#Writing them is soooo fun! ^^

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 97-100)

* Where could she be?

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[twilightkitkat]

OK QUESTION with the one series with the different universe we see how you think the X-Men would react to a similar Logan being so close with Deadpool.

BUT

How do you think our main universe reacts to the relationship especially when they compare this new Logan to the fallen hero?

This is such an interesting question that I thought about it for a while before answering because I wanted to do it justice. Firstly, I want to clarify that my answer takes place in a world where all the X-men are miraculously alive somehow except for Logan (maybe by some time shenanigans or just twisting the plot).

---

The world at large would be shocked to see The Wolverine again, especially after he was confirmed dead and his bones were buried. The TVA wouldn't want the entire world to know about them, and Logan and Wade would probably be the type to never really formally address his existence (since they aren't actually official heroes or a government body).

His resurrection would likely spark a lot of conspiracy theories and people wondering if he had a secret mission where he pretended to die or if he had a reason to stage his death. It's almost like the urban legend of Bigfoot with how rarely he shows up (somehow always next to the same red vigilante).

Aside from the initial shock, the public reception would be very positive. Who wouldn't want to see your childhood superhero back in action again? People would be excited to see him rejoin the X-men only to be extremely confused when he showed no interest in returning to his superhero work (especially when they assumed he either died and came back or was on a mission and so would naturally want back his spot).

As a matter of fact, after initial sightings of him in his suit, he just sort of... fades away. He never really makes public appearances or is involved in much of anything. He looks different than he did before and he always dresses casually. This combined with the lack of media about him after the initial outrage means that he only occasionally gets recognized in public.

(Something he's secretly very grateful for. He disliked being reminded of his past, of a world where he wasn't a failure. Of the version of him that was revered instead of feared and hated. He has to stop himself from flinching sometimes when people loudly yell out, "It's The Wolverine!" He lays low for a while in Wade's apartment, only accompanying him sometimes on covert missions until people mostly stop caring about his existence.)

But more than public confusion is the confusion of the X-men. They heard the truth through Colossus that this Wolverine was from another universe than their own and that he'd helped save their timeline.

(And most of the X-men were very confused because... why does Colossus know this of all people? Why didn't Logan just come to tell them himself? They knew Colossus was in cahoots with this vigilante vaguely from the time he visited the mansion, but they didn't know he was actually close to him. And why did being Deadpool's friend give him exclusive access to The Wolverine and his situation?)

They expected Logan to show up at their doorstep, one day. He apparently had the X-men in his own world, and while Colossus never really elaborated further (despite their prodding) they could surmise something happened to them if Logan was staying here. It's a perfect fit: the X-men who lost their Wolverine and the Wolverine who lost his X-men.

But he never does. At first, they chalk it up to him going on one of his solo trips. He liked to do that—to go out into the wilderness or disappear on some unspecified mission. He never really stayed in one place too long. (It was his personality, wasn't it? He got antsy being tied down to commitment and wanted to be free from everyone. It was fine even if it was inconvenient, it was just how he was.)

But then he never makes an effort to get involved. To reach out to them. He doesn't show any interest at all in returning to his old life or taking up the helm of an X-man again.

This Logan couldn't be all that different from theirs, right? Even if he was a lone wolf type who kept up his guard and acted gruffly, he only really had them. They took him in and fed him and clothed him and he showed up when shit went sideways in return. A perfect, neat, package with a bow on top.

But then a month passes. Then two. And even if he was the type to do his own thing, this was a little ridiculous. He'd just come back to life and didn't even bother showing up?

They all cornered Colossus, one day. Asked him about his well-being and what he was doing. Why he wasn't reaching out and when they should expect him to come back.

His answer shocked them. Apparently, Logan wasn't out on a mission at all. Instead, he was staying with Deadpool at his apartment and just... living there. Existing. He wasn't even particularly busy, he just hadn't visited. When they inquired further, Colossus smiled slightly and said that he seemed happy there. Content. That Wade was good for Logan and Logan was good for him, too.

It was... hard to wrap their heads around. Logan—fierce, closed-off, restless—just staying in one place? Content to just live with someone and accompany them on mercenary jobs.

Since when did Logan prefer teamwork? He always tried to turn joint missions into solo ones, and went out of his way to brush people off.. More than that—Logan, a mercenary? He'd rather pick up illegal work for some extra cash than return to being a hero? To being with them? Why did he decide to stay in a shitty apartment taking shady jobs for rent instead of just staying for free at their mansion? It made no sense.

It all came to a head when Laura (who'd been staying with them but largely kept to herself around the X-men) had her birthday party. They had parties often for the children in the mansion, that wasn't anything new. Except for the fact that the Wolverine was coming. She'd been excited when she mentioned that both Logan and Wade were going to show up (they didn't even know she'd stayed in touch with them).

(Why was the first time they saw Logan at a birthday party for someone else? Were they not enough? They'd taken him in despite his... difficult personality. What more did he want?)

And Logan comes. But he's entirely different than their Logan, the one they remember.

He's more... relaxed, somehow. He looks less hostile and cagey, letting his muscles relax and his head lean back. He looks like a man content with life instead of the guy who ran away the first chance he got, who always had an itch under his skin to move and never stayed too long.

He sticks to Wade like glue. They're always touching, somehow. An arm around the shoulders, a hand placed firmly on Wade's waist, fingers intertwined, legs pressed together. Logan is touchy in a way he never was with them.

And the way he looks at Wade—like he hung the stars and the moon and the sky itself. Even when they try to catch his eye from across the room, to get him to come over, he doesn't pay attention. His eyes are firmly locked on Wade's face, a warmth there (a softness) that they'd never seen before.

Wade gawks at the mansion and its decoration, flitting between Colossus and Negasonic and Yukio, gleefully grabbing some of the food. And Logan stays by his side the whole time, only watching him, murmuring in his occasionally which makes Wade either jab him in the elbow or cackle.

(And Logan lets him. He doesn't even retaliate aside from a grunt when Wade punches him in the arm, rolling his eyes and flicking his forehead in return but entirely content to let Wade at him. The trust there was so obvious it was painful. The familiarity. The warmth.)

The first time Logan takes his eyes off Wade is when Laura comes up to them. His eyes soften as he looks at her, almost imperceptibly if not for the fact that in their memories, his eyes were always hard. Guarded. They could count on one hand the number of times they saw even a semblance of that expression, normally involving Jean or Rogue.

Laura hugs him, grinning as she prattles on about whatever she'd been doing lately. Logan hugs her back, arms coming to wrap firmly around her. Easy affection. She pulls back and Wade hugs her too, spinning her around in the air as she laughs and hits him and asks him to put her down.

When Logan looks at them, the fondness is so obvious it's painful. They were used to seeing Logan show emotion—anger, sadness, fear, arousal. But never softness. (Especially not for a tumor-ridden mercenary and an experiment built off of his DNA.)

The party continues like that, with Logan leaning against Wade and basking in his presence. Hiding in his shadow when he's tired, leaning his forehead against Wade's shoulder.

Until they finally decide to approach them. Scott and Jean hold hands as they approach him for the first time, tired of observing him all night. Storm follows closely behind.

"Logan, nice seeing you man. It's, uh, been a while," Scott smiles crookedly at him. He expects Logan to respond how he normally does. To grin back, insult him, and start up their typical banter.

Like a well-oiled machine, they kept their rivalry going. Logan and Scott would act like they hated each other in public and fight like children over Jean until she inevitably chose Scott (and then it'd repeat). Sometimes, in the quiet of the night or an emotional moment, they'd become more. But that was rare, and Scott preferred the comfortable rhythm they normally kept to.

But Logan barely looked at him, nodded, and then turned back to Wade as he talked about some kid's show.

"Logan, that was a little rude, don't you think? We haven't heard from you in a while, it's good to see you're doing well." Jean lightly scolded him before letting her face melt into a smile. It was meant to be welcoming. Kind.

Scott tightened his arm around Jean. He knew Jean would always choose him, in the end, but it was annoying to see Logan flirt with her. She'd entertain him enough, and occasionally the three would wind in bed together in a moment of passion. But Jean was his, in the end.

Except, Logan didn't react. He just grunted in response. When his eyes met Jean's they were completely devoid of any attraction. He didn't flirt with her or pay her any attention. His eyes were solely on Wade.

It was only when Wade's eyes flicked toward them and he waved that Logan bothered to acknowledge their existence.

"Oh, hey! You guys are the real deal! The original X-men! The ones that took the 2000s by storm and made Marvel a shit ton of money," he rambled. His face was... interesting, to say the least.

Logan snorted. "Did you not expect to see the X-men in the X-mansion, bub?" The first time he verbally admitted they were even there.

"Considering the budget on my previous movies? Fuck no. It was too expensive to even have a good cameo, let alone actually have them on screen for more than a minute to have a conversation."

...What the hell was he talking about? He sounded clinically insane. And Logan was living with this guy?

But Logan laughed, genuinely, and it was like the world stopped spinning. He smiled and his eyes wrinkled, forming crescents. He teased Wade back in response, but they were stuck in that moment.

Logan was never like that. Never open, never soft. He cared, in a distant way, but he never really stayed. (Was it really that? Was it that he never tried to stay, or that they never gave him reason to? That they never gave him the chance before shutting the door in his face.)

But here it was. Physical proof that he was capable of looking at someone so softly. Of melting his hard exterior and becoming someone softer. Someone capable of cherishing the person they loved, of being domesticated.

Because there was really no other way than "domesticated" to describe him. He used to be like a wild animal—all sharp edges, jagged teeth, and razor-sharp claws. He snarled and growled at anyone who got too close and cornered him. He'd drop by for food, but snatch it and run off.

(But that's the thing about wild animals, isn't it? To get them to calm down, to stop seeing you as a threat, you need to be patient. To reach out. To prove you're safe. Did they ever really try?)

And now he even looked different. His hard muscles had filled out with a layer of fat. He looked healthy, like he wasn't just a tool built to fight and gnaw on the scraps he was given. He looked like a person who went home and ate a warm, balanced dinner at night. Who got adequate sleep and had all of his needs taken care of.

They thought that Logan's personality was rough, sharp, and jagged. That he was just Like That, and that it was useless to try to change it.

(After all, the bad boy is just someone you flirt with. Not someone you take him. Jean had said that, hadn't she?

And Logan had told her he could be the "good guy." Tried to show that he was capable of being more than just how he acted when he was hurt and alone. But she brushed it off. They all did.

And yet here Logan was. Soft and entranced by Wade in a way he never had been, even with her. Looking at him with something so much deeper than lust or attraction or infatuation. Looking at him with devotion. Reverence. Complete and utter love.)

But Logan wasn't Like That. He had always wanted to be soft. To be able to curl up next to somebody and trace the curve of their spine with his fingertips. He'd always yearned for a home he could feel genuinely warm in, where he'd be accepted and allowed to be vulnerable even if it wasn't pretty.

He'd only been hard because he had to. Because if he wasn't, the biting words and indifference of everyone around him would cut so deep he'd never recover. Because if he let himself love and be vulnerable with the X-men and they still viewed him as a passerby, as a tool, as an outsider, as just someone to sleep with—he'd break.

But Wade gave him a home. Gave him the chance to finally love and be loved and not feel afraid. To finally relax and open up. To show his emotions without fear of being scorned and to know he'd always be taken seriously. To not just be seen as the bad boy, but as a broken man desperate for anyone to cling to and feel cared for.

He was finally seen as more than just a stereotype. He was seen and loved for he was.

He was used to being hidden. Like a shameful secret. Jean was embarrassed to like him. Scott hid him away during the night and fought him during the day. He was a temptation, but that was it. They'd always choose each other first. Every member of the X-men had their person, but he was nobody's.

But with Wade, for the first time in his life, he was the first choice. He was the priority. He got to eat at the table instead of being fed scraps thrown onto the floor.

Logan thought it was natural to be treated as lesser. To be an afterthought. But with Wade, who cradled his face like he was something precious and was willing to die for him, he realized that he could be loved just as fiercely as he loved Wade. As an equal. As partners.

And so when he saw the X-men, he reacted the same way they had all those years ago: with indifference. With the same detached care he'd grown so used to. He spared them the effort of a few words, of reluctant acknowledgment, but that was it. If they never wanted to look closer at him or care about his needs, it was fine. But he'd do the same.

After all, there was so need to scramble to collect crumbs when he was well-fed. There was no need to look for a shitty room in an empty-feeling mansion when he already had a home.

[fishhateme]

So... LinkedIn au part two, anyone?

this morning @adimouze got an actual linkedin notification while reading part one and a sign is a sign, so here goes part two of the linkedin au (btw if you think there's suspiciously not enough linkedin in here it's because i genuinely hate that capitalist hellhole with all my heart <3)

“Don’t worry, mate. People on LindkedIn are a bunch of cunts, anyway”

Max would have gasped, if he’d had less dignity, as he watched the man - Daniel, Daniel, Danyul in the flesh, the little icon from his LinkedIn feed, now sitting in the shitty bar, in front of him - swirl his $12 glass of rosé and sip it, scrunching up his nose the same way Sassy did when Max didn’t get her those little overpriced packets of turkey flavored wet food.

“Uh- I would say of course not everyone on LinkedIn is a cunt, maybe” Max said, completely and utterly dumbfounded, half because he was more than a little buzzed and half because he’d spent so much time thinking about finding Daniel that he hadn’t actually thought out what he’d do then (didn’t think he’d get this far, really). He could almost picture Lando laughing maniacally at the blush that was spreading all the way from his chest (thankfully hidden by his plain, black tee) to the very top of his ears, and he thanked whatever God was out there (Sir Isaac Newton, can you hear me?) that the younger engineer was too busy trying to pick up some Spanish car designer on the other side of the convention.

Max could blame the blush on the g&t’s, and not on the fact that his little virtual networking crush (what had his life come to) had the most dazzling smile he’d ever seen, staring him straight in the eyes.

“I would say that they are, then, if you don’t have the balls to” Daniel, who still hadn’t introduced himself, responded with a cheeky smirk, “They’re all stuck up pricks. They act like they only care about furthering physics and science and the greater good when all they want is their name on a plaque somewhere and a couple of sports cars so they can wank off to the airflow of the diffusers or some shit”

Max thought that was such a ridiculous notion, that respected aerodynamics engineers would spend their entire careers longing for a luxury car (and- okay, yeah, his desktop was an Aston Martin Valkyrie, but that was different, he knew that was just as out of his league as the guy standing in front of him right now). Furthermore, a pesky voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Jos was telling him that this guy was an ingrate, a disrespectful, unprofessional man who’d get nowhere, but Max bit his tongue and then washed it away with a gulp of his g&t, letting Daniel speak because he clearly wanted to rant.

“I’m serious, mate, all these people ever come to do to conventions like this is flaunt their achievements. Like-” he adjusted his stance, wiggling his body so he could move the shitty bar stool without actually getting up, suddenly getting very, very much in Max’s personal space, his thick, meaty thigh (who wore shorts to a networking event? This guy was crazy) almost brushing against Max’s knee as he leaned over to whisper and point, “See him? That’s Zak Brown, he owns McLaren Aerodynamics.”

Shit, wasn’t that Lando’s boss? Now Max felt ever so slightly guilty for nodding along to the Brit’s rants about his work, without actually ever hearing anything. “If you talk to him, he’ll invite you to a game of golf, and if you say yes he’ll take you there in a Lambo and offer you a round of Chandon or some shit, his treat. You know how he gets all that money? Because people love to spend it, shit, I love it too, but don’t you ever stop to think about where it comes from?”

Daniel leaned in even closer, his hot breath against the scorching heat of Max’s helplessly flushed ear, his words ever so slightly slurred like maybe it hadn’t been his first rosé. Maybe he’d started off with something stronger in his car (was pregaming work conventions... a thing?), and now he was trying to look semi-dignified and failing.

“He gets it from defense contracts”

Max blinked owlishly at that, like maybe he’d heard it wrong. Surely he didn't mean to say what it sounded like he was, at the very least, implying. “Uh- what? I thought they made, like…” he tried to concentrate, genuinely wrack his brain to remember what Lando had mentioned “Uh, trains? High speed trains, don’t they- isn’t that what they make?”

Daniel laughed at that, a honky, unabashed laugh, throwing his head back and showing off those pearly whites as his curl bounced. “That’s what they’ll tell you on their website, mate. That they care about the environment and are working with the UK government to make-” hic, “Make uhh, a- a greener future or some shit. And- yes, they’ve got contracts with the UK government, plenty of ‘em, but most of them are defense”

At Max’s shocked expression, at his gaping mouth, Daniel sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, and yeah, he was definitely more drunk than Max, somehow.

“Missiles! They make missiles, Maxy”

Max didn’t think Lando was capable of even designing a missile for a fruit fly, much less for… actual humans. Fish, maybe. But humans seemed odd. “How are you so sure?”

Daniel seemed to deflate at that, like everyone had said the same thing. He pulled back, elbows on the bar and head hung low between his sagged shoulders, and Max found himself missing the warmth of his tattooed thigh against his knee, even though he still felt feverish from the alcohol and the flusteredness of it all.

The Aussie hiccuped again, blinking a couple of times. “Worked there” he said, and he sounded almost beaten down as he added, “Then I quit. Eeeh, not true, actually, got fired. Publicly it was a mutual agreement. Doesn’t matter” he stopped to down what was left of his rosé, grimacing although it must have been quite a pleasant, sweet taste, not at all a man’s drink, like Jos would say. “Now I make about a tenth of what I did and I teach the next generation of missile designers how to maximize… missileness”

Max hummed, quietly. He didn’t quite know what to say at that - he made a mental note to ask Lando about some things on the drive back, sure, but other than that. He got a sense that maybe the funny LinkedIn man had turned into a sad, hot, somehow still funny LinkedIn man.

Maybe he just needed a friend. Someone to listen.

Max grimaced at that last thought, scrunching up his face and staring down at his g&t with hatred, like his favorite drink had been tainted with feelings, and they were rapidly making his way into his bloodstream.

What was he even thinking?! Sure, the guy was funny and clearly had had some success at some point of his career and he was kind of possibly the hottest man Max had ever seen but he was also clearly a loser. Besides, they were strangers! They hadn’t even introduced themselves to each other! Daniel didn’t even know Max’s-

Wait.

“How do you know my name?”

Daniel’s eyes, previously fixed on a poster of a cowboy that advertised some sort of insurance Max couldn't care less about, widened almost comically. He stared at him for a beat too long before chuckling awkwardly. “Uuuuh, what?”

“You called me Maxy. You said, they make missiles, Maxy” Max said, finally feeling the expected effect of his g&t’s, that was, some fucking courage. “How do you know my name is Max”

A second passed.

Then another.

Then a third, and by the fourth Max had just now noticed the convention was blasting some shitty, outdated jazz music, which worked more as a sleep inducer than a mood setter.

By the fifth, Max was thinking maybe Daniel wouldn’t answer, so he doubled down and looked eyes with him, but Daniel immediately looked away, flustered and biting down on his plush, pink lip, frowning as if deep in thought. “Uuuuh” he stammered, rubbing his face with the heels of his palms again, chuckling awkwardly, “Would it be too lame to say I follow you on LinkedIn?”

part 3

[meownotgood]

"I will never read x reader it's just weird and they're always badly written" OKAY WELL NOT ME!!! GIVE ME ALL THE X READERS!!!!!! ME AND ALL MY FAVES ARE KISSING FOREVER

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Forty: Tethered

Chapter WC: 16,515

Chapter Tags/Warnings: some angst, some hurt/comfort, some...

A/N: I'm back back back again with a loongggg chapter. So much dialogue, so much to catch up on. Thanks everyone for your lovely comments and reblogs on the last chapter! Also icymi, new Rex and Goldie art.

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Hyperspace, 20 BBY

“I just pulled you out of bacta yesterday. You are not fine,” Wise says with a long-suffering sigh, barely sparing you a glance over his datapad from where he stands at the end of the bed.

"I'm better," you argue. You sit up further and try your best not to wince as the bandage pulls at the fresh scar tissue on your side. 

You're not sure who the argument is really for anymore, him or you. But the longer you sit in the medbay aboard the Oracle the more you can feel the walls starting to close in.

Wise just scoffs and shakes his head, keeping his attention on his datapad.

You roll your eyes and look away, shifting uncomfortably. The bed is too soft, the sheets too smooth, and the room smells like antiseptic. There’s a curtain drawn around your cot, offering a semblance of privacy, but you can hear the voices of the other patients nearby, muffled and indistinct.

It’s been days since Rex and Wise helped you board the shuttle to take you away from Duro, leaving behind the destruction and death and the horror you helped cause. Days since the surgeons repaired the damage to your ribs and sealed the deep laceration in your side and arm. And in those days, all you've done is lay here, trapped in this sterile hell.

You'd be lying if you said the memories of your actions on Duro haven't been haunting you. You’ve spent most of your time stuck here, meditating and trying to process what happened. The visions have stopped, or at least you're not being visited by them while conscious, but the nightmares haven't.

The only time they seem to let up is late at night, in the quiet, dim hours, a soft light in the corner and Rex's presence next to you. The nightmares aren't gone completely, and they still come, but they're easier to deal with, knowing he's here.

The first night, the medics had tried to make him leave. You'd nearly had a meltdown, and Wise had finally intervened, telling them to just let him stay. Ever since, he's been a constant presence in the medbay, coming and going like clockwork. It’s the only way you can keep track of time, honestly. That, and Booker showing up every day at 1700 with food and news from the outside world.

“How’s our favorite prisoner?” 

You look up as Booker strides in through the curtain, wearing a grin that almost masks the worry in his eyes. He stops by the foot of the bed, a tray of food in one hand and a stack of datapads under the other, and then turns his back to you abruptly. “Oh, sorry. Everybody decent?”

"Yes, and it's not funny," you groan, sinking down against the pillow.

"Oh, I disagree," Booker snorts. He sets the tray down on the side table and flops into the chair. "You look great."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't sarcasm," he assures you, though the mirth in his voice betrays him. He leans back in his chair, balancing on the rear two legs, and props his feet up on the bed, crossing them at the ankles. "So, how’re we feeling today?"

"Better," you reply, a half truth. You pick up the fork and push around the food on your tray. A pile of protein noodles and a glass of water. Your appetite is still nonexistent, even with the nutrients and fluids they've been pumping into you. "Where's Rex?"

"On the holo with General Skywalker," he replies.

"Ahsoka too?"

"Yeah, her too," Booker sighs.

"What's that about?"

"The Council's not happy with how things turned out," he says, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "You'd think the Jedi would have better things to do than to focus on the blame game. But, nope."

"I'm not surprised," you mutter, poking at the noodles. The smell is nauseating. "No point in defending me. What's one more slap on the wrist?"

"Well, they can't do much else," Booker says, glancing at Wise. "At least, that's what Skywalker told us. Something about a welcome home party. I'm assuming that means you're gonna have a lot of time to catch up on your reading. And, uh, your other hobbies."

"Lovely."

"Don't worry," Booker says, patting your foot. "We'll keep you company. We're grounded until further notice, so it's not like we're going anywhere anytime soon. We can keep you entertained. Maybe even go out on the town again."

"Sounds like a good time," you reply flatly, stabbing a noodle, and you try not to grimace as you take a bite.

Somewhere in the medbay, a call light chimes, and Wise gives you a sympathetic look before he ducks through the curtain and disappears. Booker waits until he's gone before he speaks again, his voice dropping even lower.

"How's the pain?"

"Fine," you lie, swallowing the mouthful. "I can handle it."

"Good."

You pause, the fork hovering over the tray, and turn your head to look at him. He's not looking at you, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His hands are laced behind his head, his expression blank, but there's something in his voice that gives him away.

Your gaze flicks to the stack of datapads and back up. The one at the bottom of the pile is face down, but the GAR symbol on the back is clearly visible. Your heart sinks.

"You got the numbers back, didn't you?" you ask quietly.

Booker sighs and looks over at you. "Yeah.”

You close your eyes, and you place the tray on the bedside table.

You've tried not to think too much about the aftermath of what happened, how the men might've reacted, but you've heard some of the hushed conversations and seen the looks on the faces of those who came in and out of the medbay.

It was full to bursting when you awoke here, and you'd spent the better part of two days listening to the cries and moans of the men who'd survived, feeling their pain and suffering in the Force. You accepted it, knowing it was your burden to bear. And even after everything that's happened, they were still grateful, and they were still glad you were alive.

But the men who didn't survive? The ones you all led to their deaths?

The weight of their sacrifice has been bearing down on you, and now, with Booker's confirmation, it's all the heavier.

"How many?" you ask softly. You've been avoiding asking the question since you woke up, and it's the only one you can't bring yourself to answer on your own.

“Listen…”

"Please," you beg. "I need to know."

Booker’s feet fall back onto the floor, and he rests his forearms on his knees.

"Two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight," he replies after a pause, his voice soft and measured. "The final number isn't in yet, but..."

The number echoes in your mind, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You turn away, taking a shuddering breath. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and you reach up, covering your face with your hand, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to overwhelm you.

It's more than you'd expected. More than a whole regiment. One fourth of your men gone in the blink of an eye.

You know, deep down, that it’s not your fault alone that this happened. Your decision was the final domino in a chain of events that was set in motion the moment you received the call to aid Duro, perhaps even before that. 

It's easy to say it was your failure to anticipate the outcome, to prepare for the worst, but the truth is far more complicated. No matter what decisions you made or didn't make, Duro was always doomed, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

It doesn’t make the loss easier.

You feel the weight of the mattress shift, and Booker's hand comes to rest on your shoulder. 

“Scoot over,” he says softly.

You hesitate, but he gives your shoulder a gentle nudge, and you slowly move over. He climbs onto the bed beside you and settles down, pulling you close, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. You rest your head against his chest, and his chin comes to rest on top of your head.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

"For what?"

"For not seeing the signs sooner," he replies, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone. "I knew something was off, but I didn't want to push. I should've—"

"Stop," you interject. "It wasn't your fault."

Booker sighs heavily and squeezes you tighter. You can feel his fingers digging into your arm, the frustration and pain rolling off him in waves.

"The Council wants me to talk to the men," he mutters. The bitterness is replaced by something else, a weariness, his body held tense against you. "They're worried about morale, after...everything. There’s going to be some restructuring and reassignments."

"You mean they want me gone," you reply, and he stiffens.

"It's not like that."

"I don't blame them," you sigh. "It's the smart move."

"That’s not going to happen,” he says sharply. You look up and meet his gaze, and you can see the determination burning in his eyes. "I'm not going to let that happen."

You can't tell if it's his words or the look on his face, but the tears are coming again, hot and fast. Booker sighs and draws you against his chest again, holding you close. You can feel the ache in his chest, the sorrow, and you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder.

"We're not giving up on you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "Any of us."

You nod and tighten your grip, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, gently rubbing the tense muscles there. You let out a shuddering breath and close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax into the contact, his warmth.

"Dash told me what happened," Booker says after a pause, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "At the generator."

You swallow hard and take a deep breath, the tears blurring your vision.

“You saved his life," he continues. You can feel his hands tremble before he flexes them and readjusts his hold. "If you hadn’t pulled him away, he'd be dead. They all would. You would. I'm...I'm so sorry for what you went through, but you did the right thing."

"Did I?" you ask bitterly, your voice cracking.

"Yes, you did," he says firmly.

"How can you say that? After all the death, after—"

"Because it's the truth," he cuts you off, his grip on your neck tightening, his fingers digging into the tense muscles there. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it's true. You made the only choice you could. We both did. And I'm not going to let anyone, the Council, or the Chancellor, or whoever, tell you any different. You hear me?"

You swallow and nod, not trusting yourself to speak, the tears falling freely now. Booker hugs you tightly and presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you can feel his own tears mixing with yours. You hold each other close, and you lose track of how much time passes, the pain and grief ebbing and flowing, the two of you wrapped up in each other's arms.

Finally, he pulls back and gives you a weak smile, his fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you out of here."

"But Wise—"

"He'll get over it," he says dismissively with a wave of his hand. He stands and pulls back the blanket, helping you slip your feet over the edge of the bed. "We're getting out of here."

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, slowly easing yourself off the bed and onto the floor. Booker unfolds a pair of loose-fitting trousers he’d brought from your room, and you step into them, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over.

"Here," he says, helping you balance and pulling the pants up your legs, careful to avoid jostling the bandages on your side. You pull the drawstring tight before slipping off the gown, and he averts his eyes as he helps you into the sweater. It's oversized, with the sleeves hanging down past your hands, and the soft fabric is a welcome change from the stiff medbay garb.

"How do I look?" you ask, smoothing down the front of the sweater and doing your best not to grimace at the dull throb of pain that accompanies the motion.

"Honest or nice?" he asks with a wry smile, and you narrow your eyes.

"Both."

"Honest, you look like hell," he replies. He tilts his head. "Nice, like a woman who can still kill me with one hand behind her back."

You scoff and roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You can't remember the last time you smiled, but it feels good, almost foreign, the muscles in your cheeks stretching in a way they haven't in weeks.

"Ready?" he asks, offering his arm.

You take a deep breath and nod, gripping his forearm. "Let's go."

Booker pushes aside the curtain, leading you through the medbay. It's less busy than the last time you'd walked through it, most of the patients having already been discharged or moved to the recovery wing. Wise is nowhere to be seen, and the two medics on duty are preoccupied with arguing with a trooper a dozen beds down. The two of you breathe a sigh of relief and move faster toward the door, until a voice stops your in your tracks.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze and turn to see Dash sitting up in his cot, his dark hair mussed and a tired look on his face. He’s surrounded by a mess of discarded wrappers and datapads, and the bedside table is littered with half-empty cups of caf. You spot your destroyed comm among the pile of tech, its wires and circuits exposed.

"What are you doing awake?" you whisper, glancing back at the medics, who are still too preoccupied to notice the three of you.

"Fixing your comm," he replies with a shrug, and he gestures to the broken device. He glances between the two of you, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's going on?"

Booker looks over toward the medics and back, a mischievous glint appearing in his eye.

“Prison break,” he says quietly, his hand cupped to the side of his mouth.

A look of alarm crosses Dash's face. "You can't leave. Wise'll kill you."

"Wise can go fuck himself," Booker retorts cheerfully. He winks at Dash and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you toward the door. "Take a nap, kid. And if he asks, you didn't see us."

You glance back at Dash to see him watching the two of you go, a worried expression on his face. But there's a hint of a smile there, too, a glimmer of his usual optimism that you haven't seen since before Duro.

“No idea what you’re talking about. I think these meds are messing with my head," he drawls, settling back into his pillows and reaching for the cup of caf. “Just don’t take too long. Captain Rex will be back soon, and I don't think he'll be very happy to find you gone, General."

"Yeah, yeah," Booker waves him off. "Don't get your sheets in a twist."

Dash laughs as he turns his attention back to the pile of electronics, and the two of you slip through the door and out into the corridor. It's meal time, and most of the troopers are either eating or working, leaving the corridors empty and quiet. Booker keeps a firm grip on your arm, steadying you as you make your way through the ship, and you exchange conspiratorial smiles when you pass by the occasional crew member.

It's been so many months since you were able to just be together like this, no war or battles or missions hanging over your heads. You'd almost forgotten what it was like, the thrill and the anticipation, the spark of excitement that comes from breaking the rules. It's a welcome distraction from the turmoil and grief, and for a brief, shining instant, everything feels normal again.

“I haven’t done anything like this in ages,” you mutter to him as the two of you walk side-by-side, Booker's hand resting gently on the small of your back.

"Like what?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't know," you reply with a shrug. "Breaking out of the medbay. Sneaking around. Feels like being a Padawan again."

"You? Breaking the rules?" he gasps, feigning shock. "I never would have guessed."

You snort. "Oh, shut up.”

He chuckles and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and the two of you walk in comfortable silence through the corridors. The ship is quiet, save for the hum of the engines and the soft voices of the men, and you take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of grease and metal and recycled air. It's not the first time you've been grateful for the ability to hide in the vastness of hyperspace, where the war and the darkness can't reach you. And it helps being surrounded by the familiar faces and sounds and smells of home.

You're still a bit wobbly, your body aching and sore, and you lean against Booker's side, letting him support some of your weight. He doesn't comment on it, and he slows his pace, his steps careful and measured.

“You don’t talk much about those days," Booker says softly. His gaze is fixed forward, his tone carefully neutral, but you can feel the undercurrent of curiosity, the unspoken question.

"Talk about what?"

"Your life before us," he replies. "You never mention it."

"There's not much to say," you reply evenly. The lie comes easily with years of practice to perfect it, but Booker sees right through you.

"Come on," he prods, shaking you slightly. "Indulge me."

You sigh and look down, worrying the inside of your cheek. You've avoided talking about your past with the men, and Booker has never pressed you. But you know he's curious, and you owe him more than just silence.

It’s been a long time since you’ve thought about your childhood in the Temple, about your years of training, and even longer since you allowed yourself to miss it, the comfort and security and innocence of it all. But now, with the memory of those nights sneaking through the corridors of the Jedi Temple with Obi-Wan fresh in your mind, it feels almost natural to share the stories with Booker, to allow yourself a glimpse back at a simpler time.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he says with a grin.

"That's a lot of ground to cover," you chuckle.

"I'm a patient man," he replies, winking. "And we've got a lot of ship to walk."

You laugh and shake your head, but the memories are already coming back, the stories you haven't told in years. 

"Well," you begin, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I guess I'll start from the beginning. I was brought to the Temple as a baby..."

You tell him about the first years of your life, about the other younglings, the games and the mischief, the endless lessons and meditation. You tell him about training with Master Sinube, about the times Obi-Wan had covered for you, the adventures you'd gotten into. You tell him what it was like to be chosen by Yaddle, about the day she died, and the years you'd spent mourning her, unable to understand why she'd been taken from you. 

And the more you talk, the easier it becomes, the pain and the sorrow fading away, replaced by a bittersweet nostalgia. You can almost feel the warmth of the sun on your face, hear the laughter of the other younglings, taste the sweet pastries you'd make with Master Yoda for the Festival of Stars. It's a strange feeling, to share this part of yourself with someone else, to allow yourself to remember the joys and sorrows of the past.

Booker listens intently, a smile playing at his lips. He asks questions, probes deeper, and his curiosity is contagious. Before you know it, you're telling him stories about the less appropriate times, the late nights and the pranks, the time you'd accidentally set a training room on fire, the time you and Obi-Wan had nearly ruined diplomatic relations with Hynestia Prime as teenagers.

"Wait, wait, wait," Booker says, laughing, stopping the two of you in the middle of the corridor. "How did you end up in the fountain?"

"I couldn't tell you," you chuckle as you against the bulkhead, wincing when the wound in your side pulls. "Hynestian ice wine is stronger than it looks."

"So I've heard," he says, grinning. "And the prince?"

"He didn't seem to care much," you snort. "He sent a marriage proposal to the Council the next morning."

Booker doubles over, howling with laughter, and the two of you dissolve into fits of giggles, clutching each other for support. The pain in your side is forgotten, the weight of the grief and the darkness lifted, if only for a short time.

Booker finally manages to regain his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes. He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading the two of you down the corridor.

“You miss it," he says after a pause, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah, I do," you admit with a sigh. "I didn't realize it until now, but...I do. There were good times. The Temple was home, and the Order was family. It's not perfect, and there are things I wish I could change, but..."

"What would you change?" he asks quietly.

"Well," you start slowly, but the words die in your throat, and you frown.

A hundred things come to mind, and none of them seem right to speak about with Booker. There’s enough discontentment already without speaking on the way they turned their backs on you over Yaddle, or how the Council had been so slow to act the growing threat of the Separatists, or how the rules and restrictions had only grown more stringent and the punishments for breaking them had increased. 

The Order isn’t the same as it was, and the changes weigh heavily on you. But it's not Booker's burden to bear, and you can't bring yourself to share that burden with him.

"Never mind," you sigh as the memories fade away, replaced by a sadness and a weariness that you can't shake.

Booker watches you carefully before nodding, and you can see the understanding in his eyes. You’ve known for a long time that he’s more than aware of the rumors and whispers about you, the speculation about your motives and loyalty, and that it bothers him, too. He doesn't need to hear the details.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, and the melancholy settles over you again. The nostalgia and the joy had been brief, a reprieve from the grief, and it fades as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollowness in its wake.

You turn down a side corridor and approach a large viewport looking out over the stars, and Booker stops, letting go of your arm and stepping up to the transparisteel. You join him, leaning against the railing, and the two of you stand there, side-by-side, gazing out into the endless expanse.

The stars are a blur as the Oracle speeds through hyperspace, a kaleidoscope of color and light. It's hypnotic, and you let yourself get lost in the pattern, your mind wandering, the events of the past days playing over and over in your head.

“Can I ask you something?" Booker's voice cuts through the silence, pulling you back to the present. When you turn, his brow is furrowed, his hands resting on the railings. "And be honest."

"Of course," you reply.

He takes a deep breath and glances down, his fingers tapping against the metal.

"Would you leave the Order? If you had the chance?" he asks as his eyes meet yours, unwavering. "For good."

You're caught off guard by the question. You'd expected him to ask about the past, not the future. You look down, chewing the inside of your cheek.

Your first instinct is to deny it, to push the idea and reassure him you’d never even think about it. But you stop yourself.

The Order is your home. Or, it always felt that way. But the longer the war goes on, the more you realize home isn’t the Temple, not anymore. Not since Yaddle disappeared, and certainly not since the war began. 

Now, the Jedi Temple is just another building, a relic of a past you can no longer fully claim. You still believe in the ideals, the principles, and you have no doubt the Order is doing what is best for the Republic, but it feels distant, alien, and at times, almost hostile.

In truth, the most at home you’ve felt since Yaddle’s death has been among the clones, and the most at peace with yourself has been with Rex. The Order is the foundation for everything you do, but the 419th are your foundation now, and it's the men, the bonds between you and the friendships you've made, that have given you strength, purpose, and the will to carry on, no matter how heavy the burden might be at times. 

Leaving the Order and your position as their general behind is unthinkable. But after the war ends, if you survive it...well, that's a different question, and one that's not as clear cut.

"I...don't know," you admit softly.

Booker nods and turns his attention back to the viewport, and you follow suit, your gaze drifting back to the stars.

"Why are you asking?" you press gently after a pause.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't know," he mutters, and his shoulders slump. "I guess...I guess I'm just wondering if you're okay."

You blink and look up at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I'm worried about you," he says, a slight frown crossing his face. He rests his hands on the railing again, staring out at the stars. "I know Snap has already told you how we feel, but...it's not easy. The Council may be giving you shit for what happened on Duro, but we don't."

He pauses, his jaw working, his gaze fixed on the viewport. You watch him closely, waiting, unsure where this is going.

"We don't blame you for any of it," he continues, and there's a note of determination in his voice, a hint of anger. "I know what's going to happen once we get to Coruscant. You're going to take the fall for it, and the Council is going to sweep the rest under the rug. It's not fair, and it's not right."

"Booker," you start, reaching out to him. "You know I have to. It was my call, my decision."

"That's what they're counting on," he replies bitterly, pulling his arm away from you and turning to meet your gaze. "They know you'll take the fall, because that's who you are. But it wasn't your fault. It was an impossible choice, and you did what was best. You made the only decision you could, and I'll be damned if they're going to hang that around your neck."

“You can’t protect me from this, Booker," you tell him, and you take his hand, squeezing gently. "They're going to do what's necessary, and there's nothing either of us can do to stop them. I'll accept whatever punishment they deem fit."

"You shouldn't have to," he says. He shakes his head, a note of pleading creeping into his voice. "You've done nothing but try to make things better. You're a hero. You deserve better."

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. A hero. It's a term that's been thrown around a lot lately. You've heard it from him before, from many of the men, even from Anakin, that you should be praised and celebrated, not condemned and questioned. But the truth is far more complicated, and the praise feels hollow and meaningless. You're not sure you can ever truly accept it.

"There's no such thing," you say with a sigh. "Not really."

"Maybe not," he concedes, his eyes searching yours. "But you deserve a chance to live your life, not just survive. You deserve the opportunity to make your own choices."

"I chose to lead the 419th, and that's what I'm going to do," you reply, a note of finality in your tone. You take his hand, holding it firmly. "No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."

"You should," he says with a bitter laugh. "Get as far away from here as you can. Find a nice planet somewhere in the Outer Rim, or even the Unknown Regions, and settle down. Live the rest of your life in peace."

"And do what?" you scoff. "Plant vegetables and raise nerfs?"

"Whatever the hell you want," he replies with a shrug. "Hell, open up a bar or something, and let everyone else fight the war."

You can't stop the amused smile from spreading across your face at the suggestion, and a soft laugh escapes your lips. It's a nice fantasy, the thought of getting away from it all and starting over. Your dreams of the golden fields and Rex have shown you that it might be possible, if you could convince him to go with you. But even that feels distant, out of reach, a faint whisper in the back of your mind. And not one you can dwell on while people all over the galaxy are fighting and dying.

"My taste in alcohol doesn't exactly fit with the general populace," you say wryly. "I think I'd have an issue with my clientele."

"Who cares?" he replies. "It's your place. You can kick out anyone you want. No rules. No regulations. No Council breathing down your neck."

You smile and shake your head. "And who would run it?"

"Me," he says confidently. "I'm good with numbers. I'd manage the books, keep the lights on. I'll even work for tips."

"What, so I can be your boss?" you ask, arching an eyebrow.

"You're my boss already," he replies with a lopsided grin. "Might as well pay me for it."

"Fair point," you snort.

"It's your life, General," Booker says after a pause, his tone soft, serious. "You should do what's best for you. That's all I'm saying."

You sigh, running a hand through your hair and wincing as your wound pulls. "And if what's best for me is staying right here, with you and the 419th, can you accept that?"

He's quiet for a while, his brow furrowing, and his gaze moves back to the stars. You wait patiently, letting him process his thoughts. It's not an easy decision, and you know he's wrestling with it, too. He's had his own doubts about the war and the toll it's taken on the both of you. And you're not the only one who's lost someone along the way.

Finally, Booker takes a deep breath and sighs, a resigned look crossing his face. "If that's what you want."

"It is," you reply, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Then I'm with you," he says, his grip tightening on yours. "Until the end."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," you reply as you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He chuckles and squeezes your hand, and the two of you stand there, watching the stars blur by, a comfortable silence falling between the two of you. He seems content to keep standing here, and you're happy to indulge him. There's still a lingering sense of guilt and shame, and it will be some time before it fades completely. But the pain is easing, and for the first time since Duro, it doesn't feel like the weight of the galaxy is resting on your shoulders.

"How are the others?" you ask quietly, breaking the silence. "How's Snap?"

"They're alright," he replies, his tone neutral, but there's a hint of weariness in his voice. "Most of them, anyway. Snap's pissed about his leg, and he's got a wicked scar, but he's gonna be fine. They all are."

“And you?”

"Me?" Booker scoffs. "I'm peachy, thanks for asking. Drowning in reports and requisition forms, and someone decided to pick up a new shiny on Duro that's made my life a living hell this past week. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

You look away and try to hide your smile, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh," he grumbles, rolling his eyes. "Well, you're gonna have a hell of a time dealing with him. Looks like we're stuck with him now."

"I thought Price would want a reassignment," you frown. "Doesn't he want to join his batchmate? The one from the 212th?"

"You'd think," he snorts derisively. "But he's dead set on staying with us. Thinks he owes it to you."

"Owes me?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "For saving his life. Won't shut up about it, actually.”

"That's not—"

"Don't even try," he interrupts with a smirk. "If the rest of the men weren't already convinced of your heroics, the kid's been telling everyone within earshot about it. So much for being a humble Jedi, eh?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I can talk to him—"

"Oh, no," he interjects, and his expression turns serious, his eyes fixed on you. "You're not talking to him. Or any of the men. I'm putting my foot down."

"Excuse me?"

"You're still recovering, and the last thing anyone needs is you getting worked up about everything that happened," he says firmly. "Let the kid gush. Let him sing your praises. Hell, let him build you a statue if it'll make him feel better. But until I get the all-clear from the Chief, you're not setting foot near the barracks, got it?"

"That's ridiculous," you protest, a scowl crossing your face. "I'm their General. I have a duty to them."

"Yes, you do," he replies, his tone even. "And your duty right now is to get some rest. We'll deal with the men. The Council is sending over a team to assess the 419th, see how the losses will affect operations."

"When?"

"In a couple days," he says. "We'll have our briefing and start going through the personnel files."

"And where will I be during all of this?" you press, a hint of bitterness entering your voice.

"Taking care of yourself," he says firmly, and his expression softens, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "Don't worry about the rest. Let me and the others take care of the heavy lifting."

"Booker, I can't—"

"I won't hear any arguments," he cuts you off, and his grip tightens, his eyes boring into yours. "I'm serious. We've got this. And if we need your input, we'll ask for it. But until I say otherwise, you're taking the time to recover. That's an order."

You narrow your eyes, glaring at him. "You're enjoying this."

"Maybe a little," he admits with a smirk, and he pulls away, letting his hand drop from your shoulder. "But I mean it. I've got everything covered. Just take care of yourself. Please."

"Alright," you relent, the irritation fading, and you sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. "If it'll make you happy, I'll stay out of your way."

"It will," he replies. "Thanks."

The two of you exchange a smile, and he reaches down, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, guiding the two of you away from the viewport. You try not to drag your feet at the prospect of going back to the medbay, the thought of spending another night alone with nothing but the endless stream of memories and nightmares for company.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you back to the Chief before he finds out you're gone."

"Yeah," you murmur, a hint of dejection in your voice. You glance back over your shoulder, the stars blurring together into a sea of light, and then sigh and let him lead you away.

You don't make it further than a few steps down the hall before a familiar figure rounds the corner, and your heart skips a beat in your chest. Rex is marching toward you, a deep frown on his face, and you can sense his anger and frustration before he even opens his mouth.

“Uh oh. Busted,” Booker mutters under his breath, and he stops short, pulling away from you. "You’re in trouble now."

“Me? This is your fault,” you hiss back, jabbing him in the ribs with your elbow, and he grunts. “I’m innocent. I’ve been kidnapped.”

Rex is upon the two of you in an instant, and the scowl on his face is enough to make both of you squirm. He plants his feet in front of the two of you and crosses his arms, glaring at Booker.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he demands.

"Hey Rex," Booker greets him, his tone casual, as if he hasn't just been caught red-handed. "Fancy seeing you here. How's it going?"

"You know damn well how it's going," Rex retorts, and the glare shifts from Booker to you, the disapproval evident. "We've been looking all over the ship for you. What are you doing out of bed?"

"Nothing," you reply. "Just...enjoying the view."

"Really? 'Cause the last time I checked, the view is exactly the same in the medbay," he replies dryly, his eyes narrowing.

"Is it?" you ask, feigning surprise. You glance over at Booker, who just shrugs, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes," Rex sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. "It is."

"Huh," you mutter. "How 'bout that."

Booker snorts and tries to stifle a laugh, and you can't hold back your own grin, the two of you exchanging a conspiratorial glance. Rex looks between the two of you and lets out a groan, shaking his head in exasperation.

"This isn't funny," he snaps, jabbing his finger at the two of you. "You're injured, and you need rest. Why the hell did you think it was a good idea to sneak out of the medbay?"

"Okay, seriously," Booker cuts in. He holds up his hands. "You can stop with the yelling. She didn't have anything to do with it. It was all my idea. Blame me."

"Oh, I am," Rex replies darkly. "Trust me."

"Come on, man," Booker says, and he puts a hand on Rex's shoulder, the gesture intended to placate him. "It's not that big a deal. She's fine. She was just stretching her legs, that's all."

"And you didn't think to bring a comm unit or tell someone where you were going?" Rex presses, pushing Booker's hand away. He turns his attention to you, and his eyes dart to the floor. "And where are your shoes?"

You follow his gaze, and a flush creeps across your cheeks as you realize that you're not wearing any shoes. Or socks. You'd been so eager to escape the confines of the medbay that you hadn't even thought about it, but now that you have, a chill runs down your spine. Your feet are cold and aching, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to warm them up.

"Well..." you begin slowly, trying to think of an excuse, but Rex is already stepping toward you, his frown deepening.

"You've been missing for an hour," he says quietly, reaching out. His hand hovers in the space between the two of you before he glances at Booker, and he sighs and rubs the back of his neck instead. "I was worried something happened.”

"Nothing happened," you assure him. "We're just—"

"Taking a walk," Booker finishes for you.

Rex nods slowly and looks down the corridor, his expression hardening.

"Alright," he says, and he turns and starts walking back the way he came.

"Where are you going?" you shout after him.

"To get a pair of socks," he calls over his shoulder, not stopping or looking back. "You're not walking around this ship barefoot. Just stay there.”

Booker chuckles and shakes his head, and you stare after Rex, bewildered.

"Told you," he whispers. "You're in trouble."

"Shut up," you mutter, and you shove him playfully.

He grins and shoves you back, and the two of you start arguing like children, pushing and wrestling with each other. He’s being gentle, and you can tell he's holding back, not wanting to hurt you. It only serves to make you more frustrated. You're not an invalid, and the fact that everyone else thinks you are is beyond irritating.

You're about to push him again, harder this time, and put him in his place, but the sight of a familiar face returning stops you in your tracks.

“Hey! Stop that," Rex snaps as he reappears, carrying a pair of socks and boots. Booker immediately stops and steps back, straightening his posture and folding his hands behind his back. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

"It's not my fault," you protest, but Rex ignores you, kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your foot. You're so shocked that you can't even react as he slides the sock onto your foot and starts working the boot over it.

You glance at Booker to see him grinning at you, and you can't keep the sheepish smile from spreading across your face. He raises his eyebrows and gives a pointed look at Rex, who's still on his knees in front of you, and the embarrassment intensifies.

"Oh, no you don't," Rex grumbles, and he yanks the other boot from your grasp when you try to pull it out of his reach. "I've got it."

"I can do it," you insist.

"Let him," Booker interjects, his tone playful. "It'll make him feel better."

Rex sighs and glares up at him, but the look melts away as soon as his eyes meet yours, and he goes back to working the boot over your foot. He takes his time, carefully buckling them and adjusting the straps, and your face heats as his hand lingers on the back of your calf.

"There," he murmurs, looking up at you.

"Thanks," you manage to squeak out, your cheeks burning.

"Don't mention it," he mutters.

You stare down at him, unsure what to do or say. His hand is still resting on your leg, and his thumb is rubbing slow circles on the back of your knee. It's a tender, intimate gesture, and it's all you can do not to throw yourself at him and kiss him.

The silence that has settled between you is broken by a loud snort, and the two of you quickly look over and see Booker watching with raised brows, his mustache twitching.

"What?" you snap as Rex jumps to his feet. His face is bright red, and he turns and faces the wall, refusing to look at you.

"Nothing," Booker smirks, and he winks at you. "I'm gonna head to the office. I've got a bunch of reports to finish. You okay to get her back?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rex mumbles, his voice hoarse. "Go ahead. I've got it."

"’Course you do," he chuckles. He steps forward and wraps an arm around your shoulders. He plants a quick kiss on the top of your head. "See you in the morning, General. Captain."

“Bring cards,” you call out after him, and Booker gives a thumbs up over his shoulder as he strides away.

The two of you watch him disappear around the corner before turning to each other, and an awkward silence descends upon the two of you. You look away, trying to keep your composure, and you can hear Rex clearing his throat, no doubt fighting the same battle.

"So..." you trail off, biting your lower lip.

"So," he says with a shrug, and you lapse into another uncomfortable silence.

You glance down and notice that his hand is balled into a fist at his side, and you remember the way he'd hesitated earlier, the way his fingers had lingered on the back of your leg. He'd wanted to touch you. You take a step toward him, and his eyes meet yours, his gaze intense, searching.

"You're not mad?" you ask hesitantly.

"I was," Rex admits. "But...he's right. You were only taking a walk."

"I didn't mean to worry you," you reply.

"I know," he sighs. "I was just...scared."

"I'm sorry," you say, taking another step forward. "I just needed to get out of there. It’s been days, and…”

"I understand," he says softly, and the look in his eyes takes your breath away. "And...I'm glad you're safe."

"Me too," you smile.

Rex moves closer, his eyes never leaving yours. He's mere inches away now, and he casts a furtive glance up and down the corridor before he cups your cheek in his palm. You lean into the touch and close your eyes, relishing the warmth of his hand. He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, and a shiver runs through you.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice low and gentle.

"Better," you reply, and you reach up and take his hand, giving it a squeeze. "You don't need to worry about me, though."

"That's a lost cause, cyar’ika," Rex murmurs, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours. “You shouldn’t be wandering the halls like this. You could get hurt."

"I was feeling claustrophobic," you say, a small, apologetic smile crossing your face.

"We're on a starship," Rex replies wryly.

"Exactly," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

He sighs and shakes his head, but you can see the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. He brushes his knuckles across your cheek and steps away, his hand dropping to his side.

"Let's get you back," he says, and he offers his arm to you.

"Can we take the long way?" you ask him with a mischievous grin, your arm linking through his. "I haven't seen the outside of that room in a while."

He snorts and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But if the Chief or anyone else asks, it's your idea, and I had nothing to do with it."

"Deal.”

The two of you set off, strolling slowly down the corridor. You lean against him, enjoying the closeness, the feeling of his arm, warm and solid, beneath your touch. The corridors are empty, save for the occasional clone trooper who nods at the two of you as you pass, and the quiet is a welcome reprieve.

The silence between the two of you is comfortable, and Rex seems content to let it linger, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. You let your mind wander, and soon enough, you find yourself lost in thought.

Your conversation with Booker has brought up a lot of questions, and a lot of uncertainties. You've been so focused on getting the war over with that you've never really given any serious thought to what life will be like afterward. At the beginning of the conflict, you and the rest of the Jedi had thought the war would end in a few months at most, and life would go back to normal.

But as the months and years went on, and the losses mounted, the reality became clear.

You'd spent the past year fighting a war that wasn't going to end anytime soon. It had already changed you, and it’s changed the lives of the men. And there was no telling how much more the war would change the galaxy.

As for your place in it, you have no idea what your future holds. But you have a feeling it depends on the man walking beside you, and just how far the two of you are willing to go to be together.

Rex’s hand comes to rest on yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your palm. You resist the urge to lace your fingers through his, to hold his hand properly.

He's been skittish around you since you woke up from the bacta tank, and you don't want to push him too far, too fast. But to go from casual touches and hugs while the two of you were still pretending to be nothing more than friends, to this, his hand on yours and nothing more, is difficult. Especially since your kiss on Duro was so...intense. 

You’ve only been awake and lucid for a couple days, and in that time, he's kept his distance, only touching you occasionally and always in a professional or protective manner. He sits by your bedside in the evenings and reads reports with you, his eyes glued to the datapad, and his hand rests on the sheets beside him, never once venturing close to yours. Even now, his touch is hesitant, light and cautious, as if he's unsure of himself, afraid of what might happen if he does anything more.

It's frustrating, to say the least, and part of you wonders if it's because he regrets what happened. Maybe he's changed his mind about the two of you. Maybe he's decided it's too risky. Maybe he's not sure what he wants anymore.

Maybe you need to make it clear that you're ready for this, and whatever happens, it's going to be worth the risk.

"What are you thinking about?" Rex asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. He turns and looks down at you, his gaze searching, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"You," you answer, your voice soft.

"Me?" he says, his brow furrowing. He sounds surprised, and you can sense the nervousness building within him.

"Mhm," you nod. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"I guess not," he says slowly, but he still looks unsure. He glances away, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. "You're always on my mind."

"Always?"

"Always," he confirms as he turns back to look at you. "Ever since...well, ever since we met."

"Well, that's good to hear," you say, unable to hold back a smile. You lean closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, and you feel him stiffen for a second before relaxing slightly. "Because you're on my mind, too."

Rex ducks his head, and his cheeks flush, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder, and his grip on your arm tightens.

"Rex. Relax," you say gently, and his eyes meet yours. You give him a reassuring smile and squeeze his arm, hoping the touch will ground him, remind him that it's okay, that this is okay. "I'm just teasing. I promise I won’t bite. Well, not unless you want me to."

He groans and covers his face with his free hand, his head falling forward. You can't keep the smirk from spreading across your face as his flush creeps down his neck.

"Not funny," he mumbles, but there's no real anger in his voice. And when his hand falls, you can see the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I'm sorry," you say, laughing.

He huffs and rolls his eyes, his hand dropping from yours, and the loss of contact sends a pang of disappointment through you. He steps away and puts a bit of distance between the two of you, his gaze turning back to the path ahead.

"Come on," he mutters. "Let's go."

You walk beside him, your shoulders brushing every now and again, but he doesn’t try to take your hand again. A heaviness settles over the two of you, the silence weighing down on you like a shroud, and you find yourself fidgeting as you walk. It feels like something has shifted between you, a wedge that hadn’t been there before. You can feel it, an unease that hadn’t existed before, a wall that wasn't there a week ago.

You want to ask, but you can't bring yourself to break the silence. You cross your arms over your chest and hunch your shoulders, and Rex does the same, his gaze fixed on the floor ahead.

It's clear the two of you need to talk, but you're not sure how to start the conversation. The last thing you want to do is push him. You made a mistake before the battle began in asking for that dinner, and his hesitation had been apparent, even if he hadn't said no. Now, you're not sure what's holding him back, but whatever it is, it's not something that can be fixed with a joke.

Even though Rex had told you he loved you and kissed you after everything fell apart, and even though he had taken the time to check up on you while you were in the bacta tank, and even though you feel a connection between the two of you, stronger than any other relationship you've ever had, you can't assume anything. You can't risk scaring him off again. You’re not sure you can survive losing him. 

But there's something bothering him, and the longer it goes on, the more it seems to eat away at him. His smiles don't quite reach his eyes, and the bags beneath his eyes have gotten darker. You’ve caught him staring off into the distance a dozen times in the past couple days, his expression troubled and conflicted. Whatever is bothering him is weighing him down, and you wish he would tell you what it is.

He's clearly hurting, and you can feel his pain, his uncertainty, as if it were your own. 

"Are you alright?" you finally ask him.

"Of course," Rex replies quickly, his gaze never wavering from the path ahead.

"Rex," you say softly, stopping.

He stops too and turns to face you, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back. "What's wrong?"

"I can tell something's bothering you," you say, reaching out and resting a hand on his arm. "You can tell me. I'm here for you."

"It's nothing," he says. He gives your hand a gentle pat and turns, continuing down the corridor.

"Rex," you say, a note of exasperation in your voice.

He doesn't reply, and he doesn't stop walking.

"Rex," you repeat, louder. You haven't moved from your spot, and the gap between the two of you widens.

Rex slows, but he doesn't turn. His shoulders slump, and he comes to a stop, his head hanging forward.

"I'm not letting this go," you say, keeping your tone even. You cross your arms over his chest and wait for him to turn and face you.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, and for a second, you think he's going to keep walking. But he sighs and turns, his eyes meeting yours. 

"Now isn't the time. You need to get back."

"You need to talk," you counter, raising an eyebrow, and you plant your feet, standing your ground. "And I'm not moving until you do."

"You're so stubborn," he mutters, shaking his head.

"So are you," you retort. "So either you start talking, or we're going to be standing here all night."

Rex’s eyes narrow, and you stare right back, determined not to blink first. The two of you stand there, locked in a silent stalemate. You're not going to let him brush this off, not this time. Something's bothering him, and the longer he keeps it bottled up, the worse it will get. And if there's one thing you've learned over the past several months, it's that things have a way of bubbling to the surface, no matter how hard someone tries to bury them.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, and the fight seems to go out of him. He closes the distance between the two of you and takes your arm, gently leading you into an alcove, out of view. You allow him to guide you, and he stops, turning to face you. His hands are still holding your arm, his grip firm and unyielding.

"This is what's bothering me," he says quietly.

"Me?" you ask, confused.

"No," he sighs, his hands tightening on your arm. "Yes. No."

Rex drops his hands and runs a hand through his hair, a look of frustration crossing his face.

"I don't know how to say it," he admits quietly, and his gaze falls to the floor, his brow furrowing. "There's so much going on, and I..."

He trails off, and you wait, giving him the space to sort through his thoughts. You can see the pain in his eyes, and you want to reach out and comfort him, to reassure him, but you stay still, giving him the time he needs.

"Rex, what is it?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light and encouraging. "Whatever it is, we can work it out. Together."

Rex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his gaze is fixed on the wall behind you, and his jaw is clenched. He looks almost...scared.

"It's just...what happened back there. After..." he trails off and takes another deep breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "What happened between us...was a mistake."

Your heart drops to your feet. You feel like someone's knocked the wind out of you, and you take a step back, the shock and pain washing over you in a wave. 

It takes all of your self control to keep your face neutral. The last thing you want is to make him feel bad about his feelings, but hearing those words stings. You knew you were pushing your luck, and the possibility of Rex having changed his mind was always there, but you hadn't thought it was actually the case.

You swallow the lump in your throat and square your shoulders, doing your best to look unaffected. The mask you’re used to wearing slips into place, and you can feel the walls coming up around your heart, blocking out the hurt and rejection.

"Oh," you manage to choke out, trying not to cringe at how hollow your voice sounds. "Okay. I'm...I'm sorry."

"No, no," Rex says quickly, taking a step toward you, and he reaches out and takes your hand. You pull away and cross your arms over your chest, and he drops his hand back to his side, a crestfallen look crossing his face. "Please, let me explain."

"You don't have to," you tell him, looking away. You're not sure how much more of this you can handle, and the last thing you want is for him to apologize. The last thing you want is for him to pity you.

"No, please," he insists, and he takes another step toward you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

You turn and look at him, and the pain and fear in his eyes is enough to make you pause. You nod, giving him permission to continue, and Rex lets out a shaky breath, his hand dropping back to his side.

"It's not...it's not because of you," he begins, his voice cracking. He swallows hard and continues, his eyes fixed on the ground, his tone quiet. "It's...everything. I care about you, cyar'ika. More than anyone. And I meant it, what I said to you. But..."

"But what?"

"This is wrong," he whispers. "Everything about this is wrong. It's...it's selfish and reckless and irresponsible, and I..."

"You regret it," you say, finishing the sentence for him, your heart sinking. "I understand."

"I don't," he says firmly. "That's not what I'm saying. I could never regret you. Please, just let me finish."

"There's nothing to say," you say, the mask cracking. You can't stand here and listen to him talk about the two of you like this. Your chest is tight, and it's getting harder and harder to breathe. "We were both under a lot of stress. It was a mistake, and it won't happen again."

"I don't want it to stop," Rex says, his voice rising slightly before he quickly looks around, his gaze darting up and down the hall, checking for anyone who might have overheard him. His tone drops again, and his voice shakes as he continues. "I care about you, and...and I love you, and I want to be with you, but..."

"But what?"

"But I can't," he says, the words coming out in a rush, his voice breaking. He looks down and takes a shaky breath, and his eyes meet yours. "We can't do this. We can't be together. It's not possible."

"Right," you nod, doing your best to hide the hurt, the disappointment. 

You should’ve known it was too good to be true, that someone as kind and wonderful as Rex would ever want someone like you. You should've realized it before the kiss, but your own stupidity blinded you, and now...

"I want to. I do. So much," Rex breathes. His hand cups your cheek, his fingers trembling against your skin. "More than anything. But it's...it's impossible."

"I see," you murmur.

"Cyar'ika," he says softly, and the pain in his eyes, the way his voice cracks, the way his hand trembles against your cheek, it breaks something inside of you. You feel like your heart is shattering, and you close your eyes, trying not to cry. "Look at me."

You shake your head, and his hand slips from your cheek. You take a deep breath and open your eyes, doing your best to keep your composure.

"It's okay," you say quietly, trying not to break. "I understand."

"Please," he whispers, and his voice cracks. He takes your hand in his and holds it tightly, his gaze boring into yours. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm just...I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" you ask hoarsely, your brows furrowed. You shake your head and take a step back. His hand falls away, and his shoulders slump. "From the Council? They don't need to know about this. About us. I'd never—"

"It's not the Council," he interrupts, and he glances down the corridor. You follow his gaze, and you both spot a droid approaching. Rex quickly pulls you deeper into the alcove, shielding you from view. The two of you wait until the droid passes, and he releases his grip on you, stepping back. "I'm trying to protect you from me."

"What are you talking about?" you demand, the hurt giving way to confusion.

"Look," he starts, and he turns away, running a hand over his head, his expression strained. "I can't...I can't give you what you want."

Your eyes narrow. "What is it you think I want?" 

"A life," he replies, turning back to face you. He lets out a shaky sigh, and his eyes lock with yours, the look in them so earnest, so desperate, it takes your breath away. "A future.”

"What does that mean?"

"It means...it means this can't be forever," Rex says, gesturing between the two of you. "You're a Jedi. I'm a clone. I'm not...I can't be what you need. I know you saw a future for us in that dream, and I know you want that. You deserve that. But...that's not going to happen. Not with me."

"Rex..." you sigh.

"I don't know how much time I have left," he says softly, his voice trembling. He's trying so hard to keep it together, to stay strong, but you can see the cracks forming in his facade, the pain and sorrow starting to leak through. "I could...I could die tomorrow. Or next week. Next month. I can't give you a life, and I can't promise you a future. Not one like the one you saw. All I can give you is now, and maybe not even that."

"Rex, that's not true," you say, stepping closer, but he moves away, putting distance between the two of you, as if he can't bear the thought of being close to you.

"Yes, it is," he says, his voice cracking. He glances up and down the corridor, his expression pained, and his eyes flicker to yours before darting away. "I'm sorry, but...this is the way it has to be. This is the only choice I can make."

"No."

"Cyar'ika—"

"No," you repeat, your voice rising. 

Your anger is threatening to spill over, and you take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You know it's not his fault, that he's just doing what he thinks is right, but the fact that Rex would give up so easily, without even trying, without fighting for the two of you, infuriates you. After everything, after all this time, he's just going to walk away?

"No?" Rex asks incredulously.

“It’s not the only choice, and you know it," you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You can feel the hurt starting to bleed through the cracks, and you fight to hold it back, to keep yourself from lashing out at him. "You're choosing to be alone, and to suffer alone, and that's not the only option."

"Maybe not, but it's the right one," he says, his eyes meeting yours, and you can see the pain and sadness reflected there. “It’s what’s best for you."

"Don't," you hiss, taking a step forward. He recoils slightly, his eyes widening, but you press on. "Don't do that. Don't try and tell me what I need or what's best for me. I've been listening to everyone telling me what to do and how to act for years, and I'm done with it. It's not the Council's place to decide what's best for me, and it's not yours, either."

"You know that's not what I'm doing," he murmurs.

"Yes, it is," you snap. "You think I don't know what the risks are? You think I don't understand that every single day could be the last, for either of us? I do. More than you realize.”

"Then why are you fighting me on this?" he demands, and he runs a hand over his head, letting out a sharp exhale. The pain in his eyes is like a knife in your chest. "If you know that, why would you want to risk it?"

"Because," you say, your voice wavering, the tears threatening to spill over, "it's worth it. Because I'm in love with you, Rex. And I don't care if it's selfish, or stupid, or reckless. I don't care about the consequences. I don't care if we only have a day left together, or a year, or a lifetime. All I care about is being with you."

The alcove falls silent save for the sound of your ragged breathing. You stare at each other, the air thick with emotion, and the tears in his eyes threaten to undo you. But underneath the pain, you can see the longing, the same desire that burns within you, and the sight fills you with hope.

"Do you hear yourself?" he whispers, and his eyes dart up and down the corridor, his voice low. "You can't mean that."

"I do," you reply, your voice softening. You take a step forward, your hands clasped in front of you. "I love you, and I'm not afraid. Not of anything. Not of the Council, or the Senate, or the war. Not even death. But the thought of losing you, of being apart from you...that's the scariest thing in the world. I don't care about the rest of it. All I care about is you, Rex."

Rex falls silent, his gaze fixed on the ground, and his shoulders sag. You reach out and take his hand, and he squeezes it tightly, his breathing shaky.

"There's no future without you," you whisper, your voice trembling. "What I saw...it was only worth dreaming about because you were there, too."

Rex looks up at you, his eyes wide, and a spark of hope flares within you. You can see it in his expression, in the way his gaze lingers on yours, and the way his hand tightens, as if he's afraid you'll slip away.

"You said you don't regret me," you continue, stepping closer, and you gently cup his cheek in your palm, the tears spilling down your cheeks. "Do you really believe that, or were you just trying to let me down easy?"

"I meant it," he says, his voice hoarse, and he leans into your touch, his hand resting on top of yours. "I've never regretted you, cyar'ika. Not for a second."

"Then what's changed?" you ask. "Why is it different now?"

"Nothing's changed," he murmurs, and he turns his head and presses a soft kiss to the center of your palm. "I'm still the same man, and my feelings for you are the same. Nothing could ever change that."

"Then why?"

"Because..." Rex trails off, and he takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because it's not fair. To either of us. To have something like that and know that it's going to end, that there's no chance of it lasting...it's not right. I don't want you to have to go through that."

You give him a sad smile and brush a stray tear from his cheek. He closes his eyes, his brow furrowing, and his grip on your hand tightens.

"And you think I would rather live with regret?" you ask, tilting your head to the side.

"What?"

"If something were to happen, if we were to lose each other," you say softly, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone, "do you think it would be better for me not to have had this? Not to have had you? Do you really believe that?"

"I..." Rex opens his eyes and stares at you, his gaze searching.

"Would you rather live with regret than take a chance?"

"No," he admits, his voice quiet. "I would never want that. Not for either of us."

"Then don't let that be the reason you choose," you say, leaning closer, your hand resting against his neck, and his pulse races beneath your fingers. "You're right. We don't know how much time we have, or what's going to happen. But that's the price of love. And the risk is worth it. To me, anyway."

Rex closes his eyes as he finds your hand, and he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a shuddering breath. When he opens his eyes again, the pain in his gaze takes your breath away. He squeezes your hand, his other hand coming up to cradle your face.

"You really want this?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yes," you breathe.

"Even knowing the risk?"

“Yes.”

"Cyar'ika," he whispers as the fight goes out of him, his shoulders sagging. His eyes glisten, his lower lip trembling. "You...I..."

"You can say it, you know," you murmur, and a small smile tugs at your lips. "If that's what you want."

Rex nods slowly, his gaze locked on yours. He swallows hard, and a tear spills down his cheek as he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your palm.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice cracking. You wait for him to continue, to deny his feelings, to try and push you away again, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "It's not fair. You know just what to say to get your way."

"It's not getting my way if we both want the same thing," you reply with a grin. "But if it helps..."

He laughs, a soft, rueful chuckle, and his smile grows, the warmth in his eyes sending a spark of joy through you.

"You're a terrible influence, cyar'ika," he sighs. His fingers tighten around yours, and he pulls you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. "The worst, really."

"And yet," you tease, sliding your arms around his neck, "here you are."

"Here I am," Rex agrees with a fond smile, and his hand slides up your back, pulling you closer. He ducks his head, his lips hovering over yours. "I love you, too, by the way. In case that wasn't clear."

"It was," you laugh.

You close the distance between the two of you, pressing your lips against his. He melts into the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you flush against him. The kiss is soft and gentle, a sweet press of his lips against yours. But the intensity of the emotions behind it, the way Rex holds you, as if he's afraid you'll disappear, leaves you breathless.

It’s hard to hold back, harder still to let him lead. The slow, almost hesitant way he kisses you, as if he's scared he'll break you, is almost unbearable. It takes every ounce of your self control not to deepen the kiss, not to push him against the wall and devour him.

Instead, you force yourself to let him take his time, his lips lingering on yours, his hands trailing down your back. He’s so gentle, so tender, and it almost hurts. But the pain is mixed with pleasure, and you can feel the heat spreading through your body, chasing away the chill in your bones.

Rex breaks the kiss and pulls back, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed, and he smiles a lazy, satisfied smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing over the spot where they'd been earlier, and he lingers there for a second, his breath hot against your skin.

"You have no idea how hard it's been," he breathes as his fingers trail up your spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, "keeping myself from doing that all this time."

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea," you grin, and he chuckles, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your hips. "Now that I've started, it's going to be difficult to stop."

"Then don't," you smirk. You press a kiss to his jaw, the stubble scratching your lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rex smiles and leans into the kiss, his lips ghosting over your cheek. He tilts your chin up and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose before slotting his lips against yours again. This time, he's a little more insistent, a little less hesitant, pulling you closer as he kisses you, and a rush goes through you at the realization that he's starting to let go, to allow himself this. You press closer, and he lets out a pleased hum, smiling against your lips.

The two of you stand there for a while, the quiet broken by the occasional giggle or whispered promise, and you revel in the feeling of being close to him, the way he holds you, the way his hands wander, exploring every inch of you. He touches you reverently, as if you're made of glass, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns across your skin, and it's so sweet, so tender, so perfect, that it leaves you breathless.

Finally, Rex breaks the kiss and lifts his head, and he brushes a stray tear drying on your cheek.

"It doesn't change anything," he sighs. "The risks are still there. There are rules, and the Council..."

"Fuck the Council," you mutter, and his eyes widen, a startled laugh escaping his lips.

"Cyar'ika," he scolds, but his tone is amused, and the corners of his lips are turning upward. "You're a Jedi, and a general."

"Sorry," you apologize, laughing, and you press a kiss to his cheek. "But seriously. Screw all of it. We've been dancing around this for months, Rex. Months. And the war's just getting worse. I don't know how much time we have. So, can we please just...forget about the rules and the consequences and everything else for a second, and focus on the fact that we love each other? Can't we just have that? Please?"

Rex chuckles softly and shakes his head, his arms tightening around you, and he gives you a tender smile.

"For once, I agree with you," he says, and he tilts your chin up and kisses you, slow and sweet, his lips soft against yours. "Just this once."

"I'll mark the occasion on my calendar," you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

"You and I both know you don't have one of those," he snorts.

"I could get one," you reply, shrugging. "My first entry. Today, Captain Rex admitted he's wrong about something."

"I did not," he huffs, his brow furrowing, and he leans back and gives you a stern look. "Don't put that on there."

"Yes, you did," you insist, grinning. You press a kiss to his cheek and step back, and his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you close again. "You said I was right, and that we should just ignore all the rules and focus on us."

"Well, that's not..." He starts, and he stops, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, fine. You were right. But we need to talk about this, and the risks involved."

"We will," you assure him. "Right now, I just want to enjoy this. Just for a little while."

Rex looks at you, his gaze soft, and he nods. "Okay. We can do that. But we can't keep this a secret forever. Sooner or later, people are going to find out, and..."

"One step at a time," you interrupt, and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He relaxes slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "So?”

"So," he repeats, a grin pulling at his lips. "We're really doing this?"

"I mean, unless you're having second thoughts," you tease, and he laughs, his breath tickling your cheek.

"No," he answers, cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Not at all."

You smile and press a kiss to his palm, and he lets out a soft sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.

"I love you," Rex murmurs. "And...and I'm willing to risk whatever comes next, as crazy as it sounds. If that's what you want."

"I do." You lean into his touch and grin. "This is all I want."

"Me too," he says, his eyes opening, and the adoration and love in his gaze is almost overwhelming. The smile on his face is infectious, and you can't hold back a grin. "We're really doing this. We're together."

"We're together," you repeat as you bounce a bit, unable to contain your excitement. You throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and he lets out a startled laugh.

"Easy," he laughs, but he pulls you close, holding you tightly. The motion tugs at your wound, and a hiss of pain escapes your lips before you can stop it. Rex quickly releases you, his eyes wide, his hands hovering near your injury. "Kriff. I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you wince. "I'm fine. It's not bad. Just a bit tender."

He studies you for a second before he lets out a sigh and drops his hands. He steps back and looks around, his eyes sweeping over the corridor, checking for any possible prying eyes or ears.

"I should get you back," he says, turning back to you with a solemn expression. "It's getting late, and you need to rest."

"Can't we stay like this a little longer?" you ask, and you grab the front of his armor, pulling him in for a quick kiss. "We don't get many opportunities like this."

"As tempting as that is," Rex sighs as he extricates himself from your grasp and steps back, "no. We've already pushed our luck enough tonight."

You sigh and nod, and he takes your hand and leads you back toward the medical wing. The two of you walk in silence, your shoulders brushing, and the occasional smile passes between you. You can't wipe the grin from your face, and every time you look at him, his eyes are locked on yours, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.

Rex is in love with you.

He wants to be with you, and he's willing to break the rules for the chance. It's more than you'd ever hoped for. And if the two of you have to hide it, if it has to be a secret, well, you're used to secrets. Besides, you can think of worse things than sneaking around with him, stealing kisses and spending stolen nights together.

As you walk, your pace slows, and you drift closer to him. Exhaustion is beginning to seep into your limbs, and you find yourself leaning into him, letting him take your weight. The cocktail of medication Wise has been pumping into you has been keeping you awake and alert, but after the physical and emotional toll the day has taken on you, your body is starting to give out.

You blink, trying to clear the fog from your eyes, and you stumble slightly. Rex immediately grabs your arm, steadying you, and you lean against him.

"Alright?" he asks, concern evident in his tone.

"Mhm. Tired," you mumble. You stifle a yawn, rubbing your eyes.

"Almost there," he says gently, his hand sliding around your waist and pulling you closer, supporting some of your weight. "You should've told me you were exhausted."

"Wasn't until now," you say, the words coming out slurred. "I was having fun."

"Fun, huh?" he chuckles, and the rumble in his chest vibrates through you.

"Yeah. I like spending time with you."

"I like spending time with you, too," he replies. Rex looks around before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head. "We'll do it again. Soon."

"When?" you ask, your eyelids fluttering. You feel like you're about to pass out, but you force yourself to stay awake, wanting to spend as much time with him as you can.

Rex pulls you to a stop, steadying you as you sway on your feet, and he looks you over. You must look a sight, because his eyes soften, and he shakes his head and sighs.

"C'mere."

You let out a gasp as the world blurs around you, and you're lifted into the air. Rex scoops you up in his arms, one arm around your back, the other hooked under your legs, and he holds you against him, cradling you to his chest. He continues walking, and you blink, staring up at him.

"What're you doing?" you ask, confusion lacing your voice. "I can walk.”

"No, you can't," he snorts. "You're barely upright."

"Still," you grumble, struggling halfheartedly.

"Stop squirming," he says. He ducks his head, and a kiss brushes against your hair. "I've got you."

"Rex," you groan, closing your eyes and leaning into him. Your head is spinning, and you can't keep your eyes open any longer.

"Cyar'ika," Rex sighs, and you can hear the exasperation in his voice. "How about this. If you stop fighting me, and you listen to Wise and actually rest until we get to Coruscant, we'll do something together. Anything. Your choice."

"Anything?" you ask, opening one eye and looking up at him.

"Yes. Anything."

"And it's a date?"

Rex laughs, a soft, gentle laugh, and he looks down at you, a smile tugging at his lips.

"If that's what you want," he says, his voice warm and affectionate. "It's a date."

"Okay," you murmur. You snuggle closer, letting out a contented sigh, and let your eyes fall shut. "Can we eat at Dex's?"

"Of course," he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Good," you mumble, and you drift off to the steady, soothing rhythm of his heart beating against your ear.

The next thing you know, you're being lowered onto a bed, and you let out a sigh, blinking open your eyes. Rex is leaning over you, and he smiles as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You're about to ask him to stay when your eyes shift over his shoulder to find Wise staring at the two of you. The clone medic stands a respectful distance away, his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

"Don't be mad," you plead.

"Oh, I'm not mad," Wise retorts, rolling his eyes. "I'm pissed. Because I told you specifically to not move around, and you did the exact opposite."

"She just needed to stretch her legs," Rex interjects. You try not to look too pleased at him coming to your defense despite his own reservations about the situation, but you’re sure you’re failing. "You've got her cooped up in here. And she's getting bored. She needed a change of scenery."

"So she decides to go for a stroll," Wise says with a snort, and he moves to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder and pressing you back against the mattress. "And has Dash lie for her."

"That was Booker's idea," you argue. You try to push him away, but your movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, and you end up waving your hand lazily in the air instead. "Not my fault."

"Uh huh," Wise drawls, his gaze flicking over to Rex, who has taken a seat beside the bed. "And you thought that was a good idea?"

"Well," Rex starts, his voice hesitant. He clears his throat and straightens his posture, folding his hands in his lap. "Not particularly. But I thought it was a good sign. That she's getting restless."

"It's a good sign, alright," Wise grumbles, and he reaches for a scanner, holding it above you. It emits a high-pitched beeping noise, and a holographic screen appears, displaying your vitals.

"There's nothing wrong with me," you complain, crossing your arms over your chest and slouching against the pillow, your bottom lip jutting out.

"Your vitals would disagree," Wise says. He pokes your shoulder. "Stop pouting. It doesn't work on me."

"I'm not pouting," you mutter.

"Looks like a pout to me, General," Rex chimes in, and you shoot him a glare.

"You're supposed to be on my side," you say accusingly.

"And I am," he replies. He shrugs. "Just being honest."

"See? At least someone here is," Wise scoffs as he runs a handheld scanner across the length of your body. You squirm at the tingling sensation, and he gives you a sharp look, his brows furrowing. "Would you sit still?"

"I'm going crazy in here," you sigh, slumping back against the bed.

"Then don't run around and make it worse," Wise grumbles. His fingers press lightly against the bandage around your ribs, and you bite your lip, holding back a whimper as the pain flares through you. "How's the pain? Scale of one to ten."

"A three," you lie, and he arches an eyebrow, giving you a pointed look.

"Really."

"Maybe a four," you concede.

"Alright," Wise says, his expression softening. "Well, the good news is that you didn't rip any of the sutures."

"Told you," you say, shooting him a smug look. "You didn't even need to scan me."

"And the bad news," Wise continues, ignoring your comment, "is that you're exhausted, and your little stunt has set back your recovery by a couple days. Which means more bacta and a whole lot more rest."

"Fine," you huff, sinking lower into the bed, and Wise rolls his eyes.

"Which means no more going for walks," he warns.

You open your mouth to protest, but Rex catches your gaze. He raises his eyebrows and gives you a pointed look, and, remembering his promise, you close your mouth. A smile spreads across your face, and his lips quirk up into a grin.

"No more walks," you confirm, nodding solemnly.

"Good," Wise says, his tone clipped. He gives you a hard look, his eyes darting between the two of you, and his head tilts slightly. "What's that look for?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, shaking your head. You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at Wise. "What look?"

"That's not a nothing look," Wise replies, and he gestures toward Rex, who's doing his best to remain neutral, though you can see the slight flush to his cheeks. "Something's going on. What is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rex says. He shrugs and shifts in his seat. "We were just...talking. The General promised me she'd stay put. And she will."

"Uh huh," Wise mutters, and he studies the two of you for a second longer before letting out a sigh. He shakes his head and gives you a stern look. "Get some rest. And don’t move."

"Yes sir," you say, smirking.

"Funny," he drawls. He turns and jerks his head toward the curtain. "Captain, a word?"

"Sure," Rex says, rising to his feet. He glances at you, and his eyes linger, a warm, tender look on his face. You can tell what he wants to say, what he wants to do, and you wish Wise would hurry up and leave so he could. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," you say, smiling. “Bye Rex.”

His lips curve up into a small, shy grin. “Bye.”

"Alright, that's enough," Wise grumbles, and he pulls the curtain aside and ushers Rex through, giving you a stern look as he does. "Stay. Put."

"I will," you sigh. You wave a hand in the air, gesturing for him to leave. He gives you a final glare before pulling the curtain closed behind him.

As soon as the fabric settles, your shoulders slump. The fatigue is catching up with you, threatening to drag you under, and the last bit of fight left in you is fleeing quickly. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to suppress the pain flaring in your ribs. Maybe wandering the halls of the Oracle wasn't such a good idea after all.

"She okay?"

"She will be," Wise sighs. His voice is low, and the tone is one you haven’t heard him use often. He's worried. "She needs rest. And less excitement."

"I know. Sorry," Rex mutters. "I shouldn't have encouraged it."

"I'm glad you did," he admits softly. "As karking annoying as it is, it's good to see her smiling again. And you're probably the one person she'll actually listen to."

"Yeah, well. It took some convincing," Rex chuckles. "But she promised to behave."

"And how did you manage to convince her of that?" Wise asks. There's a hint of suspicion in his tone, and no small amount of amusement, and you hold your breath, waiting for Rex's response.

"She's tired," Rex replies, and you let out a silent breath, grateful for his quick thinking. "And I've been around her enough to know how to handle her."

"Handle her," Wise repeats, his voice full of disbelief. "Right. Like a feral tooka."

"More like a..." Rex pauses. You can hear the smile in his voice, the affection evident, and your heart skips a tiny, traitorous little flutter, "a nexu. Dangerous, if cornered."

Wise snorts. "And you're not scared of being on the wrong end of her claws?"

"Nah. Not anymore," Rex replies, and you feel your cheeks warm. "I know how to get out of the way."

"Lucky for us," Wise mutters, and the two men chuckle. Their footsteps move away from your bed, and they settle on the far side of the room. "So. You want to tell me why you've really been in here every night since the incident?"

"What are you talking about?" Rex asks, his tone carefully neutral.

"I'm talking about you sitting here with her, watching her sleep," Wise drawls, and your eyes widen. You didn't know Rex did that, and the thought sends a thrill through you. "Or do you want to try and tell me it's because you're just a good friend and a dutiful Captain?"

Rex is silent for a minute, and the anxiety twists in your stomach, worry beginning to set in. You know it's ridiculous to be concerned. Wise knows how to keep a secret, and he would never go out of his way to report either of you for this. But a part of you is terrified if he pushes the issue, Rex will realize he's made a mistake and pull back.

"Is it that obvious?" Rex asks quietly, and your worry melts away, relief flooding through you.

"Only to me," Wise replies. He lets out a sigh, and there's a creak as one of the chairs in the room shifts. "Well, and to Booker and a few of the others. But I doubt anyone else suspects anything. Not unless you've been careless."

"I haven't," Rex assures him. He's silent for a second, and the chair creaks again. "What gave it away?"

"Oh, I don't know," Wise snorts. "Maybe the fact that the two of you can't be in the same room without touching and gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. Or maybe it's the way you talk about her. Or the fact that you've barely left her side since the day she was brought in here."

"Yeah, yeah," Rex mutters, clearing his throat. You can imagine the flush spreading across his face, and the image sends a smile across your face. "Guess I'm not as subtle as I thought."

"Oh, you're subtle," Wise says, and the amusement is clear in his tone. "To an outsider. But to me? You're about as subtle as a Hutt. I've been watching the two of you since Kamino. It was just a matter of time before something happened."

"Watching us?"

"Keeping an eye on you, is more like it," Wise clarifies. He lets out a heavy sigh. "Listen. I don't know the specifics, and I'm not going to ask. Force knows I don't want to know the details. But I'm not blind, or stupid. I know there's something between the two of you."

"Yeah," Rex says softly, his voice thick with emotion, and he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. "There is."

"It's none of my business," Wise continues, his tone softer, "and I'm not going to tell anyone. I just...don't…” He sighs. “Be careful with her. Please. She's...she's like family. I don't want to see her get hurt."

The room falls silent, and your breath catches in your throat. You can't help but be touched by his words, by his concern for you. He's always been protective, especially after Nadiem, but this is the first time he's openly admitted his feelings to someone else. It warms your heart, and the ache in your chest isn't entirely from the wound.

"I don't want to hurt her," Rex says, his voice barely a whisper. "Ever. I love her. More than anything. I'd die before I let that happen."

"Good," Wise replies gruffly. He clears his throat, and you hear the chair scrape against the floor as he stands, a grunt escaping his lips. "Because if you do..."

"I know," Rex says, and you can hear the amusement in his tone. "You'll kick my ass."

"No," he corrects. There's an edge to his voice, a coldness that sends a shiver down your spine. "I'll kill you."

The threat lingers in the air, hanging heavily over the two of them. You don't doubt that Wise would make good on his promise. In fact, you're fairly certain that he'd succeed. 

You sit up to listen closer, wincing at the pain flaring through your side. The movement causes the bed to creak and groan, and you freeze, your eyes trained on the curtain. You wait for several beats, holding your breath, until Wise speaks.

"Good talk, Captain. Glad we're on the same page," he announces, his voice full of false cheer. You hear him clap a hand on Rex's shoulder. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got rounds to finish."

"Right. Of course," Rex says, and you can picture the way he's nodding his head, his lips pursed in a tight line. "Thanks. For, uh...being understanding. About all of this."

"Like I said," Wise drawls as his footsteps start moving toward the curtain, "it's none of my business. Just do me a favor."

"Yeah?"

"Get better at lying," Wise says, his voice dry. "Or we're going to have a problem on our hands. A big one."

"Right," Rex replies wearily. "I'll...work on that."

You lie back and close your eyes as Rex's footsteps grow quieter, and the door to the medbay hisses open and shut. When they're gone, you let out a sigh and sink into the pillows, your eyes fluttering shut. The conversation was...well, surprising. And enlightening.

You weren't aware Wise knew about your feelings for Rex, or his feelings for you. But the fact that he's not going to say anything, that he's willing to risk his own neck to keep the two of you safe, it's...well, it's touching. And more than a little surprising.

The curtain shifts, Wise's familiar presence approaching your bedside, and you try to keep your breathing even as he pulls the sheets up around your shoulder and adjusts the pillows. You can't quite hide the grin though, and he sighs as he pulls away.

"Knew it," he grumbles.

You peek open one eye and find him staring down at you, his arms folded across his chest, his brow arched.

"What was that about?" you ask innocently.

"Nothing," Wise says. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and his eyes glint. "Just a friendly chat between brothers. Don't worry about it."

"Uh huh," you murmur. You yawn, and he turns and heads back toward the curtain. "Wise?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks," you say softly. You turn your head, watching him. "For not saying anything."

"You know I'd never betray you like that," he says as he looks over his shoulder, his gaze serious. "Never."

"I know," you say, and you give him a small, reassuring smile. "But thanks, anyway. You're a good brother."

Wise blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and he turns away. You can see a flush starting to spread across his cheeks as he pauses at the curtain. Finally, he shakes his head and steps through, yanking it closed behind him, leaving you alone in the darkness.

"Good night, cabur'ika."

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[valgeristik]

DA ocs compilation <3 (zevran and davrin are also there)

drew these all at different times with different levels of energy available and it shows. but regardless. Noel is right and she should say it!!!

Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List

E-sims donation

[vikdec4i]

Heyo it’s me, I’m here to ruin ya day

Thoughts on Mitzi and Mordecai’s parallels and how desperate they are to find answers about Altas’s death?

mordecai heller and mitzi may: a piece on grieving.

FIRST of all, i apologise that this response took a very long time to cook up. i wanted it to be as fleshed out as possible because i do have a lot to say in this regard. the train of thought initially departed because of the widespread misunderstanding around mitzi’s character. to which i thought to myself: well it’s strange that people can easily extend their empathy towards mordecai, who (to me) has undoubtedly done worse. but what’s even worse is that, if you really look closely— if we made a venn diagram for these two, there’s a large chunk of overlap between them.

(p.s. now that i am proofreading all of this i realise its a bit different from what you asked but nonetheless i hope it captures the complex nature of grief as a theme in lackadaisy, especially when discussing the parallels between mitzi and mordecai)

so let’s break it down.

if someone wanted to read lackadaisy and asked me if there were any main themes that circled around the story— i would say: grief. more specifically, the consequences of untapped grief. mean the story itself starts off with the mysterious and brutal death of atlas may, who was THE big cat behind the lackadaisy. atlas himself was an enigma, and i have mentioned this before in another post. his position within the story bears a lot of similarities to rose quartz as they play the ghastly spouse that haunts the narrative.

however, this is not about atlas, but instead the two people that served as his vessel after his passing:

his wife, mitzi, and his right-hand man, mordecai.

instead of dissecting this theme individually, finding the differences between the two, i thought it would do the analysis more justice to extract it directly from the source material itself. initially i wanted to talk about how this grieving bleeds out onto others around them (e.g. mitzi forging a check from wick, mordecai kneecapping viktor).

let’s take “hamstring” and “monomania” for example, as they both converse over asa’s claims at their lunch. but if you really think about it, it was never about that.

this scene embodies a power struggle between the two. for one, mitzi’s mentions of mordecai’s “obsession” as a deflection. she sees his rigid loyalty as both a flaw and a threat. by framing mordecai as overly fixated, she’s able to position herself as the more pragmatic party who is trying to keep afloat. which is true and mitzi, rightfully, views mordecai as a “relentless former associate.” his meticulous nature, his refusal to let go of the past, and his allegiance to ideals that no longer align with business’ survival paints him as the wildcard to her. then again, it’s hard to take empty words from someone that had abandoned the very concept he claims to protect.

that’s not to say mordecai doesn’t return the sentiment, because he very much does. to him, mitzi’s pragmatism looks more like opportunism, evident in her willingness to bend rules, and in his perspective, betray atlas’ vision to keep the business alive. while she plays the capable leader, that imagery clashes with his perception of her as someone who lacks discipline— possibly bred by the history that mordecai knows her to be atlas’ wife and nobody more. he sees mitzi as culpable in the lackadaisy’s downfall and he makes sure she knows this.

but at the end of the day, they are having this conversation inside the same car. while one might interpret this being the main divergence between the two, we can see a striking commonality in which they are failed actors starring in roles they never wanted.

what do i mean by this? while the dont outwardly acknowledge it, grief survives in this scenario as a subtext. you can tell by the use of dialogue. mitzi’s sarcastic tone and pointed remarks, almost shoving the spotlight towards mordecai, suggests a stage of denial and pain that comes with her grieving over atlas. remember what mordecai said to mitzi in response?

“losses are endemic to this business. you’ve brought them on yourself in your persistence… as though you could bring the remains of atlas’ estate to anything but further disgrace.”

his crticisim of mitzi isn’t just about the state of the lackadaisy, in fact, mordecai subconsciously targets himself for his own inability to move on. mordecai and mitzi are different people, that is no question. but this scene serves as a great analogy that this conversation could very much be happening in their heads. this is a conversation not between two people but between one and oneself.

here’s also another thing to note: their seating arrangement.

whether or not tracy meant for this to be intentional, there’s a lot you can take in this scene in regards to their character. mitzi sits in the passenger seat at the front, where the light is more prominent. it symbolises her active role as the current face of the lackadaisy and the one taking on visible responsibility for its perseverance. however, note that she is still in the passenger seat, not the driver’s— mitzi is losing control, she is struggling to move forward in the wake of atlas’ passing. but she’s still not fully in charge of its trajectory, think of how asa and mordecai looks down on her current position.

occasionally, she’d glance back at mordecai to speak, which definitely shows her discomfort and mistrust towards him, she’s unwilling to fully confront him. and in my opinion, not only does this reveal her vulnerability, this also shows her internal discontent.

mordecai, on the other hand, is sitting behind her (literally AND metaphorically) in the shadows. he sits in the back, detached from the lackadaisy but not completely. he observes mitzi from behind, his direct vision fixed on the back of her head, almost as if he’s reflecting on her choices and her struggles— perhaps… confronted with his own betrayal.

plus, if you’re thinking: what about the holes in the windows? GREAT question. despite how they want to present themselves, be it independent (mitzi) or calculated (mordecai), they’re both incredibly vulnerable individuals.

as they sit in this confined space together, they breathe in the air of their inescapable bond and mutual dependence. their dynamic equal parts antagonistic and deeply intertwined.

[deathshallbethelastenemy]

i'm crazier for you (4)

TEEN!gojo x FEM!reader (soulmate AU)

No warnings just fluff, unless bad words and a little tussle is worthy of TW⚠️!

1. what you see, i see

2. where you go, i go

3. you know i adore

She knew she should've asked him before he left yesterday, if he wanted to go to the school festival with her today. Now, she was looking at an unsent text massage she typed in the morning.

_____._: if you're not busy do you want to come to the school festival with me? It's okay if you can't I know you're busy with training and missions and curses, so if you have time, i'd love it if you stop by.

She couldn't send it. Everytime she read it, it sounded more awkward. Worse, she sounded desperate and she was not desperate. No matter how pretty Gojo Satoru was. Instead, she texted Geto Suguru, surely his best friend knew if he was busy.

_____._: Hello! I just wanted to ask if you knew if Satoru's busy today? I wanted to invite him to the festival. If you're not busy too I'd be great if you'd come. Shoko too!

This turned out to be another unsent message. Texting his best friend somehow reeked of more desperation, not to mention, he would no doubt show Satoru the messages. The thought alone made her want to drown in embarrassment.

There'd be other festivals for her to invite him to. Festivals where she would ask him to go with her with ample time.

No, yes, no - she should just ask him. The worst thing he could say was no, right?

Just as she was going to press send, someone tapped her shoulder from behind.

Ito Haruki, student council treasurer.

She flipped her phone closed, "What's up?"

Haruki smiled nervously, "I wanted to know if you wanted to go to the festival with me. I mean you're not dating that guy, right?"

Her heart leapt to her throat. She wasn't dating Satoru. She and him were just friends - friends who cuddled and held hands and kissed each others cheeks and foreheads. Friends who had consistent midnight rendezvous of him teleporting into her room just to see her - it was easier than sneaking him.

She remembered when her mom almost caught her sneaking him into the bakery, she had to push him under a table. The grin that was plastered on his face that whole night as they snuck in pastries from downstairs into her room. Their hushed whispers as they ate until their sweet tooth was satisfied, which for her soulmate, was never ending. She had to stop him before he ate the entire store up and started bouncing off the walls. Satoru teleporting in her room was efficient as well as an efficient way to sneak out of her room without her mother noticing.

The coffee nights were the best. His was always far too sweet and looked more like milk with the amount of creamer he put on his coffee. Their midnight walks where he would give her his jacket because she got too cold. Those same walks, he would sneak his hands under her sweatshirt to keep warm, until finally, they would warp back into her room and fall asleep in each other's arms.

But they weren't dating - Oh, who was she kidding, they were practically dating.

"You mean Satoru?" Still, she shouldn't lie and it was her decision to go slow, "He's my friend," but she didn't want to see anyone else, so she quickly added, "but we are talking about being something more."

Haruki's smile dropped, "So it's like that."

Her phone buzzed in her hand:

1 TEXT MESSAGE from Gojo Satoru

Gojo.S: something more huh? ;)

How long has he been watching what she was doing? Had he seen that embarrassing text message? She hoped not. She quickly backspaced her old text message and typed:

____._: stalker :/

"Is that him?" Haruki said behind her.

She flipped her phone closed again, "Uh, yeah."

"You smile alot around him," he said, "why aren't you dating him already?"

Her phone buzzed again.

"Well," she said, "we're taking things slow, you know, starting as friends."

Another buzz.

Haruki's gaze was full of disappointment but he left her alone and moved on to another girl.

Buzz- She looked at her phone.

3 TEXT MESSAGES from Gojo Satoru

Gojo.S: :'(

Gojo.S: when are you gonna send me that text???

So he had seen it.

Gojo.S: tell that guy that I'm not afraid to fight >:(

She giggled and typed:

____._: stop stalking me :|

____._: soooooo are you free?

She waited in baited breath for his next text.

Gojo.S: free for what :)

He was the absolute worst.

____._: do you want to come to the festival with me?

Two seconds...

Gojo.S: idk i mean it is pretty last minute

She smirked.

____._: that's okay. i'm sure Geto, Nanami and Haibara are free :)

Gojo.S: >:O

Gojo.S: so that's how it is now

She didn't answer and she flipped her phone close. Now, she was hoping he was watching.

Buzz. Ignored.

Buzz. Ignored.

Buzz. Ignored.

Buzz. Ignored.

Satoru opened his eyes and stared at his phone in shock. He sent another text- nothing. He poked his best friend's cheek annoyingly.

Suguru poked his cheek back harshly, "What," poke, "do" poke, "you", poke, "want?"

Satoru shoved his phone in Suguru's face.

Suguru laughed. He actually laughed at him as buzz came from his phone. He slid it open:

____._: wanna come to my school's festival today? i already texted Shoko, she said yes. I don't have Nanami's # or Haibara's # can you invite them for me?

Suguru grinned, "Guess who just texted me?"

Satoru whirled his head to him and lunged for him, "Give it to me!"

Suguru narrowly evaded his tackle as he typed:

Geto.S: sure, we'll be there

It was only a matter of time before Satoru tackled him to the ground and ripped the phone off his hands. He tumbled to the ground as Satoru's infinity keeping him safe from Suguru's curses.

"I can't believe she actually asked you!" Satoru flipped his phone and started to press the buttons furiously.

Suguru chuckled underneath him, "You should've just said yes when she asked you." He got his hands free from Satoru's hold and landed a double hit on his torso making him double over in pain, "and that's what you get for letting your infinity down."

He picked up his phone from the ground.

1 TEXT MESSAGE from ____ ______

____._: see you later :D

Satoru grabbed him by his pant leg, "Tell her to invite me!"

Suguru smiled in the way that he always had - one that seemed soft and genuine, "No," and slid the door shut on Satoru's hand. The door stopped right before it crushed his hand- Satoru had just turned on his infinity at the knick of time.

Satoru reached for his phone on the floor and stared at the small screen willing his soulmate to text him back.

He closed his eyes and focused. It didn't take much for him to be able to see everything she saw or hear her surroundings. Seeing through her eyes doesn't stop his six eyes from working. It was suppressed to a point where he could and couldn't see curses like he was seeing through two different lenses. It was jarring at first, but he was used to it now.

She was taking notes from her textbook.

He frowned. Suguru was right he should've just said yes.

Satoru doubted Suguru would do anything but he wanted to spend time with her alone in front of her classmates like a real boyfriend. That's where they were headed he knew that but he'd very much like their relationship to be official. He supposed she was making him work for it. He had said some pretty awful things before they met knowing she was watching. Then he died-ish and while he was up in the clouds feeling like he could take on the world - she was alone and full of sorrow. Fear and pride were keeping her from taking the plunge. All he had to do was keep at it and not fuck up.

He flipped his phone closed. He fucked up. Not too badly, though. It was a minor fuck up, nothing, he couldn't fix.

He fixed his sunglasses to cover his eyes completely. Not being invited to events has never stopped him before and it won't stop him now. He had an hour to think of a game plan, but just in case, he called her.

Her phone rang as she walked to the library to ensure that it was locked before people started showing up. She hadn't meant to ignore it. She was going to answer it, truly. She was only teasing him before, but one of her underclassmen needed her help. How could she possibly refuse? And she had meant to call him back but with the last minute preparations and the teachers not wanting to oversee anything meant it was all on her. By the time, she got around to calling him people were already rolling in and she had to greet them.

All she could do was hope that Satoru would show up today, even if she didn't explicitly invite him.

She smiled and waved at classmates and other guests. She smiled brightly when she saw Shoko and Suguru arrive with Nanami and Haibara, only for her smile to slip a little when she didn't see a fluff of white hair towering over them.

Suguru lagged behind to talk to her, "You seem a little disappointed." A soft smile played on his lips, "Upset Satoru didn't show up?"

Pink dusted her cheeks, "No- I mean, yes." She sighed, "It's my fault. I had meant to call him right after, but all of this," she gestured to the school, "got in the way and I forgot."

More people shook her hand and waved.

"Do you have to do this the whole time?" Suguru asked.

She looked at her watch, "Just for twenty more minutes."

Another handshake from a stranger.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Suguru grab a male student from the scruff of his neck and took off his school blazer from him. The student looked at him and seemed like he was about to say something to him, but one daring look from Suguru and he had left without a word.

He quickly replaced his jujutsu tech jacket with the school uniform blazer, "Go, call him." Suguru whispered in her ear, "I've got it from here."

"Are you sure?" She said, "This is my responsibility and-"

"It's fine," he smiled, "I didn't steal this blazer for nothing."

Smiling, she hugged him. "Thank you, Geto. You're the best." She squeezed his arm gently before leaving to call Satoru.

With her phone pressed to ear she waited for him to answer. What if he didn't answer? What if he was angry with her? Seven rings later and the phone went to voicemail. Her heart sank a little but she called again.

No answer.

Satoru usually answered at the first call, even when he was on missions. He must be angry with her. Calling again would probably only annoy him further, or get him to be more upset with her. She thought about texting him but what would her message say: I'm sorry I invited all your friends and not you because of a teasing comment you made.

She went too far this time. She shouldn't have invited everyone and excluded him. She should start the text message with that, so she started typing.

A hearty laugh snapped her out of her message. Suguru's laugh.

She paled. Oh God, he was laughing at someone. She would get in trouble for sure. She quickly moved to apologize for his rudeness (despite what Geto Suguru claimed, him and Satoru were best friends for a reason), and saw a mountain of an oversized pokemon Eevee plushie locked in someone's both arms overcrowding the school entrance.

She pinched Suguru as she helped the poor person get inside the school, "I apologize for my friend's lack of manners." She smiled nervously, "He didn't mean to laugh." She shot him a pointed look, "Right, Geto?"

"Yes, I did." Suguru chuckled, "Satoru looks ridiculous."

Satoru poked his head on the side of the large Eevee and flashed her a wide grin. Extending the plushie in his arms and with a teasing tilt in his voice, he asked, "Aren't you glad I'm here?"

She took the pokemon plushie from him. She loved Eevee.

She leapt his arms, "I really am glad you're here," she grinned up at him, "and not just because of Eevee."

Satoru's grin widened, "I know, I know, I know, I'm great."

She tip-toed and kissed his cheek. He let out a satisfied hum as he rested his head on top of hers to look at his best friend.

"Suguru," Satoru said, "what are you doing?"

"Greeting," Suguru gently smiled at passersby's and gave them warm soft-spoken welcomes.

Shit, she forgot he was there.

She handed Eevee back to Satoru, "Geto, I can do the rest." She said as she took his place at the entrance, "Thank you again for helping me." She waved to them both, "I'll catch up in a few more minutes. Have fun!"

Satoru's smile faded, "How many minutes?"

"Welcome," she told one of her classmates and then turned to Satoru, "Just a few."

"But-"

Suguru yanked him by his collar.

"Ow!"

She couldn't help but laugh.

The festival was looking to be a great day.

Gojo: *bullying a teacher*

Shoko: *smoking*

Geto: *trying to hide the smoke coming from the classroom Shoko's in*

Nanami: why are we here?

Haibara: bc it's fun :D *pops balloons in a dart game*

Let me know if I missed anyone!!

Part 5: baby, you're the life of the party

Part 6: something's made your eyes go cold

@phoenix666stuff @96jnie @mr-underhills-things @whatamidoing89 @wbad-world @ancientimes @whippedbyikemen @sammyiguess @pumpkindudeishere @witchofthecoffee @arminswifee (there was a problem with this one it would not let me tag you 😭)

Part 5 will probably be the aftermath of the KFC break up scene, if not then Gojo's birthday when he turns 17 in December

[schoolchaos]

Mythology and history based musicals are my true love.

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Bartender Phantom x Regular Swiss because i need to write them so bad.

"Hey, Phantom !"

From their place behind the bar, they huff, trying to smother a smile as they turn toward the man calling out for them. The booming voice is unmistakeable, Phantom would know it everywhere ; it's no surprise to find Swiss leaning against the bar, braced on his elbows, dark eyes crinkling in the corners with the width of his smile. The man hasn't shrugged his leather jacket off yet, having made a beeline for Phantom the second he caught sight of them.

"Swiss," Phantom hums in answer, trying to come off as disinterested even as they stop wiping glasses to give him their full attention. Swiss drums his fingers on the countertop, teasingly close to where Phantom's hand lays.

"You comin' to see the game tonight ?"

Phantom shrugs, glancing at where Swiss' group of friends are settling at their usual table. As some of their longest regulars, they pratically own it.

"Don't know, not a huge fan of hockey."

"Come on," Swiss playfully sighs, letting the last word drag on for longer than strictly necessary, "it'll be fun. I know some of the players, and even Rainy's coming, right, tadpole ?"

Rain, who had started making Swiss' order whithout even having to ask, winks at him.

"You bet I am. Ifrit's playing, right ? He's a vision on the ice."

Swiss hums in answer, eyes still trained on Phantom, his hand drifting to brush the inside of their wrist, voice lowering.

"C'mon. I'll give you a lift. Bring you back home like a proper gentleman."

And Phantom can act as nonchalent as they want, there is no denying the pull Swiss has on them, the way his touch sends sparks under their skin. They lean forward, helplessly, drinking in the easy charm oozing from the man.

"Right. I know how those things end."

Swiss tilts his head, grabbing the drink Rain slides toward him without ever looking away.

"And how do they end, exactly ?"

Memories flash in Phantom's mind, making their face heat up, though they try to keep their tone light. It's hard, with Swiss' knowing gaze on them.

"With you, and me, in the backseat..." Phantom trails their fingers up Swiss' forearm, following the shapes inked under his skin, delighted by the goosebumps rising in answer, "with your hands under my shirt if i still wear a shirt at all..." they push one of Swiss' locks back behind his ear, watching the man's pupils expand, "you acting the opposite of gentleman-like when you pull me in your lap. Isn't that right, Swiss ?"

The man takes a deep breath, downing half of his drink in one go.

"Goddamit bug. Doesn't sound so bad, does it ?"

Of course it doesn't. Swiss' hungry but reverant touch, his hot mouth and all the filthy whispers it drips directly in Phantom's ear, his deep throaty groans rumbling while he bounces Phantom on his lap, keeping them so full they can feel him in their throat...oh, Phantom is adicted.

"Mmh, "bad", no. Unprofessional as hell ? Absolutely."

It's token protest, really, a game of cat and mouse they both engage in whenever they get the chance. Swiss is too charming for his own good, always up for a challenge ; Phantom, not as innocent as they look, flippant, with quite the ego most people don't suspect from them. Their little dynamic works for them, maybe even too well.

"You'd be off the clock," Swiss counters, toying with the collar of Phantom's shirt, "no one to scold you for fucking a regular, especially since your boss is sure to end up under Dew."

Phantom glances at Rain, who's pretending not to listen but is betrayed by his smirk and indulgent nod confirming Swiss' statement. The man in question, apparently disagreeing with Phantom's attention being on anyting else other than him, tugs a little harder on their shirt collar, bringing their faces close.

"C'mon baby. Come to the game."

Phantom grins, deciding on one last tease.

"Aren't you worried I'll find a hot hockey player to take me home instead of you ?"

Swiss' thumb slips under Phantom's collar then, searches for a faded bite mark he knows damn well he'll find, as the one who put it there, and presses on it with a possessive hum.

"Mmh, 'course not. Because I know, if I wasn't the one you wanted, you wouldn't have let me lay a single finger on you, isn't that right Phantom ?"

Checkmate, game over, Phantom relents, for now.

"Alright. Pick me up after my shift, don't be late, or i'll go with Rainy."

Swiss' laugh is bright, stirring an emotion far too tender for their little game in the secrecy of Phantom's chest.

"Aya aye Captain. I'll make myself pretty just for you, yeah ?"

Phantom can't wait.

[ace-disgrace-from-space]

Heart (härt) - Noun: Personality, Disposition.

You could never stand the weretiger- pathetic and yet standing where you wished and should. Something about him just rubbed you the wrong way. Something about him irked you- not just that he occupied a position undeserved, a position he did not understand. But something more.

The way he ran himself ragged for people who would never acknowledge him. Bleeding out for permission he needn't ask for from people who wouldn't give it. Willing to die on the off-chance that someone would tell him that his life had value.

He was kind because he was selfish. Selfless because he had something to gain. Gentle because he was designed to hurt- made to kill. Those contradictions irritated you.

It disappointed you, his personality.

It made you sick, honestly.

And yet that disposition seemed familiar, but you did not address it. It was pointless to think about. After all-

Knowing the weretiger's heart was not something needed in order to rip it out of him.

Heart (härt) - Noun: The emotional or moral nature as distinguished from the intellectual nature

You could never understand Mafia's dog- the way he killed so easily as if he would die without it (you think he might). The way violence was his only calling- a calling that he never seemed to miss. Every time you met, the smell of death followed him and it never made sense to you- how someone could feel so little, even if they were cruel.

You weren't even partially sure that the bloodied man even HAD emotions TO feel. You fought to live, but that did not mean you took life lightly- not in the slightest. Life held value to you. Every person had a soul and a life.

Every person had a heart.

Except him.

Which is why it surprised you when he let you borrow his strength for the first time. And then for the second time. For someone who hated you so much, he hated letting you lose to someone else so much more. And yet you could understand why.

So, you issued your challenge. You needed him to earn his right for combat.

You needed to see if he was truly heartless and what that heart was made of.

Heart (härt) - Noun: Courage or enthusiasm especially when maintained during a difficult situation

Your death is quick. You barely feel the blade but you certainly feel the blood. But only for a moment. But only for a second.

And in that second, you think back.

You came because Dazai told you to. You followed because he needed you to be his Eyes. You said you'd let that damned weretiger die.

But he knew you didn't mean it.

And he was right.

He was always right.

You'd always sort of hated that about him.

You'd known this fight was no longer in your favor- it had stopped the second that damned sword came out. No. That was a lie. Your favor had never existed in this fight- not so long as it was Fukuchi you were fighting.

So, you'd had to make a choice. One that determined how many deaths would be marked and how many bodies found. You'd just known that- however you chose -one of those bodies would be yours.

Sacrificing yourself for the weretiger is not something you truly ever thought you'd do- for many reasons -but you let your blood spill for him nonetheless. You forced him to flee- knowing he'd wouldn't understand why.

As much as your heart had protested- as much as it had wished to beat and beat and beat for just a few moments longer -your heart had known you would not listen. Your heart had known it had to steel itself in order to do what you needed to do. The courage to sacrifice for the weretiger you had wanted so desperately to kill.

And then your heart stopped.

And then your eyes opened.

Heart (härt) - Noun: One's innermost character, feelings, or inclinations

You'd never seen into someone's heart before- not like this.

Before the blade, you'd just been glad to see Akutagawa alive again- even if not quite himself as before but more himself than when you last saw him. You'd been afraid he was lost forever, your voice not reaching his ears, no matter how loud you cried or how strong your faith.

He was back and he was strong and you knew you couldn't let him die again. Even if it wasn't a true death. It was your turn to save him- to show him that you wanted him to stay.

And now here you stood, in the mires of his heart and it wasn't quite what you thought it would be. You watched him play out emotions you recognized in situations you recognized born of desire you recognized. And in this moment, you realized his heart was just as bruised as your own.

His heart was just as damaged and bound by a need intrinsic.

You let yourself walk through the alleys of his heart and his soul, letting his memories and experiences wash over you. His emotions, pure and entire.

His vengeance towards a world that never gave to him. His rage at a world that took from him. His hunger for purpose and for praise. His hatred for you and what you stood for. His anger. His pain. His desire.

His every beat of his heart.

A heartbeat you felt begin to resound with your own.

Heart (härt) - Noun: Love, Affection

You couldn't help but be angry- though who or what the emotion was directed at was unclear. You were angry at the Weretiger for being so stupid as to sacrifice himself. Angry at the being that killed him. Angry at the man who caused all this.

Angry at yourself for letting it happen and angry at yourself for needing his death to remember.

But you needed to fight because you refused to let his actions become null and void. So, you would continue to fight- as he would. You fought and you fought and you fought, feeling that familiar chill up your spine again. That feeling of death.

And yet.

And yet.

You don't think of the man you've spent your life trying to please, clawing for acknowledgement from until your fingers painted in red. You think of a fool so... foolish that he died for you of all people. A man who would rather die that let himself become a burden. A man who had called to you when you were lost in the prison of your own mind- reaching out no matter how much pain you caused him.

And you had heard him. Even if you could not respond, you had heard him because how could you not? His cries and his faith had not reached your ears but your soul which was so tethered to him and his at this point you were unsure where his started and yours began.

Death waiting once again, you do not see or hear Dazai. It is all Atsushi Nakajima.

He is your ordeal.

He is your greatest challenge.

He is your most infuriating ally.

He is so much more than words can truly describe.

More than just a person.

So, no matter the dimension, no matter the god- the Weretiger WOULD be returned to you and your side.

You reach forward again, your fight far from over, and you let it drive you. You let it guide your hand and your blade. It which has guided the both of you ever since the very first day you met. It which has driven you from the very start.

That which drives us to act, a mysterious thing called the Heart.

[sacredwrath]

P17. A Crack In The Mask

Finally! Sorry this took so long heh

Past torture discussed, beating, ptsd flashback, unreality, thinking caretaker is whumper

For a second Jesse doesn't recognize him.

Their stomach flips, did Logan bring back the wrong man?

He's half naked, chained to the wall, with a brutal tapestry of wounds covering his body. They can't look at it.

They didn't think this through. Didn't think it would be this bad- how had Logan-

But then he looks up at them, greasy hair falling away from his face, and he grins. Definitely the right man

“Jesse!” There's a new rasp to his too cheerful voice but it still makes their blood run cold and their muscles sieze in fear.

This was a mistake

“Come on in. Don't worry,” he gives his chains a vicious tug “I can't hurt you anymore. Not like this.” he grins like a wolf over a fresh kill. As if he needs his hands to do damage

Jesse tries to swallow but their mouth is too dry. They're sure he can hear the painful click of their throat. They lick their lips instead and try again

“Morgan.” Their voice is little more than a whisper but at least it's steady.

“Jesse.” He repeats not quite mocking

They stare at him. How can this be the same man? His eyes are black and swollen, lips bleeding. Dark bruises and what looks like scratches circle his neck and are scattered across his torso, ribs, and thighs. His lower legs are bandaged from ankles to knees but blood seeps through in places. He's covered in blood, dirty with it. Most has dried into brownish smears but some still glistens red and wet.

They'd wanted to see him like this. Hoped seeing him helpless and afraid would make them feel safe again, but even beaten bloody and chained to the wall he doesn't look afraid.

They still feel afraid

“So…” he says, too casually. “What brings you here? I've been asking about you, but your friends have been… evasive.”

“I wanted to see you.” good. Steady and calm, still quiet, but they sound more in control than they feel. They can't show him weakness

“I told them you would. The idiot blonde, what's his name?”

They scoff “you think I'd resist telling you all those months just to give up and start giving out names now?”

He shrugs, “things change.” He rattles the chains again. “If you don't want it getting back to my bosses you can just kill me.”

“Don't think I won't.”

“Oh I know you would. And if not you, the idiot blonde definitely will. Is that why you're here? Alone? Don't want the idiot to claim your kill?”

“No- I-” why are they here? They wanted to see him, yes, but alone? In secret? It's not wrong to want to see him. Is it? Standing here now the whole endeavor seems insanely stupid. Why would they come down here without backup? They should have just been firm with Logan and Isa. Should have told them they were coming down here like it or not, but they were afraid they'd stop them. Stupid! They aren't ready for this. They want to leave him hanging. Walk right out the door and never hear his fucking voice or see his wolfs grin again. But now that they're here it's like their legs are made of lead. Anchored to the spot, too heavy and weak to carry them from the room.

“You came down here to rough me up a little didn't you?”

They recoil at the suggestion. “What! No!”

He raises an eyebrow “Don't be embarrassed. It's only natural.”

Natural? They'd thought it'd be cathartic at least, to see him like this, but then why do they feel so nauseous?

“You fucking heros I swear to god!” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Every time the idiot beats me he looks sicker than I do. It's honestly pathetic. You'd think after years of sending us to those damn prisons you'd all be used to getting a little blood on your hands.”

They don't know what to say

His expression darkens, carefree grin turning to a sneer “You really don't want to? After everything I did to you?” He hesitates “You didn't forget, did you? You do remember what I did to you?”

“Stop it” they can't think about it. Not here. Not in front of him. It's taking everything they have not to remember it. To remind themself that now he's the one in chains.

“You remember how many times I beat you? Whipped you? Broke your fingers? Remember when I pulled your fingernails off? When I broke your leg? Remember begging me not to?” He puts on a whiny falsetto “oh please Adrian please don't do it, please stop.”

“Stop” they mimic, quieter, knowing they're giving him exactly what he wants.

“That's it.” He croons.

They're going to cry. They can feel it. A choking hot coal in their throat burning the back of their eyes. Shit. They reach out for the wall trying to steady themself. Remembering to slow their breathing

“That's it.” He purrs again, “slow breaths.” He matches their pace with his own loud breathing. Eyes bore into them, but his voice is still gentle “Remember how it felt when I whipped you. Remember feeling your skin tear open. The pain. Feeling like it's going to rip you apart? Like the shock alone might kill you? Do you remember how it felt begging me to stop and knowing I wouldn't?” They remember. Of course they do. They still feel the phantom pain in their body every time they move or breathe. “And after all that, you really don't want to hurt me? Give me a taste of my own medicine?” He waits for them to say something but they can't focus, burning tears welling in their eyes.

“Tell me the truth!” He barks, voice taking on the exact tone they're used to.

They snap. They aren't in the basement anymore. He isn't the one chained to the wall. He's standing over them as they're huddled on the floor.

He's going to hurt them.

He is hurting them.

They feel the whip against their back, their leg breaking, remembered agony mixing with the real lingering pain.

He's laughing at them. Watching them writhe on the floor soaked in their own blood and tears.

“That's it Jesse. There you are. This is what I made you-”

The cell door slams open

“It must be so exhausting.” his voice rising to a scream “pretending for your little friends. Pretending you're the same person who went away. Pretending you're still a person at all- oof”

Jesse is screaming, or are they? They can't hear themself over the panic in their head. Everything feels like it's happening in slow motion.

The wet thump of fists on a body

Jesse can't remember where they are.

Are they being beaten again?

It hurts

They open their eyes. Across the room Morgan's legs give out. His feet scrabble at the floor desperately trying to regain his footing. Logan's screaming in his face, something unintelligible, far away.

There's blood everywhere, so much blood. They feel it on their skin. On their face, wetness, maybe it's tears. They shrink further into the corner, whimpering in terror, each blow feels like it's landing on them.

Blood flies from Morgan's lips spattering across their face

Like they're in a dream they reach up to touch it. Their fingers come away red

Morgan is staring right at them. Their eyes lock and his face suddenly feels inches from their own.

Something shifts and it's like they're seeing him for the first time

Black swollen eyes, red stained lips contorted into a snarl of pain he's trying desperately to control.

He yelps, a short sharp sound, and they watch the mask crack, revealing a flicker of terror so raw and familiar it feels like their own.

For a second it's like they're seeing into him.

His sneer brittle and sloppily plastered on to cover the lapse. Hollow laughter forced out instead, sharp with broken edges. The mask meticulously crafted to appear care free forced over something worse, something broken.

They've been reading him wrong all this time

This man was never strong. Never the confident powerful figure they'd grown to fear. It's suddenly so obvious they feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. Everything about him, the nonchalance, exaggerated to an almost cartoonish level. Of course none of it was real. They couldn't see the mask till they saw it crack but now they can see the creature underneath

Pain, fear, hopelessness, perfectly mirroring back to them every feeling he inflicted. It makes them sick

“STOP IT!!” they scream hands flying up to cover their ears. Its too much, they cant stand it anymore. If he won't scream they'll start.

They shriek it over and over

It's him it's them they can't tell where they start and he ends

Logan looks at them. blood dripping from his fists his face alive with fury. they cower from him. Cringing away every muscle in their body rigid with the terror behind Adrian's eyes. A cornered animal with nowhere to run they wait for the blows, but Logan is frozen.

Their screams turn to panicked sobs and Adrian starts laughing. It grates across their ears, different than before. No longer the alien sound of a mad man but the brittle hollow screech of already shattered glass. No less mad, but this time they feel it. They've been there, they've felt that same madness, trapped, alone, hurting, trying to fight off the pain in the only way they can

They want to be sick but instead try to gather themself and look up to meet his eyes. “I see you Adrian Morgan” their voice empty. As hollowed out as his own.

The smile twists from his face into a snarl of pure hate.

And then Isa is there. Strong arms wrapping around them. Gentle hands combing through their hair. Soft words that Jesse can't hear as they guide them to shakey feet and usher them from the cell

They turn back, giving Adrian a final look. Rage, contempt, pain, longing, disgust, all twisting his face into a mask of itself so false and confused it's impossible to separate from the face beneath.

They look away, letting them themself be pulled from the cell.

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Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them @kiichu @whatwhump @jay--o @starsick1979 @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @syncopein3d @fuckcapitalismasshole @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @mannerofwhump @randomfixation

[kreachvera]

redraw of this panel of Faust House (READ FAUST HOUSE RAAAAHHHHH)

[bryverros]

so this is where i humbly come in and ask your opinion on where to start with dc comics bc you know a lot and i trust your opinion and want more things to read. bc all the stuff i know now is from tiktok and shit. if it helps i lovee jason and batfam. HOWEVER, if you don’t feel like it that’s ok too but i figured i’d ask 🤓

i am SO glad u asked i used to dream of days like these

id start off from batman #408 (1987) to batman #429 (1989), that’s where jason first appears, his robin time and up to the death in the family arc (#426-429). so like the very crucial readings. special shoutout to #416. it was dick bruce jason heavy and i like it (i wrote a paragraph for this but i elected to erase it because i wrote down a shit ton of spoilers lol)

new titans #55 is a good one. there’s no jason there because he’s like dead but dick finds out about his death in that one and i am profoundly fond of dick and his older sibling guilt 😼 so including it here

if you want more robin!jason detective comics #569-581. he is so tiny and “robin is magic” in this one and its very endearing and i love love love it so much. like literally my son

more robin!jason. batman: the cult (1988?). BEAUTIFUL art and a very cool story, definitely worth a read

batman annual 25 (2006) jason comes back to life

red hood the lost days (2010) expands more on jason coming back & becoming red hood. bit eh in my opinion like definitely ignore the talia panels in the last issue lmaooo because why was that necessary bro but it does a pretty decent job showing jasons transition from robin to red hood

aaand finally under the red hood (batman #635-641, #645-650)

also check out teen titans volume 3 #29, jason and tim bonding time (he uhhhhh breaks into the teen titans tower and beats tim up. but pop off king because i liked the characterisation for both)

[wakeywakeyjakey]

I'm 35,000 words into writing a longfic about the Batman/Bruce/Matches DID system and I'm obsessed with it. It includes Bat/Joker, Bruce/Harvey, and Matches/Harv and the differences in each of those dynamics is 🤌

(Batman and Bruce know about each other but they don't know about Matches and Matches doesn't know about them--what could POSSIBLY go wrong?)

[lovesoakedd]

went to my first queer event (other than dyke and pride march) in like... two years? and it was SO good oh my god. it was basically a carabiner event when you could make keychains and such. and as soon as I got there, I spotted another girl who was alone, and once we realized we both came by ourselves, we sat together and yapped for the entire event :""") and we agreed to go to future events together EEEEKKKK