do anything. Take me right here, right now. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. I’m your slut. I’m yours. Please.’

“Good girl.” Matt smirked, his eyes narrowing down at me. His hand twisted in my hair and he slammed my head on his rigid cock, causing me to gag and tears to prick at my eyes. “Too much?” He asked before he started guiding my head. He moved fast and aggressive. I had no time to breathe or think. All that existed was his dick popping in and out of my throat. His tip sliding against my tongue. His groans and curses as he face fucked me with reckless abandon. God damn. He wasn’t kidding about shutting me up. Finally, I couldn’t take anymore. I grabbed his thigh, digging my nails in and making him hiss in pain and still his movements.

“Fuck. You.” I choked out in a hoarse voice between panted breaths as I collapsed back on the bed.

“You have manners. Say please.” Matt teased as he looked down at the already ruined girl on the bed. The sight changed something in him. He wasn’t sure if it was the banter or what had just transpired, but he wanted to ruin her.

I looked up at him, clear annoyance on my face. We had always been best friends. We always bullied each other but this? This was way too fucking far.

“Please.” I croaked out sarcastically, my eyes narrowing at him. He smirked down at me and swiftly ripped my shirt over my head and yanked my jeans off my legs, baring me to his hungry and devious gaze.

“Fuck.” Matt had pretty much breathed out the word. “I didn’t know you were built like this.” He smirked while he undressed himself at an agonizingly slow pace. Somehow, the sight was teasing. It was seductive. It was intoxicating. It was completely unfair and I needed him now or I was gonna go crazy. Absolutely fucking ape shit insane.

“Shut up and fuck me, goon.” I said in a quiet but venomous voice. By the look on his face, I knew I didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Watch how the fuck you talk to me, brat.” He growled out the words as his hand shot out to wrap around my already sore throat. He smirked as I winced and gasped, his grip getting tighter just so he could watch me squirm further. Once I groaned in pain, he chuckled. “Want me to stop?” He leaned down to whisper in my ear, his lips brushing against the shell of it. I quickly shook my head ‘no’, making him chuckle darkly.

Slowly, he climbed on the bed to hover over me. His eyes raked over my body slowly, a dark and dangerous look in his eyes. Suddenly, his hands grabbed my knees and roughly pushed my knees apart, causing me to gasp and whimper. His eyes caught the glint of something in my folds and he smirked, knowing exactly what it was. To be sure though, he reached out and brushed his fingers against my clit. The cool metal of my clit piercing was a stark contrast to the warmth of the wetness coating literally everything else.

“We’ll play with that later.” His voice came out in a husky whisper as he lowered himself on top of me.

“Just. Fuck. Me.” I growled out as I tangled my hand in his hair, pulling roughly. He groaned and without wasting a second, he plunged into me. Both of us let out low moans simultaneously as he sank into me.

“Oh fuck.” He hissed. His hand gripped my left hip with enough strength that I thought my hip bone would shatter. His mind went blank as the feeling of me consumed him, and his hips started moving. Slowly at first, as if to savor the moment.

“You’re still a fucking idiot.” The words tumbled from my lips between the soft moans that he drew from my lips.

“You bite sized bitch. Are you seriously still bitching at me when I’m balls deep inside you?” He hissed, his hips still keeping their slow and steady pace. He slowly drew his length all the way out before slamming back in full force, causing me to scream.

“Your fault,” I got cut off by a whimper, “for thinking you were safe.” I finished my sentence, my nails digging into the back of his neck.

“You’re insufferable but fuck if this pussy isn’t fucking life changing.” He groaned into my ear. His hands moved to my waist, his grip strong and bruising as he kept up with his slow but hard and punishing strokes.

“Life changing like an 8 game suspension?” I asked breathlessly, followed by a whimper as he nipped at my neck.

“You’re not gonna be talking all this shit when I fuck you so good that you’re talking to your higher self.” Matt groaned, his tone cocky. He punctuated his statement with a particularly deep thrust from a different angle, hitting that spot within me that made me scream out and scratch down his back. “In case you doubted me.” He chuckled before replicating the thrust.

“Yeah but you can’t fuck me harder than my childhood trauma.” I said shakily, holding in my moans. He picked up his pace, as if to challenge me. “8 games and you’re still lucky enough to fuck a pussy this good.” I teased him in a sultry whisper. “Even when you lose, somehow you still win.”

“Yeah?” He scoffed lightly. “Who’s the one stretching this pretty pussy out? Who’s the one making you scream?” He growled through gritted teeth as he started fucking me harder. Faster.

“Who’s the one that’s gonna cum?” I shot back through gritted teeth as I clenched around him as hard as I could, causing him to groan loudly as a shudder passed through his body.

“Jesus Christ.” He hissed. With that, I knew he was close. My hips began to rock with his, my walls clenching around him as he would pull back. “Fuck. Chill. Chill.” He said breathlessly, his hips stilling so he could last longer.

“No.” I said with a smirk. Despite my size, I was able to flip us over pretty easily. I sank down onto him, my hips immediately grinding on him. His length was rubbing against that sweet spot in me and the room filled with the sounds of us whimpering and moaning. “Play smarter when you’re back on the ice and just imagine the nasty fucking shit I’ll do for you then.” I giggled as his hands found my hips, his fingers digging into my skin.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his head falling back. “I’ll be smarter. Fuck, I’ll be smarter.” He whimpered. My hips sped up and his mouth hung open in a silent moan, his eyes shut tightly. Finally, his grip on my hips got tighter and his body began to tense before shudders ran through him as he released his load inside me. I kept going, determined to milk him of every last drop, thought, breath. I wasn’t satisfied until he was completely braindead. Once he was staring at the ceiling with glazed over eyes, I knew he was thoroughly fucked out.

“Believe it or not, I came here to comfort you.” I said with a smirk as I hopped off him, collapsing on the bed next to him. “How’d I do?” I asked, with a cocky grin.

“Fuck you.” Matt rasped out with a breathless laugh.

And with that, he started fighting more. He fucked me once and ran with it. Fucking idiot…

**Re-posting this here bc I’m deleting @remperoni today to avoid confusion between blogs and Idk if the post will be lost when I delete the blog soooooooo…

[ohquail]

POKEMON AU because I can and spent a lot of time on it

Pokemon Au:

Ashlyn: Cyndaquil -> Typhlosion: Scorch Mareep -> Ampharos: Zap Marill -> Azumarill: Blueberry Sudowoodo: Pebble Eevee -> Umbreon: Luna Houndour -> Houndoom: Cerberus

Aiden: Pichu -> Pikachu: Zippy Tyrogue -> Hitmontop: Champ Hoothoot -> Noctowl: Hootie Zubat -> Crobat: Echo Wooper -> Quagsire: Splash Dunsparce: Wiggles

Ben: Nidorino -> Nidoking: Spike Jigglypuff -> Wigglytuff: Puff Growlithe -> Arcanine: Scout Tentacool -> Tentacruel: Jelly Lickitung: Slurps Cubone -> Marowak: Skull

Logan: Caterpie -> Butterfree: Worm Oddish w/ everstone: Herb Poliwag -> Poliwrath: Ripple Magnemite -> Magneton: Volt Kangaskhan: Guardian Hitmonlee -> Hitmonchan: Roundhouse

Taylor: Bellsprout -> Victreebel: Petal Ponyta -> Rapidash: Rainbow Dash Farfetch'd: Duckie Staryu -> Starmie: Glimmer Eevee -> Espeon: Shine Bellossom: Buttercup

Tyler: Taylor nicknamed all his pokemon because he didn't want too Machop -> Machamp: Rex Shellder -> Cloyster: Pearl Onix: Titan Misdreavus -> Mismagius: Spooky Gligar: Aero Slugma -> Marcargo: Cinder

Ashlyn leaned back against the seat of the train. Her Azumarill, Blueberry, was nuzzled comfortably on her lap, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic chugging of the train over the tracks. She looked out at the passing scenery – verdant fields and wild Pokémon frolicking freely- it was a peaceful scene that was suddenly ruined. “Oh my god! Ponyta and Rapidash!” Taylor pressed her face up against the glass.

Her eyes were wide with excitement as she pointed at the fiery Pokémon galloping majestically across the open landscape. "Such power, such grace!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine admiration.

“Shut up Taylor,” Her twin brother, Tyler grumbled from beside her.

Taylor responded by sticking her tongue out at him, "Oh come on, Ty! Lighten up a bit. We're on an adventure!" Her words were punctuated with a wild gesture referring to the world outside their window.

Tyler merely rolled his eyes and returned to his nap. Aiden got into Ashlyn’s face. “Are you excited to see the big city?” “Get out of my face,” She shoved her hand in his face and pushed him away from her.

Aiden stumbled back, a grin still lingering on his lips despite Ashlyn's rebuff. He adjusted his glasses and laughed, "Alright, alright, I get it! Personal space, I respect that." He then moved over to join Taylor by the window, equally captivated by the sight of the fiery Pokémon racing alongside their train. Logan looked up at his book, “What gym is in Savannah?” He asked more so Tyler. The ladder looked up before drifting back off to sleep, not answering Logan’s question.

Logan frowned slightly at Tyler's lack of response but shrugged and returned to his book. “It’s the Electric Type gym,” Ashlyn answered, glancing over at Logan. “Ben are you gonna battle the gym leader this time?” Taylor looked over with a grin. The mute boy looked up at her and shook his head. Taylor’s grin didn't falter. "Well, your loss, Ben! Savannah's gym leader is supposed to be one of the toughest around.” Ashlyn nodded in agreement, her thoughts drifting to the upcoming challenge. Blueberry stirred on her lap, opening one eye lazily. “Ashlyn, the conductor is coming by, put the pokemon away,” Taylor hissed quietly.

Ashlyn gently nudged Blueberry, whispering for her to return to her Poké Ball. With a soft glow, the Azumarill disappeared, and Ashlyn clipped the ball back onto her belt. As the conductor approached, checking tickets and ensuring everything was in order, the friends settled down, their excitement momentarily subdued by the adult walking past. “Hey! Blonde kid, sit down,” She told Aiden.

Aiden, who had been bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, gave the conductor a sheepish smile and quickly sat down next to Ashlyn. The conductor nodded sternly before moving on, her eyes scanning the rest of the passengers with practiced ease.

Once she was out of earshot, Aiden leaned in towards Ashlyn, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, what's the plan when we get there? Straight to the gym or do we explore the city first?"

Ashlyn pondered for a moment, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her thigh. "I think it'd be smart to scout out the gym first, get an idea of the level of the trainers and the gym leader’s level and pokemon,” she mused, her eyes lighting up with the thrill of strategy. "But, exploring Savannah wouldn’t hurt either; it could be a good way to unwind before the battle."

Aiden nodded in agreement, his grin widening. "Sounds like a perfect plan! Plus, I heard there's a market where local trainers trade rare battle items!” “Okay calm down, it’s not that exciting,” Tyler opened his eyes with a glare at Aiden.

Ben, still silent, gave a small nod, his own excitement about the city's offerings visible only to those who knew him well. His dark eyes flickered with interest at the mention of the market, perhaps considering it a good place to gather resources that could be valuable in upcoming battles.

"Actually, it might be good for our pokemon to get some battle items to make them stronger!” Taylor wrapped her arm around her brother’s shoulders. Logan looked up from his book, “Plus in the tall grass outside the city, there’s shellos, we both need that for our pokedexs,” Logan told Taylor.

Taylor's face lit up at the suggestion, her adventurous spirit clearly piqued by the possibility of catching a new Pokémon. "That settles it then! First, we explore the city and hit the market, and then we head out to catch some Shellos," she declared enthusiastically.

Ashlyn shook her head, appreciating Taylor's infectious energy.

[vxmpyr-clxb]

☆ . . . LEARN THE ALPHABET WITH SAGE!

A is for — “And here I thought Jake would’ve been the first to lose a limb.” Playing COD and other shooting games with the boys.

B is for — "Bitches love me bitches love me-" Jake on live and going to ask Sage if she wanted to join. Only to open the door and hear her screaming the lyrics to a song. Jake immediately slamming the door shut after hearing her.

C is for — “¿Cómo te va? Ten cuidado. No te caigas.” Teagan randomly switching languages when speaking to the boys in a en-o’clock ep and not even realizing it for a good 20 minutes.

D is for — "DEEZ NUTS!...I'm sorry." Her on a live, and letting the intrusive thoughts win, pt. 1.

E is for — “EVERYTIME WE TOUCH I GET THIS FEELING!" Karaoke with Heesung, Jay, and Sage is chaotic to say the least.

F is for — "FUC-FLIPPING FONGTASTIC PENGUINS!" Teagan stubbing her toe on the counter in I-land.

G is for — "Get me out of here.." Sage looking towards the cam during a live, with Niki and Jake, like she's in the office.

H is for — "HEKVSFKJASK-" Her literally getting choked out by Niki when they were roughousing and him dragging her off the side.

I is for — "I’ve accidentally indulged in too much ‘me time’ and must now suffer the consequences." Sage leaving her room after 24 straight hours of gaming and just hanging out and almost falling due to lack of iron.

J is for — “Just take me out! I wanna go back to bed." The group playing paintball while on a variety show episode and Teagan standing in the middle of the arena with her arms open.

K is for — "Kill me and I'll haunt you for the rest of your days, Kim Sunoo." Enhypen playing Mafia together.

L is for — "Likeee- You can’t sit with us.” Enhypen playing a game on one of her vlogs where you have to guess the person they’re pretending to be.

M is for — “MONSTER ENERGY!” Playing that one guessing game with headphones and Teagan being absolutely wrong in her guess.

O is for — “One more week of being stuck here with this *bleeep* cabeza de mierda and you will find a dead body.” Sage whilst on i-land and the boys keep eating all her favorite snacks when she started her period.

P is for — “Please, for the love of Christ, stop throwing monopoly money like we’re in a strip club!” A clip from one of her vlogs on Enhypen's group game nights.

Q is for — "QUACK QUACK HOE!" There's compilation of Teagan accidently cursing in public on YouTube somewhere, I just know it.

R is for — "RAAHHHH!!” Sage randomly using British slang out of nowhere and the boys getting confused.

S is for — “Shit..Oh fuck!…Who said that??” Her in the background of one of the other’s lives and dropping something and cursing.

T is for — "This is our village idiot—" Sage showing off her family pet, Rex, in a vlog.

U is for — "Ur joking.. Ur joe-king." The girl mimicking that one tiktok trend and dying of laughter on live.

W is for — "WAKE UP IN DAY ONE!" Shouting the lyrics to their song during a karaoke challenge.

X is for— "XYNDNDK” The girl falling out of her chair while laughing in an en-o’clock episode.

Y is for — “Yang Jungwon, I know you are not killing people without me!!!” Sage messing/joking with Jungwon when they all played Among Us together.

Z is for — "Zesty? Girl what.." Sage reading comments on live and laughing at goofy ones.

should really be named sage can't stop cursing pt.1

[deejadabbles]

The right parts (Tech x Reader) Western AU

Summary: You have been Pabu Creek's blacksmith for a long while, a fact that the local inventor, Tech, appreciated, since you were more than capable of making his custom parts.

Wild West AU with a gender neutral reader. No warnings, just sweet, awkward Tech, and first-kiss cuteness.

A.N: I've been seeing western AU stuff for the bad batch for a while, but I directly credit @emperor-palpaminty for this, as falling into their western au tag really got me inspired ❤️

If you wanna read more headcanons I have for my take on this AU, I have some here, and this might become a series of oneshots. Also, this has a bit of a steampunk-y vibe, hope you don't mind!

Most in town avoided the workshop. They were put off by the strange bangs and pops and hisses that rang behind those barn doors at every hour. Tech was treated...well enough by the town folk, but most would admit they were more put off by him than the other boys in his family.

Mostly, they just didn't understand him, his ramblings and rantings. They could admire Hunter and Wrecker's strength, Rex and Echo's veteran past, but Tech's mind? All those lofty textbooks and strange contraptions?

It was all just a bit much for the average person.

Still, most knew and appreciated how much their little town had benefited from Tech. His knowledge and inventions had helped many of them, just as much as the crops his brothers grew and the protection his cousins offered. And they appreciated it nonetheless.

But what they appreciated just as much, was the fact that you were one of the only persons willing to brave the infamous workshop.

Your satchel was hefty today, clinking with Tech's newest order, and you adjusted it on your shoulder as you lifted your fist to knock on the iron-braced door.

There was a metallic clatter on the other side, a muffled curse, and the shuffle of feet. In a groan of hinges the door opened, and there was Tech. Soot smeared across his cheek and forehead, sleeves rolled up well past his elbows, and glasses askew.

It was a true testament to how fond he was of you, that a small smile lifted his lips when his eyes met yours.

"Perfect timing," he greeted, eyes darting down to the bag resting on your hip.

Leaving the door wide open, Tech quickly turned and headed back into the depths of his workshop, knowing you would follow.

"Evening to you too," you smirked, stepping in after him.

As you shut the door behind you, you lifted your satchel off your shoulder, relishing the lifted weight. Tech's main set of workbenches (yes, set, not one simple table) sat along the adjoining wall, with blueprints, scribbled notes, broken parts, and tools scattered atop every surface. There was a clear space directly in front of where Tech stood, and that's where you set his order.

He untied the strap with care and tilted the bag so its contents rolled out with ease. The hum of approval that followed made your skin tingle just a little.

"Yes, yes," Tech muttered, lifting the first piece of metalwork to the light shining through the window, "these are just as I hoped. Exquisite work, as always." He looked over at you then, adjusting his glasses, "Then again, I expect nothing less from talent such as yours."

Your face was burning at the compliment, mouth dry even as you gave him a smile of your own. "Well, your sketches are always easy to work with," you said, reaching for the papers tucked into your vest pocket.

Tech repeatedly expressed how thankful he was that the town blacksmith was versatile in their work, as he always seemed to need custom parts for whatever machine he was working on at the moment. You were always happy to oblige, welcoming the challenge and change of pace. One could only make so many nails and horseshoes before they got bored.

While you tossed his latest specs back onto the pile of design sketches, Tech completed his examination of your work. Then, he slid off his round spectacles and grabbed his goggles, another piece of your handywork.

"As I said, your timing could not have been better, my dear," he tightened the strap, "as I'm a hair away from completing my latest project.

"Do you need any help?"

He paused as he reached for his tool set, "Oh, I- yes!" he cleared his throat, "If you don't have anything else pressing to attend to, an extra set of hands would be appreciated."

You waved your hand at the rest of the open building, "Lead the way."

Tech had, many projects. Some with thick layers of dust, some in several pieces, others he came back to often. To the untrained eye, it all looked like piles of junk, but you had been in here enough over the years that you recognized that it was just a result of Tech hyperactive mind. He had trouble staying on one project for long, though sometimes, like this current machine, he managed it.

After leading you to the very back of the barn-like building, Tech set down his toolbox beside the strange contraption. For lack of a better comparison, you likened its shape to a metal bull of sorts, with thin wheels for legs and a large opening where its head might have been. Though, if Tech heard you collating it to an animal, he'd probably raise a confused brow. He cared little for aesthetics, after all.

"If you could hold this," Tech cut through your musings, holding up a paneled section of the machine's side.

You took it from him, holding it up on its hinges so he could all but climb inside.

"Ah, now I get it," you smiled seeing what part he was working on, "you're trying to increase the pressure."

"Precisely, there was too much steam loss, which resulted in slower forward motion, which itself resulted in the wheels getting caught on every minor obstruction in its path."

You let him ramble on as he tinkered with this, adjusted that, working your new parts in one at a time. He did use your hands, asking you to press down on one thing, hold another in place, it all made the process faster.

When he was done there, Tech threw open the barn doors in front of the machine, giving it somewhere to go when he as he ran his final test. Then, he asked you to help him load the fuel source to start that test run. The thing seemed to roar to life the moment it had its food, and the gears Tech had commissioned from your last week began to turn- before stalling almost instantly.

"Oh no no no no!" Tech ran his fingers through the tight curls of his hair as he looked about, "That should have worked! Why isn't it working!?"

"Tech," you grabbed his arm and pointed to the ceiling, "you still have it chained up!"

His eyes went wide as he looked at his suspension rig, which he often used to lift machines for easier alterations. Without a word, he leapt onto the would-be bull, climbing onto its back and began working at the chains, worried something would break from the strain.

The moment the machine was free it lurked forward, gears cranking and turning- and throwing Tech off its back as it took off. Your heart leapt into your throat as he came soaring down, and your arms flew open without another thought.

With a great thud, Tech's body collided with your own, sending you both tumbling down to the dirt floor. You could smell the coal and tang of metal that clung to Tech like a cologne, being that he was laying right on top of you. He drew in a shaky breath, nose brushing against your cheek as he propped himself up on his elbow, which also just so happened to be on either side of your head.

He fixed his goggles, which had gone askew, and blinked down at you, "My apologies," he breathed, "I did not mean to-"

"Tech," you cut him off, cupping your hands on his face so you could turn it in the direction of the doors, "it works, your machine works!"

Indeed, the large contraption was grinding and lurching down the open field surrounding his workshop with great power. He let out a laugh, turning his head back to you.

"It does indeed! This is wonderful, Wrecker's next harvest will go much more smoothly now."

You were sure the way you smiled up at him was soft, too soft to be just a friendly smile, but you didn't stop yourself from saying, in an equally gentle tone, "Your brilliant mind never ceases to amaze me."

You saw him draw in a sharp breath, and thought something in his eyes...shifted. "And you, my darling, never cease to amaze me with your handiwork." Was he..was he leaning in closer to you? "Not many people can understand me, and you always do so without fail."

His eyes were half-lidded now, as he placed one of his hands over yours, which was still holding his face. You couldn't help but hold your breath as he just looked down at you, thumb caressing the back of your hand.

"Your palms, they're...rough," he whispered rather absent-mindedly.

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, "So are yours," you grumbled back, and watched his eyes widen.

"Oh! No, I like them- your hands, I mean. I like that they're rough."

This time your eyes held interest, and you leaned up ever so slightly, "You do, do you?"

He gulped and this time, you knew he was moving closer to you, "Yes, very much so. I dare say, I love everything about you, my sweet."

And then his lips were on yours.

They were chapped but moved with an unexpected grace. The hand that had been placed over yours moved to cup your cheek. You responded in kind, taking your own hands and sliding them back to curl into his hair. He let out a moan, a moan that caught in his throat when you tilted your head to deepen the kiss.

It was then that you were fully reminded of the fact that he was laying atop you. His leg moved seemingly of its own accord, pressing between your thighs in a way that had your chest stirring with something new.

Unfortunately, a sound echoed from across the field, and you pulled yourself out of your heated haze long enough to pull back just a little. Tech was not discouraged, his mind fixated on the task before him, and he simply moved his mouth to your jawline.

"T-Tech," you all but moaned, and the deep hum he gave in response had your mind spinning. He must like it when you say his name. "We- need to go catch your machine."

His breath was hot against your ear as he nuzzled your skin, "Do we have to, my dear? I am far more intrigued by my current project."

You didn't have time to unpack whether or not you liked being called his project, because you were untangling your finger from his curls to gently push on his chest.

"We can always continue this later, mr beautiful mind, but for now, I'm pretty sure that thing is heading for Cid's saloon."

Again, Tech's eyes went wide, any aforementioned lust vanishing. "Oh, dear!"

[inscrutable-shadow]

Whumptober 2024 Day 7 - in the hollow of my bones

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."

More from the military AU. A session with Miguel goes wrong, and Thanatos rekindles something he long thought was lost. Miguel and Solomon belong to @sunshiline-writes, Luis and Lanzo (referenced) to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump, and Rex belongs to @cyberwhumper!

contains: art therapy, ptsd, flashback, magical exhaustion, and thanatos being pathetic

also available on ao3!

Thanatos could tell it was going to be a silent session as soon as Miguel walked in the door. A night spent in the general's office rarely boded well, and today appeared to be no different. "How about we go ears off for today," Than suggested, in lieu of a greeting, and Miguel nodded. He'd been meaning to try a new angle with Miguel, something to help express emotions that were difficult. Art therapy showed promising results with some clients, and for someone who struggled with specific words and giving himself permission to express emotions like Miguel, Thanatos hoped it could make a difference. He retrieved a sheaf of cardstock and a set of colored pencils from a drawer and began to inscribe his next statement onto the whiteboard they used for silent days.

Just try to translate what's going on inside to the page. Any colors or shapes you like. I'm not looking for anything specific or grading you on what you depict. This is your time. If you want to discuss them afterward, that's also up to you, I'll be here, but you may just leave if you'd like.

He slid the whiteboard over for Miguel to read and ducked under the desk for a moment to pull a stack of files out of his briefcase. It would be less uncomfortable for Miguel to be unobserved during the process, he reasoned. Thanatos had been told that the full force of his attention could be... unsettling. If he'd been paying attention, however, he might have seen the punch coming.

During a session, Thanatos habitually evaluated micro-expressions and other nonverbal cues to extrapolate a client's internal state and make informed decisions on what sorts of activities or redirections might produce desirable results. It was part of the challenge, the game of therapy for him, seeing the person in the chair as the opponent at the chessboard. Miguel's face was rarely quiet, even if it often lied, and watching it would likely have given Thanatos a hint toward the storm of rage and pain brewing behind those dark eyes. As it was, he was caught completely off guard by the chromed fist that crumpled his glasses, then his nose, and then reared back again to go for more.

It took a moment for his mind to even register the pain, so divorced was it from its usual context. By that point, his nose was a fountain of blood. "Miguel, why—" was all he got out before the next blow, which knocked him from his desk chair to the floor. Instinct took over. He curled himself into a ball with his arms over his head, the same way he had dozens of times before in dozens of enemy camps. The difference now was that he didn't have plasma at his fingertips as a recourse for once the beating stopped. He reached for it, but as usual, nothing came. If anything the smell of blood and the submissive posture had encouraged the chrome programming to shut off any part of Miguel's brain that considered it a bad idea to beat his therapist to death, and the punches only increased in force and frequency with each passing second. His cries fell on deaf ears. He noted the irony.

The taste of iron in Thanatos's mouth only intensified. He could feel his bones crunching and cracking, shards slicing through his soft tissues. Even with his arms over his head, lights exploded in his vision and he struggled to retain consciousness, slurring Miguel's name between yelps and cries he knew were fruitless. Much more of this and he was risking permanent brain damage and death. He had to do something, this wasn't a training exercise where Luis or Lanzo would stop just short of killing him, shake their heads and tell him to do better next time. In the field, there were no rescues and no one to take pity on him. Thanatos would have to make his own mercy, like he always had.

He reached for his magic once again, stretched his awareness into the hungry void that had been left there since he'd been discharged from the war mage corps. Still empty. Not a single ember. A decade of training and nothing to show for it but the scars on his hands and his psyche. He was more powerless now than he ever had been. He didn't even need all of it! Thanatos had never sought to become a god of fire and lightning and plasma and cold like the other mages, all he'd ever wanted was the strength to protect himself, and if he was lucky, those he loved. He cared nothing for the holy sword of retribution. All he needed was a shield.

Shield magic had always been his best skill. Even when his plasma temperatures were low and his casts were inconsistent, his shields were always durable and able to be held for hours. He used them during his assignments, whatever he couldn't get done with his mind and his tongue could be solved by a well-placed barrier. Back then, he'd taken it as proof that he did have what it took to be a war mage, he just needed to alter his approach, figure out how to apply those skills to other tasks. He'd never mastered it. It had nearly broken him when he'd reached for his shields in the infirmary cot after that doomed mission and gotten no feedback. The only thing he'd ever been good at, stolen from him by his own weakness, unable to be called upon even in his direst need. He'd be lying if he said that surprised him.

Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision. Reality blurred. Was he on the floor of his office, in the training room, or in a holding cell? The familiar buzzing of his magic underneath his skin, in his blood , superimposed over the hollowness he knew was truly there, letting him believe for just a moment at a time that there was something for him to reach for. Despite himself, he pushed again, grasping for diamond, not flame, and to his surprise, his plea was answered. A dome of force surrounded him as Miguel drew back for another go, and stopped the next punch's descent in its tracks.

Thanatos panted heavily. He was far from safe, channelling the magic burned in a way it never had before and he had no way of knowing how long he could withstand it, or if and when his newly reclaimed power would desert him just as quickly as it had returned. Not to mention that Miguel was already trying to find a way into his fragile respite. He was clever, it wouldn't take him long. If the shock of having his magic work had brought Thanatos out of a flashback, the pounding on his shield had him on the verge of a panic attack. He needed... he needed help. Someone. Anyone.

Solomon.

Shaking hands reached for his phone, miraculously still in the pocket of his slacks. His communicator was on the desk, unreachable, but he'd been in contact with Sol while on leave, sending pictures of artisanal tea leaves for a second opinion. He'd never thought that ridiculous hobby of his would be of any use. But it did mean that of the three telephone numbers he had saved in his contacts (the other two being Rea's and his mother's) Sol's was one of them. He painstakingly typed out the simplest message he could through the blood on his fingers and the trembling of his hands as they struggled to maintain the cast: help . No punctuation or additional context, Sol would understand. He had to. Thanatos would never send a text that simple unless he was in genuine distress.

Chrome claws picked at the edge of his shield and he scrunched himself as far into the back of it as he could. It wasn't far. He had inches of extra room inside. Folding himself into a small space was something he was very good at by now, though. Being a trembling ball pressed into a corner of a dome, face soaked with blood and tears, didn't go very far toward making himself not look like prey, and he knew it. He was minutes from being eaten alive and there was nothing he could do about it. There was always a peculiar cold feeling that flooded him when he stared death in the face. Somehow it was… comforting. To know he was still the man he had been all those years ago.

By the time heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, Thanatos had become quite confused. Didn't know where he was. The sounds… more chrome. Two of them? This one bigger, he couldn't stand up to both of them— What could he do? Couldn't run, couldn't hide. Needed help. No help coming. No rescues.

He couldn't even uncover his eyes to see what was going on between the two of them. All he had the strength for was to lie there with his arms over his head and his blood burning, aching, screaming to keep the shield going. He didn't know if the blood still streaming from his nose was truly rotten or if that was memory, if the subtle buzzing was the barrier flickering or his blood in his own ears or the chrome. No words from outside, just the whirring of servos and the clicking of joints and the growls and whines of two dogs communicating with each other. Two… Rex? And Miguel? He shuddered, and the radius of his shield shrunk by an inch.

A soft tap on his shield, the first in a while, made him flinch harder than any of the punches. "Than? It's me, it's okay. I need to get you out of here." He wanted to get out of here, he wanted to go home. Didn't want to hurt anymore, his blood was on fire— "To do that, you need to let the shield down, Thanatos. Let me help you."

Let it down? But… he'd gotten it to work for the first time in half a decade, didn't want to lose it, didn't want to go back to being a failed mage. Thanatos had been shaking from head to foot, straining his hardest to keep the cast going, and now he needed to drop it? Give up, again? How could he be sure he was safe? He was so tired. It hurt so much. The burning and the bleeding and the dying.

"Please, Than. Let me in, I want to help."

The shield flickered. Once, twice. Then dropped.

"S-Solomon?"

taglist: @athenswrites

[ourlordapollo]

Donald Gennaro Defense Squad assemble *nothing happens*

Anyway here's a list of all the shit Donald Gennaro has done in Jurassic Park because I hate that the movie did him so dirty

No quotes/page numbers bc I don't have my physical copy of the book handy (I'm listening to a new-to-me version of the audiobook)

Despite his vested interest in making a shit-ton of money off Jurassic Park, expressed MULTIPLE times that he would shut it down if it seemed unsafe in any way

Tried to chastise Hammond for bringing his grandkids to an untested theme park of questionable safety

Same as the first point but I'm bringing it up again because it comes up in the narration more than once. Gennaro WANTS Jurassic Park to succeed so he can make money, but unlike Hammond, he cares about the safety of potential guests

Actively chooses to go back into the park after learning that the power is out and the dinosaurs are loose, because he knows that people are in danger

Chooses to continue the rescue mission after finding Regis' severed leg and learning he was probably attacked by a t. rex

Chooses to help Dr Harding and Dr Sattler tend to Dr Malcolm and shows genuine worry about his condition

Not something he does, but rather something he is: Gennaro, as the only character who isn't an expert in something, serves as an audience surrogate. His utility as a character is in keeping the audience informed and allowing Crichton to present exposition and complicated concepts as interesting dialogue rather than boring narrative infofumps. He's also babygirl, so jot that down.

Chooses to go with Muldoon to try to shoot the t. rex with a tranquilizer

Despite being terrified, chooses to help Muldoon hunt the loose velociraptors

Chooses, without being asked, to investigate the maintenance shed after Arnold fails to get the power back on, knowing that there are velociraptors loose in the park. (Narration emphasizes how out of character all of this has been for him— he doesn't like to "live dangerously."

FIGHTS A VELOCIRAPTOR. THIS MAN FIGHTS A VELOCIRAPTOR WITH HIS BARE HANDS. AND LIVES.

Is the one manages to bluff the boat captain into turning around before he (unintentionally) unleashes live velociraptors on Costa Rica. Also helps Tim get the main power back on, saving the lives of everyone at the Visitor's Lodge

Note: Grant misses all of this except for the last point, leading him to physically assault Gennaro and accuse him of not taking responsbility for his part in the disaster. ...For not singlehandedly preventing the disaster.

No one. Including Gennaro. Refutes this. Admittedly Gennaro is actively being strangled while Grant accuses him. But Muldoon was right there watching this happen and just let it happen.

It's clear that Grant is taking out his anger at Hammond on Gennaro and nobody challenges that. And Gennaro gets Shitter Deathed by Mr Spielberg. The injustice. The injustice of it all.

[emilnikos]

painkillers kicking in moodboard

[orangez3st]

Dream Currents

Captain Rex × OFC Force Goddess

— Chapter 14: Legend

Tags: teen & up, f/m, gen, hurt/comfort, childhood friends, romantic friendship, fluff, pre-star wars: the clone wars, clone cadets (training in kamino), very rex-centric, rex whump, the worst is probably sw curse words (tell me if I should add more tags!) Additionally, this chapter contains angst and implied major character death.

[Content] [Start] [Prev] [Next] [AO3] [Spotify]

"Protas, being both a beast and a god, and the first and only creature of its kind, ruled the underwater creatures of Kamino. He lived in the oceans, proud of his rule, and became so proud for his own good that he started to proclaim a challenge for anyone who might be in interest to fight him for the seat of power."

"I don't get it," he cuts in during the brief pause she purposefully leaves to give him a chance to remark. "This beast-god ruled in the oceans?” His confusion is audible in his tone, and her own amusement grows behind an all-too-knowing smirk. “Thought it was yours?"

Sho’cye tilts her head. "He ruled the creatures. Pay attention."

"I heard that,” he huffs, a roll of his eyes practically saying you pay attention yourself. "He ruled. In the ocean. Your ocean. I thought you ruled the underwater creatures too."

There’s a shadow playing light tricks on her in the distant horizon as she recalls the tragedy eons past. A flash of rage draws a violent lightning that strikes her gut, pouring remorse and grief and pain into her awaiting pitcher, as she submerges in the sea waist down, her element strumming a majestic, echoing tune of corals and sea life. The rage remains for a fleeting moment before it dissipates, and she can hear the Force whistling a soothing melody in her ears.

The teenage boy she’s grown fond of sits on top of one of the few smooth rock outcroppings out in the sea, his legs dangling off the edge. His fatigues remain dry, due to the rock piece extending out from the beach into the sea and he had taken the luxurious chance to track and perch on top of it, as she had taken their current conversation to picnic within the sea’s grasp. The adolescent waits patiently and obediently for her response, eagerness and curiosity gleaming in his amber brown eyes.

“My vode took liking to arts, which we’re casually taught,” he had said, “The output and the goal is to release some of our restless energy. Involves drawing, reading, summarize, analysis. Wolffe likes to sketch whenever his downtime allows him to, and his sketches are really good. Some take on poetry – Two-Four included. Fox and his batchmates paint, like most of us all, really. Four-Eleven and a few others are big on absorbing every available holobooks about mythologies that spread throughout the galaxy.”

“And what about you?” Sho’cye had asked, “Do you like to read as well?”

“A bit of poetry and a bit of reading,” he had scratched his blond head then, “Four-Eleven been tryna coax me into some of his reads. I think I’ll be interested.”

“Why don’t you listen to one first, then you’ll find out?” she had offered with a toothy grin, diving right into storytelling mood.

So that was the initial conversation that brought him and Sho’cye to this point.

"Yes, well.” Sho’cye sighs heavily, as a sea wave greets her in their rhythm. “My fault, actually. I thought he needed something to do so he’d stop summoning for me and shut up, so I decided to share the load.” She’s certain she’s quite visibly cringing now judging by his amused chuckles. She turns at him, entertaining him with her despair playfully, "Additionally, I don't even know to this day whether he's too proud or was a complete idiot that he thought I gave him the rule of the entire Kaminoan oceans."

He snorts. "Did you punish him?"

"I am slow to anger,” Sho’cye shrugs innocently– no, really.

"Picking your fights?"

"Only because the Force held my anger at bay since I could easily crush his bones with a mere blink of an eye.” Another wave caresses her, and she breathes, sending a soft wave of gratitude towards the Force as she exhales. It brushes past her wisps of hair endearingly in return, and urging her to go with the string of sentence she’s trying to hold back, as if saying the beast-god deserved it out of amusement. Sho’cye lets a single breathy chuckle escape her lips. “The satisfaction of seeing his eventual downfall was unparalleled."

A flash of awe in his amber eyes. "And let me guess,” he smirks, “Your doing?"

Sho’cye smiles, wading closer to the rock he perches on. "A challenger came forward. A dark titan named Melkorr who lived in the deepest trench of Kaminoan ocean,” she begins, fond friendship memories flowing through her words, “A pleasant fellow, actually. We shared water stories any time we could. I told him of the sun, the rivers – he in turn told me about the depths, and complained about these little bugger sand flatfishes that tickled his toes all the time." She laughs, sending the teen smiling as well. "Now. As you understand, he was a titan, meaning he was humongous.” Her hands begin to move animatedly, the vigor seemingly flows into her easily courtesy of the Force. Her tone falls then, “He relied so much on his size and strength, that he lost against Protas in the challenge where the beast-god used his speed and agility to his advantage."

"Were you actually watching?"

"I was, yes,” she nods her head, remembering doing so from the depths and the surface all at once, “It went for a whole week of seven days, nonstop."

"Wow,” his mouth gapes, "Entertained?"

Sho’cye tries to put on a smile. "Sad, actually. I was rooting for a friend of mine."

His face immediately falls, and she has to resist the urge to giggle at the swift comical reaction. "Right. Sorry.” He shakes his head – she and him have gone a long way now that she knows he’s mentally scolding himself – and he frowns slightly as he goes on to ask, "How did the match end?"

At the prompt, all she allows herself to recall is deafening roars, raging seas and thunderstorms, and a voiceless desperation that called out to her – the unsaid, defeated farewell that she could feel through the Force. Sho’cye shuts her eyes, and the Force is there again to soothe her through gentle caresses of wind against her cheeks, reminding him that the dark titan had given good to the lives under the sea too – his corpse fed the creatures for eons, ensuring their survival in abundant supply of food to survive and breed and evolve through time.

"Protas simply exhausted Melkorr. At a moment of weakness, he destroyed the titan.” Her lips twitch, shaping a somber smile, yet with a strong voice she manages to say, "Size and strength aren't everything."

A moment of respectful silence snatches their words out of their mouths. "Yeah," the teenage boy says lowly, breaking the lull, "We're taught to be witty too, rather than mindlessly guns-a-blazin' in the heat of a battle."

A fond smile replaces the somber one on her lips. Soldiers in the making. "And so Protas continued to rule,” Sho’cye continues then, “Later, a second challenger came forward. A group of kikla. They were these native species to the planet, armed with rows of tiny little teeth, living in the waters."

He snorts again, disdain clear in his eyes. "Were they ancestors to the longnecks?"

"I didn't pay attention, to be honest,” Sho’cye indulges him, smiling along, “Even I forgot what they look like aside from the teeth that I remember. They were a proud species themselves. Valued their underwater life, worshipped me, and I did let them rule over a part of the ocean. Naturally, they came forward to challenge Protas, believing they could defeat him since he was just one and they were many. They were strong in numbers, but they lacked coordination. And this time, the battle lasted for a month, and I was there to see every single kikla got eaten by Protas, down to the last one, bringing almost all of the species into extinction."

Darkness darkness darkness. Lights blinking out. Vibrations leave to embrace silence. Not even screams of pain. Let the last thing they saw was my glittering water of their home in the sea gliding in and out their gills before eternal darkness clamped down upon them.

Sho’cye exhales shakily. "I remember feeling not even the slightest tingle in the Force that indicated their living existence."

"What does it feel like for you?" calls the boy’s voice to ground her to the earth. She looks at him fondly, at the evident attempt to sympathize although masked behind a question. "Feeling someone... Not there anymore?"

The Force pokes her in the shoulder. This boy hasn’t seen death.

Sho’cye exhales. And yet, he knows death will be scattered along his path.

He will do anything to prevent death, it says softly back to her.

That, I know, her smile, inwardly, is equally forlorn, he wears his big heart upon his sleeve, though he doesn’t know it yet.

The Force hums. By doing this alone you set him upon a different path.

One with less death, I hope, replies Sho’cye with faith, and I know you know that both you and I are on the same page about this.

Bell-like chimes, ones that remind her of a warm midsummer night, echo inside her mind and within the sea waves.

It pains me still – what he should go through, she continues, eyes fixed on the boy who looks at her with a frown now wondering if she hasn’t heard his question.

His path has already been fixed, the Force echoes in her mind now, having decided to skip away for a moment between the two, and you’re in the middle of it.

The bell chime fades into the horizon.

“You must forgive me,” says Sho’cye to him, breaking out of her trance. Her lips pull into an apologetic grin. “Silly me decided to have a moment with myself out of a sudden.”

The boy shakes his head, mumbling s’kay before repeating his question. Apparently he’s adamant to getting it answered, and Sho’cye chuckles at the reiterated push.

"Imagine you're standing in a room full of, um, light-emitting diodes,” she says with a refreshed vigor, “Thousands, hundred thousands of them. Then, you begin some begin to flicker, dim, and finally die. Its energy to light, depleted and irreparable. But at the same time, you notice some flickering to light on the other side of wall. Life and death happens at the same time, and all the time. When one passes, all you can do is nothing but to accept. Bring peace to your heart. Know that they’ve died trying, or at least, at some point in their life, they’ve tried.”

In the end, her voice breaks. He doesn’t catch that, though – she won’t let it. He doesn’t need to see her implicating what she’s seen. Glimpses of what has yet come to pass. Glimpses of a rising dark age that haunts the galaxy. Glimpses of so, so many deaths. Even now Sho’cye senses a tiny stream of dreary endeavors slithering beneath the waves, and the sand underneath. She senses it in the air. She senses it under her skin. A foul smell erupting from the blossoms of the world, yet to be cleansed. An evil cackle in the midst of bright and young laughter. A decaying body in a life-giving water spring.

She fails. She lets a single tear fall.

“You’re one too young to even match death in a staring contest.” Her voice is but above a whisper, and the Force sends a comforting graze of the wind onto her shoulders.

The boy stares at her, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves. “It’s war,” says his lowered voice, yet absent from any sympathy. It’s as if he’s almost about to give her a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, but he manages to reign it in.

We’re engineered to take orders and expected to follow it obediently and see that the job gets done.

“And we don’t actually know when we’ll be deployed,” the teen laments, “Supposed to be when we’re of age. Or could be another ten years, who knows.”

“Soon,” she says a bit too quickly, and when realizes it, she immediately recovers gently adding, “And it will come swiftly.” Then, a reassuring smile – a painful irony to her sorrow. “You’ll be ready for it.”

The Force pokes at her again, a little harder this time. You’re brooding.

Sho’cye inhales deeply, and immerses herself in the oncoming wave. Water clears her vision, inside and out, enclosing every inch of her person, soothing her veins and heartstrings in a cooling blanket. Sensing her distress. Centering her focus. Swallowing affliction away from her person and retracting back into the bigger ocean, vanquishing the invisible pain into sea foam and nothingness when it’s absorbed by the heat of the sun.

Exhale. Blows bubbles into the surface. She would’ve added gills to her neck so she could breathe underwater the way she likes – becoming herself, the sea, as one – but it has grown too far past the moment she had chosen to come to land in the Coastline – the boy affectionately had named it – and opted for a set of lungs herself. So she looks like him and scares him less. It works, though. Their friendship is as steady as an underwater mountain, and it certainly isn’t cracking soon.

When Sho’cye opens her eyes, white sand and clear blue green water flood her periphery. Flow of the water in the bay sings graceful notes in her ears celebrating her liberation of grieving the past. You are shaped out of memories of eons past, she hums, where you stand is where you believe, and your faith is in the future.

His future.

She resurfaces then, still humming the third stanza of the seawater tune as water trickles down her face like a piece of drenched cloth being dragged down. Her dress and hair clings onto her figure, water dripping from the edge of limbs, and Sho’cye goes to wipe water off her face and tucks her hair away.

The boy looks awfully relieved that she finally pops back up. He’s shifted into a crouch position on the rock and has been watching her carefully. “Do I… wanna know what you’re doing?” his worried and curious tone asks, responsibility and chivalry urging him to not sound as intrusive as possible, but Sho’cye knows he really does want to know.

“Clearing my head,” she answers, soothing both his worry and rather fiery curiosity these days, with a lighter tone already rid of grieving burden. She attempts on a reassuring smile. “I’m feeling better now.”

“Are you… alright?”

A little late to ask that, Sho’cye chuckles inwardly. “Yes, I’m alright,” she says, warmed and touched by his concern nonetheless. She reciprocates his effort, “You?”

“Okay,” he replies, though confusion remains clearly written on his countenance. His slight frown works to hold everything in not to question her sudden temperament. Sho’cye frowns. He’s usually one to ask to quench curiosity, though this time she knows that he mulls it may be wise to not prod further on the subject. And she knows he feels indifferent. Because he’s oblivious to his fate.

But she, and the Force, knows.

Another minute of comfortable silence later – with the boy shifting again to his previous sitting position and Sho’cye wringing her waist-length hair – they finally move on with the story.

"What happened next?" he prompts again, resetting the storytelling flow in motion.

Sho’cye sighs audibly. "As much as I despise to say it..."

He catches on and grins. "Protas continued to rule."

"And became more some kind of a p–"

"Pain in the ass?"

"I was going to say 'pompous little halfwit'.” The Force whistles a tune that sounds like melodic laughter. Sho’cye lets out a laugh herself. "Time went on. He took down his challengers, one after another. Eventually age caught onto Protas, yet his ruling power and body strength endured, and his arrogance became catalytically worse. Once, he came across a pod of aiwha. You know aiwha, yes?"

The boy nods. "Yeah, the cetacean that can fly. Didn't realize they're so ancient."

"Yes, they evolved less because they are in the water most of the time," she supplies, fondly recalling the sounds they constantly make when they’re together with their family in the Kaminoan ocean, "The aiwha pod was to migrate to the south for winter where I was waiting for them with warmer water, but Protas, the ever-arrogant halfwit he was, blocked their path and allowed them to go no further because it would please him.” Her tone turns bleak, “He told them to return, so they should freeze and die."

His frown grows harder, and his surprised tone of voice levels with Sho’cye’s disappointment. "Seriously?"

"Seriously, that when I realized they were late, something had to be wrong, and I knew it was Protas.” Sho’cye grits her teeth. "I could not let more die at his hands. The Force finally allowed me to act about it."

"What did you do?"

A beat of silence, then two, and three. "I led the attack myself," mutters Sho’cye, looking down at her hands – the same ones that hide the rage of a god and the disappointment of a mother. "I took form, and let the aiwha see me – to let any living creatures see me, for the first time in eons.” Her tone grows distant. “Blow after blow and current after current, I blew his way. While I grappled with Protas and held him in, the aiwha charged, clamping and biting on his open spots. They reached his neck where it was soft and most vulnerable. He was dying, I could feel it, but it was when he swung last at one of the aiwha and killed it I had never been so enraged."

Silence again, and it’s until she realizes she’s brooding again, gazing far into the distance. Sho’cye turns back to him, meeting his gaze which amber brown reflects the blinking of the sunlight. The sight awes her for a fleeting moment – the color reminds her of an unseen crystal that’s buried underneath the earth that it absorbs the color of the soil itself, and when it’s finally dug out it cheerfully embraces the light of the sun. They shine with anticipation of new things ahead. There’s endless determination in his eyes – a strong, unbreakable front to his admirable gentleness and sympathy chained behind and kept under watchful supervision. It has come to her some time ago how she feels about the color – something she rarely sees, something she certainly doesn’t have the governance of. Earth. Soil. Mountains. Fertile land. All speak of the strength in his body and the resolve in his heart.

She blinks, and she’s back to being half submerged in the beach and almost leaving her story unfinished to forgetfulness.

A few comical seconds of remembering where she left it, she continues with a lighter tone – that may confuse him again, she humors herself.

"But I didn't give in,” Sho’cye feels herself smile, power thrums in her veins and hope somehow blooms in her chest. “The aiwha destroyed Protas, and the ocean was mine again. I learned that day. I misjudged Protas. Since then, I never share my authority with any other local deities. I shoulder the burden alone, come may sorrow and pride and what the Force wills me to act on, I will always serve the Light."

It feels like a thick coat that warms one during the biting cold of winter – the Force perches on her shoulders like one.

The teen stares at her in silent awe, his warm amber eyes shine with that light. "I have so many questions."

"And I'd love to answer, to quench your eagerness," chuckles Sho’cye, "But you'll be overwhelmed when you wake up. And it's nearing the day's end, meaning you will actually wake up soon."

He sulks, though trying to be subtle about it. Sho’cye thinks it’s adorable, no matter how much he’s spent time to build a rock hard exterior. She does realize he relaxes and opens up more around her. "Just this one?” he bargains hopefully.

Still a curious one. Her soft smile breaks into a grin, and her cheeks grow warm. "I guess I can do one."

"You, uh, took form?"

Okay, she can easily keep this one summarized, or his brain won’t hold the immense abstractness of it all.

[Content] [Start] [Prev] [Next] [AO3] [Spotify]

Word Count: 3,404

[m1d-45]

To Keqing,

Hello, Keqing. I just want to take this opportunity to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for carrying my sorry self amidst many hardships when I was.. just starting out. Ah.. you might not get what I mean, but still, I wanted to thank you.

Do know that many people, not just myself, appreciate you and all the things that you have done (and will do!)

I wish you well, my dear. I hope we can meet one day, eat out together, maybe share a story or two.. and.. talk about our admiration of Rex Lapis.

Ehem!

Goodbye for now, I will see you around!

(the letter, encased within a purple envelope, was accompanied with a small box contaning a purple tassel with a gold and purple bell attached. as well as several individually wrapped candies)

[I feel like Keqing has always been looked down upon just because she's a standard banner character, but man, she carried my 🍑 until AR45 - when I finally got Xiao on his release. Even still, I use her on tough challenges because I know she will never fail on having my back. Thank you, Keqing! And yay! C6!]

to be the yuheng of the qixing is to resign yourself to being near permanently busy, always with either a stack of papers or a pen in hand. and as keqing hurries to bu’yun, the usual password system forgotten for one of liyue’s most recognizable, she’s more than aware of this fact.

her foot taps on the stone platform bringing her up to the jade chamber, the journey never seeming to go quickly enough. the sun had set, and yet she still wasn’t finished. part of her wants to flip through the folder in her hand to get a start on her assignment, but the majority of her brain scolds her that she could drop some of the precious documents and have to wait for the journey all the way back down to collect them- and then all the way back up to continue her work.

to be the yuheng is to be busy, and keqing fit the definition to a T.

yet, when she steps onto the stone of the jade chamber, she pauses. a bright floating ball awaits her, one that doesn’t display any clear origin. it doesn’t seem mechanical or elemental, nor of adeptal origin…

she takes two quick steps and picks it from the air, surprised at the fragility of the structure. it breaks beneath her fingers, the pieces dissipating into fine dust even as she tries to hold it together. in the end, she’s left with an envelope in hand and a small box that had fallen thankfully into the space between her side and her folder.

keqing sighed, but picked up the box and walked inside, heading straight for her office.

she dropped off the folder with another secretary and shut her door, opening the letter swiftly. worst case, this was a security breach. best case…

whatever she had in mind for ‘best case’ was wrong.

she wasn’t one to kiss up to gods and was more than willing to point out their flaws, as critical of them as she was of humanity. and yet, she cannot find fault in your letter. she was there for you, and had watched you get a better handle on utilizing vessels as you guided the traveller through their journey. you had helped her, and she had done her best to reciprocate in kind.

and yet, as she opens your giftbox and tries one of the candies, she can’t help but feel like she got the better end of the deal. perhaps when her workload was lighter, she could work out a way to return your kindness.

but that would be for later.

[ghostie-ghoulie]

Hey there! I'm Ghostie-Ghoulie. I have had this app for years and always wanted to post, so here I am!

Currently, I'm obsessed with anything Until Dawn or Resident Evil related. I can't ever shut my mouth about them.

My content will either consist of possible art or my fanfiction about certain fandoms I enjoy.

This is an 18+ blog! So, if you are a minor, please, in the most polite way possible, leave my page.

These Fandoms that I am a part of happen to be:

Until Dawn

Resident Evil (a personal favorite)

Horror movies (Ghostface, Hellrasier, Chucky, IT, Etc)

The Wolf Among Us

Mortal Kombat

Cyberpunk

Arcane

Team Fortress 2

Star Wars

Star Wars: The Bad batch

Ghost (band)

Sallyface

Bendy And The Ink Machine

Spiderman (mostly the spiderverse movies)

Dark Deception

Devil May Cry

More fandoms can be added later!

I will write Smut, oneshots, small imagines, and multichapter stories. I'm a sucker for smut, so you're gonna get that out of me once I finally get the hang of it.

Important note: I only write XReaders for now. I know that might suck for a lot of people, but it is something I heavily enjoy. I know people don't like it (Y/n, I'm looking at you), but the stereotypical cringe XReader stories that drive me up a wall will not be here. I will try my hardest to make the apperence vague, but personality might be a challenge. Though, hey! Everyone needs their practice. I can't go writing an emotionless reader, eh?

The readers I write for will mostly, if not entirely, be gender neutral or feminine. I'm sorry if this is a major letdown, but I do not trust my abilities to delve into a male reader just yet. I most write for male characters in general, and as love interests, but I can write for women when it comes to romance. I am both for ladies and gents.

Another very important note: I have a major history regarding mental health. Stress comes to me easy, and with stress comes heavy burnout. My brain gets fried, and my creativity goes down 6 feet under. All I ask is that you be very patient with me until I recover. This might mean small breaks or long breaks. Requests may be hard to handle, but if I'm ready, I'll think about doing them. You are able to send in asks! I may not be able to do full requests, but maybe some thoughts for a writing I could possibly start off with.

I am very understanding when it comes to emotional and mental related things because I have experienced my fair share of dealing with it. These topics will show up sometimes in various writings. If these bother you, worry not! Warnings will be placed.

This is a page friendly one towards everyone. I do not stand for hate of any kind. Sure, we're through a damn screen, but I still won't tolerate it. So please, no hate or arguments. If opinions differ, it doesn't mean we need to clash.

Characters that I could possibly write for consist of:

Until Dawn

Chris Hartley

Mike Monroe

Josh Washington

Matt Taylor

Resident Evil

Leon Kennedy

Karl Heisenburg

Luis Sera

Jack Krauser

Albert Wesker

Devil May Cry

Johnny Cage

Vergil Sparda

Dante Sparda

Nero sparda

Mortal Kombat

Syzoth (Reptile)

Tomas (Smoke)

Bi-han (Sub-Zero)

Kuai liang (Scorpian)

Liu Kang

Cyberpunk

Johnny Silverhand

Viktor Vektor (he needs more love and attention. I love him sm)

Team Fortress 2

Spy

Sniper

Medic

(Possibly the rest)

Star Wars

Captain Rex

(Probably will write for a bunch of clones, tbh)

Hondo Ohnaka

Darth Maul

Darth Vader

Boba Fett

Din Djarin

Hunter

Crosshair

Tech

Wrecker

Echo

The Wolf Among Us

Bigby Wolf

I think that's all I've really got for now. More of course can be added later to masterlists. I'm just giving you good ideas on who I would love to write for.

(I will probably reform this because damn it looks jumbled, but hey, I'm inexperienced with actually posting on Tumblr.)

[galateagalvanized]

Thunder, Penny and Sparrow

For Prompt #5, from @elwenyere—thank you, dear! For others, this story is part of the ‘verse I started in this fill, which isn’t necessary to read but might be informative ;) 

If it hadn’t been raining, Cody would never have bothered with his family’s carriage.

Thunder rolls like the crashing of waves on the other side of the windows, and rain beats a frantic tattoo on the warped glass. Cody draws the curtains closed and leans back in his chair, unwilling to watch the dancing orange lights in the distance grow any larger.

Perhaps, he thinks with a fatalism that he never would’ve tolerated on his ship, the weather will chase away all the family’s potential guests. Perhaps he will arrive at his cousin’s manor sopping wet and alone, and Rex will invite him in for revitalizing glass of tihaar, and they can sit by the fire and trade stories from long summers spent dunking each other in the duck pond, until Cody heads back to his parents’ estate, exactly as much of a bachelor as he is now.

The first rattle mostly blends into the thunder, and it makes Cody sigh over the state of the roads in Concord Dawn. The second rattle makes him sit up, concerned that an axle might be loose.

On the third rattle, the door opens.

Cody startles backwards, draws his pistol, cocks it, and finds himself unable to pull the trigger on whoever could be insane enough to enter a four-horse carriage hurtling down muddy, broken roads.

“Ah,” the thief from yesterday says. The barrel of his own pistol never wavers from Cody’s heart. “Hello there. Are you following me?”

Cody blinks, then laughs.

“Isn’t that my line?” he asks with surprising fondness.

Behind the thief, white-blue lightning forks across the sky, illuminating the back of his cloak in oil-slick pools of light. Rain splatters into the carriage’s enclosure, pooling along the leather.

In the ensuing thunder, Cody makes a decision, slides back along the seat, and makes room.

“Well?” he says as he tucks his pistol away. “You coming in or not?”

The man hesitates one second, then another, then slides in next to Cody. He shuts the door with a click, and the rain and thunder beat a softer tune.

At the front of the carriage, a small door slides open.

“Everything well, young master?” the postillion asks. “Thought I heard the door open.”

Cody keeps his eyes locked on his guest’s as he says, “Just wanted some fresh air.”

“…right you are, sir,” the man says, and the shutter closes once more.

“Okay, what am I missing?” the thief says. “I have to admit, I may not be the most experienced highwayman, but I do think it’s not supposed to go like this.”

But even in saying so, he lets the hood of his cloak fall to his shoulders, and he runs a hand through damp, dark brown hair. It mostly sticks where he sets it except in a few strands that drape themselves, resisting, along the line of his forehead.

“You need to rob someone,” Cody says, trying not to stare at the water droplets winding their way down the man’s neck. This is not the time nor the place. “I need to be robbed. I thought we could come to some accord.”

“You need to be—my dear, many people need to be robbed, but very few of them would ever admit to it,” the man marvels. “Pray tell me, why do you need to be robbed?”

“I can’t think of a better excuse to not go to a party than to be stripped of my clothes and my coin purse on the way over. Can you?” Cody says, reaching for the buttons on his suit jacket.

His skin heats up even in the howling cold as the man’s eyes follow Cody’s fingers with rapt attention, his pupils dark even in the next flash of a lightning strike.

“It must be some party,” he says softly. “Whose is it?”

Cody laughs. “Technically? Mine.”

When he’s finished, Cody folds his jacket over his arm and raises an eyebrow, taunting, daring—

Hoping.

And there’s a heady mixture of heat and challenge in the man’s gaze when he raises his eyes and his pistol and he says, “Then, darling: your money, or your life?”