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hollowed-theory-hall · 29 days

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Any HC's on what's going on with Luna?

Hi, so I really like Luna as a character, and I've seen various theories about her being a seer, which at least used to be popular in fic, but I never got that impression from her. Personally, I don't think there's anything magical going on with Luna. I think she's just a girl with imagination, a sense of whimsy, and some trauma of her own who chose to handle it through her internal little world rather than anger and other more externalized ways to cope.

So, this kinda ended up being a bit of a character study on Luna...

Pandora Lovegood & Luna's Trauma

One of the major moments in Luna's life that really changed her worldview and approach to people and the world was her mother's death:

“Have you . . .” he began. “I mean, who . . . has anyone you’ve known ever died?” “Yes,” said Luna simply, “my mother. She was a quite extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine.” “I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled. “Yes, it was rather horrible,” said Luna conversationally. “I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But I’ve still got Dad. And anyway, it’s not as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?” “Er — isn’t it?” said Harry uncertainly. She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, come on. You heard them, just behind the veil, didn’t you?” “You mean . . .” “In that room with the archway. They were just lurking out of sight, that’s all. You heard them.”

(OotP, 863)

I want to talk about her mother, her death, and Luna's general outlook on death and tragedy which explains a lot of her characters.

So Pandora Lovegood experimented with spells and one went badly enough to kill her in front of her 9-year-old daughter. This is why Luna can see Thestrals and hear voices from beyond the veil like Harry and Neville. But Luna, at her soul is an optimist and a very brave one at that. This is something that she doesn't share with her father, which I'd get to, so I think her outlook on life and death is actually something she learned from her mother.

Luna prefers to look at the half-full part of the glass. She is choosing not to get too sad over things or bothered over her bullying (which I'll get to). The main point is that Luna's way of dealing with the hardship and trauma of watching her mother die is to feel the sadness of it, but not let herself wallow in it. She keeps pushing herself forward.

I headcanon Luna took her mother's death to embrace her mother's outlook on life. That things will always be fine, that they'd always work out. I don't think Luna knows for certain everything will be fine, but she chooses to believe it will be and you see it with her later in the books as well.

“I was saying, what are those horse things?” Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting. [...] “It’s all right,” said a dreamy voice from beside Harry as Ron vanished into the coach’s dark interior. “You’re not going mad or anything. I can see them too.” “Can you?” said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her wide, silvery eyes. “Oh yes,” said Luna, “I’ve been able to see them ever since my first day here. They’ve always pulled the carriages. Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am.” Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured, Harry followed her.

(OotP, 198-199)

Again, this shows her way of dealing with death and loss that ended up helping Harry. She sees the Thestrals and instead of being discomforted by them and the loss they remind her of (like Neville and Theodore Nott), she tries to smile, to take comfort in the reminder of her mother. "It's sad that she's dead, but it's okay, things will be okay", it's not a direct quote, but I feel it summarises Luna's outlook on loss and negative life experiences in general.

Xenophilius and the Quibbler

As I mentioned above, Xenophilius is much less brave and optimistic than Luna, hence why I think she learned her positive outlook from Pandora and not him:

Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally, he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She . . . she will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then—very well. I shall try to help you.” He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they heard the front door open and close. They looked at each other. “Cowardly old wart,” said Ron. “Luna’s got ten times his guts.”

(DH, 347)

I understand him, I really do. He lost his wife, and his daughter is all he has, of course, he's scared of helping Harry. He doesn't want to lose Luna too. But, I headcanon Pandora was like Luna in that regard. She wouldn't have let fear stop her. I mean, she had to be brave to experiment with the kind of dangerous spells that'll kill her.

The other thing I want to note about Xenophilius and Luna is how close they seem to be whenever we see them:

Bidding the wizards farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look—one of the gnomes actually bit me!” “How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today—perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish—do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!”

(DH, 124)

They seem very affectionate and close, both with words and I'm sure also physical affection. Luna even mentions she still has her dad when she explains how she handles her mother's loss. I think both of them grew closer and more dependent on each other after Pandora's death. And I think that's what really pulled them both through it. Each other.

I write about it more later in this post, but Luna tends to comfort a lot of characters. Hermione, Ollivanders, Harry, and I think the first person she practiced this with was her father. She is a very empathetic person and she watched loss affect her father first-hand. I think, that after they lost Pandora, Luna did more of the heavy lifting in terms of emotional comfort rather than Xenophilius, who was probably a bit of a wreck.

Now, the third major thing I think Luna learned from her father is his various odd beliefs. To name a few Quibbler article titles from the beginning of OotP:

How Far Will Fudge Go to Gain Gringotts?

CORRUPTION IN THE QUIDDITCH LEAGUE: How the Tornados Are Taking Control

SIRIUS - Black As He’s Painted? Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing Sensation?

We all know they have some odd ideas, and are both very convinced of them. Luna never strays in her belief in the things her father writes about:

Yes, he’s got an army of heliopaths,” said Luna solemnly. “No, he hasn’t,” snapped Hermione. “Yes, he has,” said Luna. “What are heliopaths?” asked Neville, looking blank. “They’re spirits of fire,” said Luna, her protuberant eyes widening so that she looked madder than ever. “Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everything in front of —” “They don’t exist, Neville,” said Hermione tartly. “Oh yes they do!” said Luna angrily. “I’m sorry, but where’s the proof of that?” snapped Hermione. “There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you —”

(OotP, 345)

She actually shows a dislike and anger toward Hermione at first because of how Hermione treats the things she believes in. Luna doesn't get angry often, but when her beliefs are ridiculed in the way Hermione does so, is one of these few times. She doesn't mind being called "Loony", but she cares about her, and her father's beliefs are aggressively questioned. She wouldn't have minded it if Hermione just didn't believe her (like Ron and Ginny) what bothers her is that Hermione doesn't even entertain the possibility of these creatures being real. What angers her is Hermione's closed-mindedness, not that she doesn't agree with her. Luna doesn't mind being alone in her beliefs, she minds closed-minded people who think they know everything, that's what gets her annoyed with Hermione, I think.

Now, I kind of want to discuss why Luna and Xenehpilius believe what they believe. Well, more Xenephilius than Luna, because he taught her most of it and gave her all the evidence she is basing her understanding of all these creatures and conspiracies come from.

Because that's what a lot of these are — conspiracies — and mostly about the Ministry of Magic. These article titles are somewhat like farfetched conspiracy theories like: "NASA hiding a second sun at the center of the Earth" or "Did you know the Earth is actually flat but the government doesn't want you to know" or anything to do with Area 51 and aliens. The articles from the Quibbler sound awfully a lot like that. And it seemed the main reason Xenophilius and Luna believed Harry was because the ministry didn't.

Xenophilius and Luna also believe in miracle cures like gnome venom (as quoted earlier), Gurdyroots and Plumpies:

“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?” said Xenophilius. “We make it ourselves.” As he started to pour out the drink, which was a deep purple as beetroot juice, he added, “Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here. She ought not be too long, she has caught nearly enough Plumpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar.

(DS, 348)

They are essentially wizard conspiracy theorist hippies.

Basically, Xenophilius and Luna distrust the ministry (rightfully so, as the ministry sucks) but they took their distrust to the extreme. Essentially believing any information from the ministry, or ministry-sanctioned textbooks and newspapers to be false (some of it definitely is false, but not all). If it comes from the ministry it's false in their eyes and therefore everything the ministry doesn't live in is true, even if it doesn't make sense. So what I think is going on with the Lovegoods, and what they are supposed to be, is just conspiracy theorists, who rightfully distrust their government, but took this distrust too far beyond common sense. It doesn't mean all they belive is false, they are actually correct often enough, but not always.

Now, I think, as I said, they have a good reason to distrust the ministry, they just took it a bit far. I actually have a bit of a headcanon about how Xenophilius came to the conclusion that they can't trust ministry.

My headcanon is that it has to do with Pandora's death. We don't really have any indication that Xenophilius believed in everything he did before her death. Neither do we know how exactly the spell killed Pandora. I think the ministry either hid information about Pandora's condition, used some spells she created in their books without giving her credit, or the ministry never sanctioned her spells (we know the ministry does approve spells, Hermione mentions as much in HBP). I'm not sure what exactly went with the ministry, but I headcanon Xenophilius has a personal reason related to Pandora to distrust them.

Loony Luna

We know Luna gets bullied. Her belongings get stolen, other students call her "Loony". And it isn't surprising she gets bullied. children are mean to anyone who is weird and different and Hogwarts has no anti-bullying measures. Literally none, the faculty doesn't care.

What is more interesting is Luna's outlook on her own bullying. It's the same optimistic acceptance of how she treats death.

“How come you’re not at the feast?” Harry asked. “Well, I’ve lost most of my possessions,” said Luna serenely. “People take them and hide them, you know. But as it’s the last night, I really do need them back, so I’ve been putting up signs.” She gestured toward the notice board, upon which, sure enough, she had pinned a list of all her missing books and clothes, with a plea for their return. An odd feeling rose in Harry — an emotion quite different from the anger and grief that had filled him since Sirius’s death. It was a few moments before he realized that he was feeling sorry for Luna. “How come people hide your stuff?” he asked her, frowning. “Oh . . . well . . .” She shrugged. “I think they think I’m a bit odd, you know. Some people call me ‘Loony’ Lovegood, actually.” Harry looked at her and the new feeling of pity intensified rather painfully. “That’s no reason for them to take your things,” he said flatly. “D’you want help finding them?” “Oh no,” she said, smiling at him. “They’ll come back, they always do in the end. It was just that I wanted to pack tonight. Anyway . . . why aren’t you at the feast?”

(OotP, 862-863)

Other Ravenclaws steal her things and hide them, they call her "Loony" and at no point is Luna angry or scared. She is calm and serene and she declines Harry's help because she believes it will all work out. It's the same outlook on death and sadness: "Everything will be fine, just keep your chin up and believe things will be good" That just really seems to be Luna's life philosophy. She faces every problem with optimism and serenity.

Instead of being concerned over her own situation, she actually goes a step further and ask how Harry is doing. Luna goes out of her way to brighten up other people's lives and help them see the good in situations like she can. She is really sweet.

“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.” This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment.

(HBP, 138)

“Oh, it’s been all right,” said Luna. “A bit lonely without the D.A. Ginny’s been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me ‘Loony’ the other day —”

(HBP, 311)

These are two more examples of Luna's being bullied. She is lonely and didn't really have friends before the D.A. But just like with her missing things, while it makes her sad, she doesn't wallow in it. She looks at the good parts. The happy memories, the fact that Ginny defends her now. Honestly, it's a healthier coping mechanism than what we see with other characters, I'll give her that.

The other interesting note is how honest she is with all of it. She always says things exactly how she believes they are. She doesn't lie or hide information from people, even for their own comfort. I think this has to do with the distrust in the ministry her father and her share.

Essentially, she was raised being told how awful the ministry is for lying to everyone and how it's horrible they hide information from the wizarding world. I think this is part of why she is so honest and straightforward. She really sees hiding information and lying as awful things to do. And, I mean, she's a Ravenclaw for a reason, she likely believes information should be accessible to know and learn, not hidden in the bawls of the ministry. It's all part of her honesty.

Luna's Empathy

Luna is one of the more empathetic characters in the books. I mentioned before how she goes out of her way to encourage and comfort others, and here are some examples I picked up:

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you look for your stuff?” he said. “Oh no,” said Luna. “No, I think I’ll just go down and have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up. . . . It always does in the end. . . . Well, have a nice holiday, Harry.” “Yeah . . . yeah, you too.” She walked away from him, and as he watched her go, he found that the terrible weight in his stomach seemed to have lessened slightly.

(OotP, 864)

Luna is the first person to make Harry feel better after Sirius' death, to tell him life goes on and actually convince him of it. She can empathize with people really weel and tell them what they need to hear.

He finally tracked her [Hermione] down as she emerged from a girls’ bathroom on the floor below. She was accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her vaguely on the back. “Oh, hello, Harry,” said Luna. “Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?” “Hi, Luna. Hermione, you left your stuff. . . .” He held out her books. “Oh yes,” said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her things and turning away quickly to hide the fact that she was wiping her eyes on her pencil case. “Thank you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going. . . .” And she hurried off, without giving Harry any time to offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could not think of any. “She’s a bit upset,” said Luna. “I thought at first it was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be Hermione. She said something about that Ron Weasley. . . .”

(HBP, 310)

Even with Hermione, whom Luna tends to argue with most due to Hermione appearing closed-minded to Luna, when Luna hears crying her first instinct is to go help. And she actually seemed to have made Hermione feel better, she found the right things to say.

Her mention of Moaning Myrtle makes it sound like Luna knows the ghost well. My headcanon is that in Luna's first years, when she was lonely and had no friends, she sat and chatted with Myrtle, and they had a cute little lonely friendship.

“That’s right,” said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A., “That’s right, Harry. . . come on think of something happy. . . .” “Something happy?” he said, his voice cracked. “We’re all still here,” she whispered, “we’re still fighting. Come on, now. . . .”

(DS, 548)

Encouraging Harry to cast a Patronus when they need one.

“I’m going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander,” said Luna, approaching the old man. “And I you, my dear,” said Ollivander, patting her on the shoulder. “You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place.”

(DH, 437)

And even comforting Ollivanders.

Luna just brings comfort to everyone she meets. Knowing what to say to make them feel better.

About her supposed seer-like abilities

As I said, I don't think Luna is a seer or anything like that. I think she's intelligent, open-minded, incredibly empathetic, has some extreme distrust in the ministry, and has an overall life philosophy of looking at the full half of the cup.

When I searched for scenes that had "extra-magical" potential I found only two:

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded. [...] The girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he had not.

(OotP, 185)

I think this is more Luna being awkward because she never had friends more than anything. I think she is just honestly shocked and confused that Harry and Co. want to sit with her; of like, their free will, and not just to say mean things.

As much as Luna holds her head high, she is hurt by her bullies and loneliness, she just chooses to not internalize any of it and never stop to be herself. Honestly I really appreciate this aspect of Luna, I adore her ability to stay afloat.

The second scene:

He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up. “Hello, Harry!” she said. “Er—my name’s Barny,” said Harry, flummoxed. “Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly. “How did you know—?” “Oh, just your expression,” she said.

(DH, 123)

I don't think this is being a "seer" or anything like that. I believe this is an extension of Luna's intense empathy. She says she recognises Harry's expression. Also, she's smart and he acts around Ron the way he always does, Luna would be able to recognize it...

So, yeah, these are my thoughts about Luna.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #anon asks #anonymous #luna lovegood #harry potter meta #hp headcanon #hollowedheadcanon #hollowedtheory

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starstruckkittensweets · 1 year

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“Letters to My Love” | Hanji x Reader

Fandom: Attack on Titan Pairing: Hanji x Reader Words: 4k

A/N: This is a self-indulgent, completely unfiltered, messy little fic that deals with my love for Hanji. Ever since I started reading AoT back in 2015, I’ve had a soft spot for Hanji. My little ray of sunshine, one of my first comfort characters, the one character I could actually see myself becoming friends with in real life. Seeing her death finally animated (beautifully) brought a lot of feelings forward. She was brave and gorgeous and kind and absolutely amazing. It actually feels like I’m saying farewell to a close friend of mine. And so this messy fic was born, mostly unedited but with a lot of my personal feelings channeled into the reader’s POV. You can read this as either a platonic or romantic relationship, whatever floats your boat. I hope you enjoy the fic!

Warnings: lots of angst, major character death, implied reader death, some blood and violence, struggling to cope with grief, post-war/post-snk 139 world, Hanji is referred to as female with she/her pronouns

THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR AOT S4 PART 3 (AND THE UPCOMING PART 4) AND SNK 139! PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT ALL CAUGHT UP, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

It’s all so stupid. A stupid idea, a stupid reason behind it, a stupid man telling you about it in the first place. Why even bother with this in the first place? It’s not like it’ll help you in the long run.

But Falco’s still staring up at you with those big eyes, the slightest quiver of his lip, arms stretched out towards your own.

“Please?” His voice is unnaturally soft; it might be the lighting, but you can almost see a tear in those huge eyes. “At least try it, won’t you? I promise, you’ll feel better. Just like Dad says.”

You don’t have the heart to tell the kid his father’s full of shit, just like everyone else in this horrible world. Nothing’s left for you to enjoy, nothing you can cling to during the tough times. Those days are gone, the memories of bliss vanishing with every passing day.

But he looks so sad, so fucking hopeful, as though he still believes you can do it. You can lift this crushing weight off your chest with just a pen, some paper, and a few words every day.

“…Fine.” He practically shoves the dusty old notebook into your chest with a smile. “I’ll give it a shot.”

You’ll try, but you already know it’s a waste of time.

I’m not good at this. Writing’s never been my strong suit—not when it comes to other people. But you already know knew that, didn’t you?

Mr. Grice gave me the idea. Says writing everything down is a lot better than saying it out loud sometimes. Falco said the same thing; he still writes to his brother every other week.

I don’t understand why. It’s not like I’ll ever send them, they’re just gonna sit in my desk collecting dust. But I told Falco I’d try for him. He’s a sweet kid, I can see why you like liked him. Sorry, it’s a habit.

I don’t know what else to say. I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.

It’s me again. Onyankopon came to visit again. He checks up on me at least once every week. Same day, same time. It’s like he doesn’t trust me. Maybe he’s just looking out for me. That’s what Levi says.

Things are slowly going back to normal. He says it’s been almost five months since you left the battle. It’ll be spring soon. This winter hasn’t been too bad though. I miss the snow a little bit. Maybe one day we can go further north to see some next year. I know Gabi and Falco would enjoy it.

I can’t think of anything else to write down. I’m sure I’ll be back soon though.

Mundane topics. What you ate today. Who you saw at the market. The stories Gabi and Falco would make up whenever they were bored.

It’s all so stupid, but you write it down anyway. Stuff she’d like, stuff she wouldn’t like. Not her name, never her name. You can’t bear to say it out loud, not even spell out the letters without bursting into a fit of sobs. What’s the point, anyway? Not like she’s here to answer her own name anymore.

Still, you keep writing. Every day, at least something goes down in that little brown notebook. You’re the only one who reads it. Mr. Grice refuses to, says it’s for your eyes only. Falco sometimes shares what he’s written to his brother, but only when the two of you are alone. He has a little brown book of his own, same shape and size too. Always keeps it in the first drawer of his nightstand, same place you keep yours.

The days crawl by. Every breath hurts less and less. Slowly but surely, you wonder if you’re actually getting better.

I thought of you today. The kids wanted to stop in a bookstore during our shopping trip so I let them. They can be so eager and hyper when they want to be. (Why can’t they be like that when it comes to their chores?)

They both went for the bookshelf in the far corner. Books about the world; about weapons, inventions, plants, animals, experiments, I couldn’t keep track of how many there were. And the kids just sat there for hours, leafing through book after book. I ended up leaving just to drop off the groceries at home before heading back to pick them up. And when I got there they were still poring over those dusty, wrinkled pages.

You would like the bookstore. It’s on the smaller side but it doesn’t feel crowded. It’s got a few benches for people to sit and read for a bit, and there’s a café right next door too. But when I told Levi about it he got a little snippy; I think he’s jealous, his tea shop will always be superior.

He’s doing okay, I know you’re probably worried about him. His leg still gives him trouble but he’s getting better every day. He gave me a job after the shop opened a few weeks ago. Right now I’m just cleaning off tables and fixing up pastries in the back. Gabi handles inventory with Levi (she’s actually pretty good at it) and Falco takes care of the customers up front. He has the best attitude out of all of us, I think. The job is a bit boring sometimes but it beats killing Titans, using ODM gear, being a soldier

Never mind. I’ll write more later, I have to go for now. I’ll be back.

It’s really warm today. I keep thinking about that summer we spent in Krolva, in 848. You kept hunting for strange plants and flowers in the forest and had me and Moblit chasing after you all day! But you didn’t stop, not even when Levi threatened to knock you out and haul you back to base.

Sometimes I can still see Erwin’s smile, hear Mike and Nanaba’s laughter, feel the light summer breeze against my face.

I can still remember the way you said my name. I miss hearing the sound of your voice.

For the first time in a long while, you wake up with a smile on your face.

Your cheeks are stained with tears, still. You haven’t gone to sleep silently once in the past six months or so. Always stuffing your face into the pillow, muffling your sobs, praying neither Levi nor the kids hear you being so pathetic.

Your head is pounding, throat tight but chest feeling lighter than ever. You have to write it down, you don’t wanna forget, don’t forget—

The notebook is resting on your dresser. Your hands still shake when you reach for it, almost clatters to the floor when you try to pick it up. The pen leaps from your trembling fingers. The first words you write are barely legible, but you don’t stop writing for anything.

I had a dream about you last night. I can’t remember everything but I know you were in it and you were still alive smiling.

Still had both eyes, silly girl.

None of our comrades were there; no Levi, Moblit, or Mike. Just me and you, sitting on the rooftop of the old Survey Corps base, watching the stars twinkle above us. Your arm was so warm against my shoulders. Your messy hair tickling my cheek. You were laughing about something, I can’t remember what. But you looked so happy, so carefree and joyful. You haven’t looked that relaxed in years.

You whispered something in my ear, and my throat exploded with laughter. You held me close, lips brushing my cheek, eyes shining in the glowing moonlight.

You were happy, so I was happy.

But then I woke up, you were gone, and I was cold again.

Summer’s almost halfway over. The tea shop has been busier, Levi seems to enjoy the success. He’s still not very sociable but he’s learning to be more pleasant with the customers. They’ll keep coming back if he’s not rude to them all the time.

The town is expanding. Onyankopon thinks one of the nearby cities will start offering jobs, either railroad work or seamstress positions. A lot of factory jobs will start coming back too, and they’ll pay well. He says I could apply, just to keep my hands busy. Says it’s good to get out of the country once in a while.

Still undecided, I’d be going alone. Levi refuses, he hates the idea of city living, and he has the tea shop to worry about. The kids would stay with them; Gabi doesn’t like the smell of smoke, and Falco wouldn’t go anywhere without her. I can go, I don’t have anything tying me down.

What do you think I should do?

Four weeks left. It’s getting harder and harder to keep writing. I thought it would get easier, like Falco said. But I still feel that horrible pit deep in my chest. A weight that’s making it harder to breathe every day.

I don’t know what to do. I’m a burden. I can’t do anything on my own anymore. It’s always Levi or Onyankopon who’s there to hold my hand. Always Gabi and Falco to bring me back, remind me I have to keep living, to keep my head out of the clouds. But sometimes I wish I could run away. Leave it all behind. Maybe that city idea doesn’t seem so bad.

I wish you were here with me.

August 22nd. Two weeks to go.

Levi’s been quieter nowadays. Onyankopon isn’t as eager when he’s talking about the recovering towns and cities. Even the kids are more solemn than usual.

Still hoping this is all a bad dream. That I’ll wake up and you’ll be at my side, smiling and laughing like you do. Not a single care in the world.

The calendar is torn to shreds, left on the kitchen table for everyone to see. Gabi is utterly silent, a far cry from her usual loudmouthed self. Falco is quick to pull her aside as you storm past them, down the hall and into your room, slamming the door with a thud.

Burying your face in your hands. Chest wracked with sobs. Throat burning as her name rips itself from your mouth.

Hanji.

Stop it.

Your back hits the wall, knees buckling beneath your weight. Nails tear at the roots of your hair, scraping down your cheeks, eyes growing warm even though you keep them shut.

Hanji.

Another scream, you throw yourself against the wall. Your shoulder collides with the bookcase, but the pain doesn’t help. Nothing helps you anymore, not even writing in that shitty little book—

Someone’s calling your name on the other side of the door. Tiny fists pound on the wood; the knob twists and turns in vain. You made sure to lock it after coming in here.

Stop it. Can’t they see you want to be left alone?

Alone. You’re all alone now. You have no one left.

No parents, no children, no comrades…

And no other half.

Hanji.

“Stop it!” But you can still hear her name, swirling around in your head, a chorus of a thousand voices.

Hanji, Hanji, Hanji.

“Leave me alone!”

Something shatters against the wall. Your palm stings with something fierce, a shadow of red seeping from the skin.

The book, the book, where is it? Where did you put it?

There it is—right on your bed where you left it last. You’re scrambling over broken glass to grab at it, bloody fingers clutching the pen stuck between the pages. The tears are hot against your cheeks. Hurt like nothing else, not even the pain in your chest.

And they just keep on coming as you keep on writing.

Why did you leave me? Why did you have to go? Why did you have to kill kill yourself like that?

We could’ve handled it. Without your help. Maybe if you’d let us you’d still be alive with me. If you’d just trusted me—why didn’t you trust me? I trusted you, why didn’t you return the favor?

It’s your fault I’m like this now. I was fine before but then you fucked it all up.

Did you think you were some kind of hero? You’re not. Going out in a blaze of glory? Selfish asshole.

You’re not. You never were. You left me and now I’m alone and I hate

I hate you.

I hate you I hate you I hate you didn’t have to leave me but you did and now I hate you I can’t believe I love loved you how could I ever love someone so selfish fuck you so selfish

I HATE YOU

YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DIE WHY AREN’T YOU HERE WITH ME ANYMORE WHAT DID I DO TO MAKE YOU LEAVE TO MAKE YOU GO WHY WHY WHY

I STILL HATE YOU

Levi finds you hours later. Sitting on the floor at the foot of your bed, hands trembling against your knees. The book is lying halfway across the room. Must’ve thrown it earlier.

He heaves a sigh, dragging his hand across his scarred face. And despite the ache in his leg he still kneels down to your level, taking a seat beside you against the bed. Wrapping up your hands in one of the spare shirts you tore from the dresser just minutes before.

“Brats were worried,” he finally says, and he sounds so fucking tired. There’s an inkling of guilt blooming in your chest. Such a burden to him, as always. “Said you’d run off and started crying.”

“…So?”

He rolls his eyes, focusing on your bloodied hands. They’re dry now, and he makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

Eventually he pulls you on your feet, leads you to the washroom and runs your hands under the warm water. He wraps up your hands in some clean bandages; over his shoulder you can see two sets of eyes staring at you from down the hall. One brown, one hazel.

“Quit beating yourself up like this. That’s not what she died for, brat. And don’t ask me,” he snaps when I open my mouth, “what she died for. Because you and I both know the answer to that. …So don’t make me say it.”

You’re still blubbering like a child, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, splashing onto the clean bandages around your hands. Levi sighs again before pulling you in close, one arm looped around your shoulders. His chest is warm, heart strong against your palm.

But it’s nothing compared to hers—and the thought makes you cry even harder.

“I get it.” His lips are warm against your forehead, hand cupping around the back of your head. “I miss her, too.”

You’re not sure when he makes you leave the washroom. But once he does he brings you down to the kitchen, giving Gabi and Falco each a pat on their heads. You give them a smile, tears still fresh in your eyes, before gathering the torn pieces of the calendar in your bruised hands.

Maybe you can fix this. It’s the fifth of September, after all. Not a day you want to forget just yet.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear on my life. I wanna rip those pages out but I’ll lose the other letters and I don’t want to lose them like I lost you.

I don’t hate you. You’re not selfish, you never were. I know you did the best you could as Commander of the Survey Corps, with the incredible weight on your shoulders. Your main priority was always keeping us safe and giving us hope.

I know why you left that day. But I wish you hadn’t left me behind. I could’ve gone with you, helped you out that day. We could still be together dead or alive.

I love you. I wish I could’ve said it when you were still alive with me. I wish I could say it to your face instead of writing it down in a dusty old notebook.

I love you. I miss you. I wish I could see your smile one last time. Hear your voice again. See the beautiful shine in your eyes.

Because I love you, and I always have. Maybe someday I’ll see you again and tell you face-to-face. Maybe by then I won’t be such a coward.

Hope you enjoy your birthday up there.

Every day brings something new. Smells, tastes, sounds, even the wind outside is different every day. People passing each other hour after hour, car horns filling your ears, the sting of smoke deep in your lungs; it’s easy to get lost in the atmosphere.

You take it in stride. Onyankopon is standing there, holding out his hand, ready to guide you deeper into the city. He’s offered to carry your suitcase but you insisted you do it yourself; too many memories are stuffed in between the clothes inside.

You suck in a breath and take his hand. A little awkward, with a suitcase in your other hand, and the old tattered notebook resting in the crook of your elbow. But the damn thing has already wormed its way into your heart, no way are you leaving it behind now.

A tight swallow, a soft smile from Onyankopon, as you let him lead you towards the next chapter of your life.

City life isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. It’s busy and crowded but it keeps me looking forward. No time to dwell on the past here. Maybe that’s why Onyankopon was so adamant about me living here.

There’s a bookstore here, much larger than the one back home where Levi and the kids live. It pays well, the owner’s nice, and she lets me borrow some of her own books from her personal collection from time to time.

She wears glasses too—not as cute as yours, though.

I try to visit Levi and the kids every other weekend. Gabi and Falco come to visit once in a while but Levi always stays behind. Blames it on the bad leg but we both know the truth. Too many bad memories of Mitras has made him wary of crowded cities.

But I like it. I have my own apartment, right next door to Onyankopon’s, with a balcony and a slew of potted plants. Onyankopon says some people like to name their plants just for the fun of it. The two sitting on the windowsill are Sawney and Bean. (You’re welcome, silly girl.)

It’s hard work but I’m getting better. I don’t dread writing in this book anymore. I can think of your smile without bursting into tears. For now I’m content to sit back and enjoy city life, until whatever god watching over us decides my time is up.

I promise to write soon; have to head to work now. I’ll be back.

It’s been a year since you left me. I still want to see you again.

Onyankopon and I are heading into town for a few days to visit Levi. He says he doesn’t need help around the shop but he never complains whenever I show up at his door. Sometimes I wonder if he feels obligated to put up with me. If he thinks you’ll haunt him forever if he turns me away. That sounds like something you would do, silly girl.

I had another dream about you last night. Right after the celebration for Shiganshina, the night before the expedition to reclaim Wall Maria. We were laughing and drinking and sharing old stories—but we weren’t alone. Erwin and Levi were there. So was Moblit, and by some miracle, so were Mike and Nanaba.

I hope we’ll all be together again soon. I hope they’re all watching us, waiting to see what we’ll do with this new world we’ve forged for ourselves.

I know you are. You’re always watching, aren’t you?

I have to go now, or Onyankopon will head out without me. I’ll let you know how Levi and the kids are when I come home.

Miss you more every day. I hope I’ll get to see you again soon. Until then, I’ll just have to keep writing these silly little letters. I think you’d like them anyways.

See you later, Hanji.

It’s bright when you open your eyes. Too bright, a soft breeze kissing your cheeks, nose scrunching up as you shield your face with your hands. Funny, you don’t remember leaving the window open when you fell asleep. Or sleeping outside, for that matter.

You’re lying in the grass, a bed of wildflowers sprawled beneath you. There’s a forest at the edge of the valley, close enough for you to see the shadows of animals spilling across the trees. The sun is warm on your skin, so bright and beautiful, not a single cloud in the sky.

Almost too good to be true.

Is this it? Have you finally reached the end of your line? All those days with Levi, Onyankopon, and the kids, moving from town to city for work, seeing what little of the new world you could for both you and your other half…

Has your time finally run out?

“Hey, over here!”

Your blood freezes in your veins. A shadow crosses yours in the warm sunlight. A heavy cape blows in the wind, a dark green to match the forest beyond the meadow.

A pair of wings splashed against the fabric. Messy brown hair tied up haphazardly. Shiny glasses reflecting in the sun. Warm brown eyes that remind you of home.

“I was wondering when you’d get here. It’s been kinda lonely, I have to say…”

Hanji Zoe is standing right there in front of you, looking as radiant as ever. No scars or bruises to be seen, nor the black patch over her left eye. No burns or charred fabric on her body.

She looks…happy. Safe, content.

Alive.

“…Dumbass,” you finally find your voice, rushing into her outstretched arms. “You had me worried sick! Are you hurt? Can I do anything for you? I swear, I won’t let you go anywhere alone ever again! I’ll be right there by your side for as long as you—”

“Hey, hey, hey, come on now! You’re gonna make me blush with all that sweet talk!”

But you can’t stop yourself. And before you know it you’re sobbing into her chest, arms wrapped tight around her wrist, feeling the soft b-bmp of her heart against your ear.

“Love you, you know that? I love you, so please don’t leave me again…”

You’ll say it over and over, as many times as she wants to hear it. But for right now she’s silent, her arms resting around your waist and shoulders, tugging you in for a bone-crushing hug. Her messy hair is tickling your nose again, her smile could rival the sun in the sky. She shakes her head and lets out a laugh, before pressing a warm kiss to the apple of your cheek.

“I won’t ever leave you again, alright? I’m sorry about that, I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to leave you like that…”

You hold her tighter, knocking her down into the wildflowers below. She lets out a real laugh this time, hair sticking out like a halo above her head, palms against your cheeks. For the first time in months—no, years—your chest feels whole again.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay, I promise, it’s okay…”

A comforting silence washes over the two of you. It’s so warm right here, in this little meadow of your own, surrounded by a thousand wildflowers. She’s finally safe in your arms, after all these years, and you are never letting her go ever again.

“…I love you, Hanji.”

“I know,” she answers with a smile that makes your heart soar, “and I love you too.”

#hanji x reader #hanji zoe x reader #hange x reader #hange zoe x reader #hanji zoe #hange zoe #aot season 4 #aot spoilers #aot season 4 part 3 spoilers #aot season 4 part 3 #snk 132 #snk spoilers #snk 139 #aot fics

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yeyinde · 7 months

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Haha, I also spoil myself intentionally, but for the plot of movies, tv shows, and games I’m not super invested in. If I accidentally spoil myself (especially if I learn a character dies) I’ll cope by telling myself “I don’t know how/when it happened though”

Anyways Major Character Death!!

I’m SO disappointed in them killing off Soap and especially in how they did it! No buildup or anything! To me it was disrespectful to the character and to Neil Ellice. And then the 141 don’t even say anything and it cuts to them spreading his ashes with a simple goodbye! They could have at least made them a little more upset 🥲 also I hate how abruptly the game ended. Makarov gets away, but no mention to that at the end.

I had also initially requested what would become infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) as a way to “cope” with 2009 Soap’s death because it’s always been on the back of my mind for years (weird, I know). But now after playing the new MW3 campaign I look like boo boo the fool because of who went and got killed off 😭 now every time I go back to reread it, it will be painful knowing what’s in store for reader for their current reincarnation of Soap.

Tldr I’m kinda not okay with MW3.

From what I've seen, it feels like they pulled it out of a hat. All names went in, but his (amongst others) came out. And I guess it's safe because he died in the OG, so the backlash can easily be deflected from within their own community when other fans come to their defence over this choice. But idk.

I agree with everything you said. It doesn't make any sense. It's jarring and misplaced, and canonically pointless. I'm not against character death. Grief is a powerful thing. But I just hate when it's so contrived and needless. It was definitely done for shock value over plot/character growth and I think they were trying to re-create the massive storm that happened when OG Soap died because they know they don't have much else going for them. It just massively missed the mark because: a) Price and Gaz had no tangible in-game relationship with Soap the same way Ghost did; and b) what does his death really amount to in the end? Nothing. It feels cobbled together and poorly thought out. It's sad when Portal 2 has better writing than your whole remake combined. Honestly, it's kind of impressive how little thought they put into this. I'm getting flash backs to DGG's Halloween.

If it's any consolation, the mythology I based the reincarnation off of in infinity would essentially just be neverending. An ouroboros. The events would happen much the same way. A knock on the door. Spiral of grief. A bog. A deal. Restart. So, you'd just wake up again and live life until whatever the old you made a deal with decides it's time to collect. You're forever stuck in a loop with your soulmate until you get it right.

The rest is just how I kinda wish it went, but this was getting very long because I have more thoughts on this than I anticipated lmao 😅

Personally, I think it would have been much more interesting if they brought in a new passel of characters and slowly chipped off the main cast in a series of horrible decisions that slowly begin to feel hollow and empty. That leave you, the player, feeling emotionally gutted with each new chapter because the choices previously are absolutely impacting the way they move forward, but they're too deep into their own revenge fantasy to see it until the very end when it's too late. Give me actions have consequences and every choice you make is directly responsible for someone's death. The realities of war. And what happens when you give a group of people the power to play god in countries they know nothing about. It would have matched the gritty tone they tried to go for with the trailers and actually served as an interesting conversation about war and how we tend to deify the military when they're just men with too much power in their hands. Instead, we have a death that means nothing. That arguably happened much too early in the series so the payoff is solely meant for clicks and reaction channels. Pointless.

And Makarov. A Russian Ultra Nationalist. I feel like that title alone says everything for me, and yet. They still somehow managed to give a Russian War Criminal so many wins. I'm just so irritated by it all.

#cod spoilers #mw3 spoilers #mwiii spoilers #call of duty spoilers #cod 2023 spoilers #SO MAD!!!#but also #it was a cheap way to get more engagement with their fanbase and theyre technically protected against backlash so #poor writing for the win (again)

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rexxdjarin · 2 years

Text

Captain's Log: Chapter 8

Remnants

Series Summary: The galaxy is in turmoil. The Republic has fallen, giving rise to the sinister reign of the totalitarian Empire, led by the insidious Emperor Palpatine. The millions of valiant clone troopers of the former Grand Army of the Republic are now blindly sworn, against their will, to protect a regime they once sought to destroy. After being saved from a terrible fate by his former-Jedi ally and close friend, Ahsoka Tano, seasoned veteran CT-7567 Clone Captain Rex remains loyal to the pillars of Democracy, freedom and truth that shaped the former Galactic Republic. We follow him now struggling to deal with the personal aftereffects of survival and finding his place in the galaxy alongside the only person he has left. You. The love of his life.

[previous] [next] part of Captain's Log series post on ao3

Pairing: Captain Rex x Fem!Reader (she/her pronouns used) Word Count: 14.2k (i think im physically incapable of writing short stuff lol!) Series Rating: Explicit (18+ only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT) Chapter Summary: A call from an unexpected ally reveals a truth no one expected and a loss that is difficult for both Rex and Reader to cope with. The only way to make peace with it is to see her for themselves. Sometimes hope is a dangerous thing. Chapter Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Oral (fem!receiving), p in v sex (use protection irl plz), Dirty Talk, Language, Dealing with Major Character Death, Dealing with Grief and Guilt(SAD!), References to Canon Plot, Political References, Canon Typical Violence

The inside of our cockpit was illuminated blue by the scrambled transmission playing from our comm channel. Every member of clone force 99 was crammed inside the space meant for two, including an overtired, bleary-eyed Omega, who Wrecker cuddled close to him with his wide bicep.

Tech and Hunter leaned on the walls of either side of our ship, listening intently to the message we’d received from someone they didn’t know. Echo sat in the co-pilot's seat and I sat on Rex’s lap, both of us occupying the pilot's chair. The message was playing on loop, all of us tirelessly trying to unscramble its meaning without the help of an astromech.

The voice was garbled and the image of the person speaking just a blur of whirling data until we could figure out the code that kept it hidden. But with the coordinates it came from and Echo’s vast knowledge stored in his implant, he knew who it was from. As did I. The only person who could possibly know I was missing.

“Finally! I’ve got it! Echo enter in the following…” Tech hurriedly explained, showing Echo characters on a screen. His scomp link clicked and shucked the gears into place until the holo recording finally popped up clearly.

The message was for me.

“This is your colleague and your faithful friend Senator Bail Organa. I don’t think I have to inform you that the Republic, and the galaxy as we know it, has fallen. In the past few days, I have tried to make contact with any surviving Republic senate staff, family and friends with little success. By now I’m sure you’ve gotten mixed up in something far bigger than yourself. Don’t worry. I haven’t told a soul about your absence. I’ve taken the liberty of filing the clearance paperwork that permits your transfer to a new job. Working as a private aid for me here on Alderaan. It gives your commandeering of my senate cruiser and your disappearance from the Coruscant chambers a believable explanation. After everything that’s happened, I need to make sure I stay in contact with the few people I can trust. You, and whoever you’re likely traveling with, are welcome to meet me at my home, the Royal Palace here on Alderaan, within the next rotation. I’ll provide you with food, supplies and a place to regroup while we discuss everything that’s happened and our next steps for survival. The Republic isn’t all gone yet. Not as long as those who remain loyal to it live to fight another day. I hope this message finds you well and that in a few days I hear from you, my friend. May the force be with us all.”

I sat up, numb with shock that Bail was looking for me. That he survived. That he needed my help. That maybe there were others there who would refuse the formation of a dictator-led Galactic Empire.

“Do we buy his story? Do we trust him?” Hunter asked, looking at me, Rex and Echo for reassurance.

“He’s a close friend and a freedom fighter. I’m sure he doesn’t like what’s going on with the Empire any more than we do. I think I want to go see him. Hear him out. Just to be sure.” I explained, remembering all the times he’d broken rules and defied Republic law to do the right thing. He was a noble man with a good heart. But even so, who knows the trauma he went through. Watching the galaxy fall apart could change even the best of us.

“We’ll go with you.” Echo offered, placing his hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to want support right?”

Rex stood up and placed me on my feet, grabbing my arms and shaking me slightly. “Cyar’ika…listen…I want to believe him. I do. But we don’t know what he’s been through. We don’t know how he’ll react to a group of clones landing at his house. You all can’t go with us. Your path is…different from ours. You need to take care of Omega. Get her somewhere safe and get yourselves off the grid.”

“Rex…come on, we could be useful.” Hunter offered, reaching a hand out to him. He swatted it away, a bitter seriousness written all over his face.

“No, Sergeant. I mean it. What her and I need to do…we need to do alone. We can’t attract too much attention. Infiltrating and finding survivors…brothers…I can’t put you all at risk like that. I can’t lose anymore of you.”

“Rex.” I whispered, watching him wince at the painful memory of the crash he still didn’t have the heart to tell his brothers about. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his shoulder.

I looked around the room at the identical faces of brothers who collectively did not want to let another beloved member of their family walk away. But if they ever stood a chance at a normal life, they had to take that now. Where Rex and I needed to go for information, they could not follow. It would be far safer for us to contact them if we needed to than it was for five rebel clones, a little girl and a missing junior senator to travel planet to planet rescuing the helpless.

“Rex and I will go alone. There are others out there. We need to find them and give them the chance at life that we’re giving you.” I finished my thought, looking apologetically at Echo especially, who would follow both Rex and I to the ends of the universe if we said the word.

“And I want to tell any surviving brothers of a safe place they can go where their family will be to take care of them.” Rex smiled, looking around at the faces of the brothers (and now sister) he hadn’t known long, apart from Echo, but had become just as close to him as his own men. They meant so much to him. Their survival as a family unit even more so, considering the decimation of his own.

Hunter sighed, standing up to shake Rex’s hand, “Okay. I can’t say I’m happy about letting you go on your own, but I understand. Take care of yourself, Captain. I think I speak for all of us when I say…well- we want to see what getting old looks like on one of us.” He laughed softly, his piercing brown eyes exploring Rex’s face the same way Omega did when she first met him.

“And take care of her. Though, I think we all know it’ll be the other way around.” Echo smiled, his fondness for both of us deepening the crinkles by his eyes and allowing him to smile and truly mean it for the first time in a long time. I bit down on my lip to hold back tears because no matter what, Echo is who I would miss most of all of them. And it’s no secret why.

Tech and Wrecker walked over to both of us to say their goodbyes, with Omega now right behind them standing on her own two feet despite her exhaustion.

“If you ever need to contact us, you can use the data pad I gave you. You’ll know how. I won’t miss it. Promise.” Tech said, his eyes meeting mine nervously as he removed his goggles to attempt wiping away a few tears inconspicuously.

Wrecker wailed, “Awh, why do you have to go?” stepping forward and scooping me, Rex and Tech in a giant hug. “I mean I know why, but it still sucks.” He groaned, trying not to suffocate us all with his desire to hold us close enough to him that we can never leave.

“They’re not going to make it anywhere if you crack their ribs first.” Tech sarcastically joked, pushing Wrecker’s arms off us with all his might and still not moving them an inch. Omega joined in the hug, wrapping her arms as far around each of us as she could reach.

“I wish you didn’t have to go too.” She muttered, tugging on my shirt and looking up at both Rex and I sadly. The sadness on her face hit us both harder than anyone else. All she ever knew was people leaving her. Each of her brothers walked out the doors of Kamino onto a transport, most never to be seen by her again. Even the Bad Batch boys got to leave for special missions at some point. Omega always stayed behind. It felt terrible making her relive that lonely feeling all over again. But at least she had the boys now, and we’d both rather her be alive to feel our absence than any other alternative.

I looked around the cockpit at all of them, wishing on every star above that they all stay together and that this wouldn’t be the last time. That by the light of the force, we will see them again.

We took off, dropping them all at the hiding place of the Marauder, making sure we synched up all our comms to similar frequencies and agreeing on a secret channel we’d use if we ever needed to find each other again. Deep down, I knew we would.

There was something brewing in both of us, especially Rex. A fight for greater survival was imminent and Rex was going to lead the way, with every person he ever met following in the impossibly great footsteps of the man they could always trust.

The Republic was gone but the clones remained. And Captain Rex had more than enough fight left in him.

—

“You know that cloak isn’t exactly a great disguise.” I joked, pointing out the obvious. Rex was still totally recognizable. No civilian looked quite that broad and alluringly handsome underneath scratchy burlap cloth. I’d managed to convince him to hide at least the helmet, which was a far too distinct hint at exactly which clone he was.

Even though Bail’s message assured us that Alderaan was safe, we still wanted to watch our backs here. Neither of us had ever been to this planet since everything happened and by now you can never really know who’s watching or whose eyes you can trust to conveniently forget what they’ve seen.

We landed our ship in the lush, dense woods surrounding the tall white stone of the Royal Palace of Alderaan. The last time I’d visited it was late summer and far too hot to wear as many concealed layers as we’d needed for our disguises now. This time around the temperate air of Alderaan’s spring carried with it a cool mist raining down from the ice capped mountains still thawing from their winter.

“It’s a good enough disguise. They’re supposed to be peaceful here. Besides, Senator Organa’s a reasonable man. I think he’d at least listen to what we had to say before…” Rex trailed off, reading my scolding expression and knowing to shut up.

“He’s not going to hurt us, Rex. I know him. So do you. At least a little. He wouldn’t have sent us that message if he didn’t trust us.” I assured him, stepping past a large trimmed hedge marking the entrance to the palace grounds.

“I think he’ll trust you. But he’d be well within his rights not to trust me.” Rex said, drawing his right pistol as we walked further into the grounds.

“Well I trust you. Which means he will too. He trusts my judgment. We can explain everything to him. We’ll need to if we want his help.” I brushed quietly along the length of the hedges, keeping out of sight from the lanterns that dotted the marbled stone pathway.

The Royal Palace Gardens were beautiful. Every kind of flower from every planet in the system grew here along with plants and vegetables used to feed those on planets that needed food. Alderaan was an extremely charitable and giving planet. They had eradicated all homelessness, poverty and virtually any suffering on their peaceful planet years before and took to helping others on their path to peace.

In fact, if you’d lived here your whole life you might never even know the galaxy had been at war for so many years. Most of the residents probably had never even seen clones in real life, apart from maybe on the holonet. Rex wouldn’t be recognized quickly so long as he kept the cloak on. But here, in the palace, no one was even keeping watch. Any guards were probably inside, if they were even working at all.

“I don’t understand how royalty can feel this safe, completely unguarded. We broke right in. There is ya know…empirical chaos going on only a few planets away.” Rex said incredulously, scoffing at such naive and poor defenses.

“They don’t believe in war or battle here. It’s perceived as completely safe here.” I commented, “I know that makes absolutely no sense to you.” I shrugged, finally coming upon the massive fountains and flowerbeds that stood right below Bail’s balcony and living quarters.

“It’s completely insane.” Rex scoffed, gesturing broadly to the stars above us. “They stay this unprepared; this is the first planet they’re going to take over. I just can’t imagine not wanting to fight.”

“I know. Peace often seems too fucking impossible. That doesn’t stop us from wanting to believe in it, right?” I smiled, stopping to reach my hand out for his.

He took it and sighed, “Yeah I know. I just don’t think you get there without having some fight in you. You’re proof of that.” He kissed the tops of my knuckles and turned to look up at the balcony. “That’s where he is I’d guess. Now, you know the plan. I’ll stay down here and wait. You go up there and talk, see what he has to say. If anything happens, you signal me three times on our comm channel. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m coming up to get you. We’ve gotta be smart about this. Always need a good exit plan.”

I looked past the brim of his hood and into the worry clouding his eyes. This was risky even if I did trust Bail, but we had to meet up with him. Figure out what he knows and see if he can do anything to help us. Rex knew that, but selfishly and probably more wisely, he still worried.

“I’ll be alright. I promise you, baby.” I whispered, stepping close enough to brush noses with him. I rested my hand on his cheek and kissed him slowly and passionately. “For luck.”

“We’re gonna need it.” He chuckled, shaking his head and softly urging me forward. “Go on. I’ll be here when you need me. Make me proud, soldier.”

I laughed as I walked toward the palace wall, “don’t call me that.” He winked in response as I shot my grappling hook up at the balcony ledge and hit the trigger on my gun. I soared upwards quickly, reaching the railing in seconds and hoisting myself over the side.

“I was beginning to fear the worst had become of you.” Bail’s familiar voice rang out from somewhere beyond the white curtains at the mouth of the balcony entrance. Slowly, he walked into frame looking no worse for wear than he usually did, but with plenty of concern filling up his dark eyes. “I was more than sure you were okay. I trust your abilities and do not underestimate you. But stealing a Senate ship and lying about coming here, now you’re a real rebel. We should all be so proud.” He chuckled walking toward me to place his hands on the balcony railing, overlooking the sprawling gardens, fountains and trees down below.

“I learned it from the best, didn’t I?” I joked awkwardly, meaning that I had spent enough time covering for Senator Amidala to know when it was okay to break a few rules. Bail did his fair share of undercover relief work during the Clone Wars too, but he was always just covert enough to avoid ever being detected. Being showy wasn’t his style the way it was Padmé’s.

“I am relieved to see you’re alright. Many of our friends were not so lucky. The clones’ betrayal was unforeseen and tragic. Many Senator’s aides like yourself died trying to protect others, like the Jedi and…the younglings. But something isn’t adding up, is it? Things are not as they are presented to us.” He started, looking over my face with knowing interest and hoping my reactions would show I agreed with him.

“No, they aren’t. The Empire.” I scoffed darkly, scowling as I imagined the horrible things I watched the clones carry out that day, the terrifyingly unhinged reaction in Wrecker, the free will being torn from their minds like the flip of a switch. It was all his fault. The Chancellor’s doing. Somehow the order, the chip, Fives’ death…the Chancellor was the common denominator.

For now only Rex, Ahsoka and I knew this much. It was probably wise to keep it this way, so instead I spoke of politics. “We’ve discussed this. You know as well as I do that his powers overreaching our own can only mean one thing. Our Chancellor is a dictator, Bail. The Republic is gone. Free will. The right to choose. Gone. From our hands, the clones’ hands, our people’s…it’s all gone.”

Bail stood staring at me silently, his dark eyes glinting with understanding and a bit of anger I’d never really seen before. “You’re right. No Chancellor has ever had this much power. Not in our history, certainly not in my time or yours. But you speak as if you know something I don’t. I know you were close with the Coruscant Guard, I’m sure this must be even more difficult for you. I remember how much you fought for their right to citizenship and freedom. I’m sorry. I can’t fathom how it got to this point. Their betrayal…doesn’t make sense.” He muttered, shaking his head and closing his eyes as he too probably imagined the horrors he’d seen at the hands of clones.

“You…know it was against their will, right? They did not choose to do this. They were made to. Someone…maybe even the Chancellor himself…planted bio-engineered chips in their heads. It was Palpatine’s order that they were forced to obey. He overpowered millions of them, just like he did all the rest of us.” I shook with rage, Bail staring at me like I was certifiably insane.

“Chips? I’ve heard of brain implants…cyborg types. But genetic chips? That’s…a bit out there.” Bail said moving forward to touch my hand. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Bail, I know it sounds crazy. But please trust me. I have proof. I swear to you.” I pulled Tech’s datapad from my pocket and showed him all the brain scans of the clones, the chip's location and the structure of the chip itself. “This is from four different clones. Same spot in all of them. I’ve seen what the chip does first hand. We all did. It’s twisted, dark stuff. The Republic should’ve never approved such technology. Not if they knew this would be its purpose.”

Bail took a closer look at all the scans and inspected them closely, before setting them aside to grab my hands. “This is where you ran off to. To research this? You can’t have done this alone.”

He tilted his head quizzically, trying to piece together what he knew of my life before and how it applied to my behavior now. He knew I had a boyfriend. Someone I was seeing. He knew I’d take off work or leave early during certain times just to see him. I’d always thought I was careful enough to vary the time I left from the time his cruiser landed on Coruscant, but apparently not. Because when Bail turned to look at me the unthinkable left his lips.

“You love one of them, don’t you?” Bail asked, a suspiciously worried glance looking back at me. “All this time, it was a clone…do I know him?” He questioned, turning out to look down from where we were perched high on his balcony.

“You do.” I responded, swallowing thickly and feeling my hands start to shake. Bail stood rigid, his body propping him up more like an erected statue than a man. He looked frazzled and exhausted, like he’d aged decades in just a handful of days. He turned his face to look down into my eyes, a subtle smile crossing his normally stern, fatherly face.

“There’s only one whose absence I’ve noticed. The Republic, well those of us who remain loyal to it, remember him fondly. Widely regarded for his cunning wisdom, and respected as a gifted, noble leader. A wonderful choice.” Bail guided his hand along the stone wall, glancing for signs of a reaction from me that could confirm his suspicions. I stood frozen, unsure of precisely how much I should give away.

I could trust Bail. I always felt I could. Yet, I couldn’t confirm anything yet. I wanted to hear how much he knew. To gather any information I could to determine if I could trust him.

Noticing my silence, he continued, “Well these days when it comes to the Empire, those of us interested in…rebellion…know that missing in action doesn’t usually mean dead.” He rested his hand on my shoulder and gazed into my eyes with the same fiery hopeful determination that I always saw in Padmé. “Tell me it’s him. The Captain you both knew.”

I gulped, looking out onto the Alderaanian Royal Family’s palace garden. Rex was somewhere amongst the carefully trimmed hedges and beautifully tended to flower bushes. If I gave the sign, he’d come for me, just like we planned for in an emergency. But from everything I gathered, Bail already knew he’d lived. Somehow he knew. If he was talking of Rebellion then we weren’t in danger from him, we were in danger with him. He wasn’t going to give us up, but he did expect something from us. And I don’t know if that’s what I want. If that’s what either of us want. Selfishly, I want Rex to myself. For us to continue on our little missions alone. Bail could probably help get us in places, but maybe it was for the best that he not know who else was involved with me or why.

I shook my head, unable to meet his gaze anymore. He tutted softly like a disappointed Father. A sound I hadn’t heard in a long time. “It’s ok. I suppose I understand the hesitation. You want to protect him. I know what that’s like now, watching over the people you love. You both must be careful. You’ll find the remnants of former Republic senators who were once sympathetic to the clones are now terrified of the lot of them. Of the dangerous power they possess. Those in the Galactic Empire seemingly have no interest in helping clones and have no hesitation when it comes to…exterminating those left.” Bail sighed, sitting down on the bench to our left.

“Exterminating them? They’re human beings…that’s…genocide.” I said, horror straining through my voice, anger bubbling in my chest.

“Yes. But let’s not forget that the Empire was formed through the very same means. The Emperor and his puppets have no issue doing so again. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you both better prepare yourselves for the worst. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was fringe conspiracy theory but…there’s talk of using those inhibitor chips you speak of as kill switches. To snuff the life out of all of them at once.”

“Like droids.” I whispered, sadly remembering the sorrow on Rex’s face as he realized the irony of them being as expendable as the Separatist army. “If the chips are removed…then that no longer works.” I explained, recalling what Tech had taught us on Bracca. The chip controls the brain and can command any clone to do anything the Emperor asked. But once removed, they are biologically normal again, apart from their rapid aging. We knew this was the goal already. The kill switch concept was just the final push. The rapidly approaching expiration date for our plans to work. We had to extract them for whatever few brothers we could before this plan was put in place.

“Ahh removing the chips. That is how he survived isn’t it? That’s very clever.” Bail closed his eyes, smiling softly as he placed his closed hands in his lap. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“It’s the only option. Otherwise they’re doomed for eternal enslavement. To them, that’s a fate worse than death.”

“Dying for the Republic was their duty. Although I never agreed with their lack of say in the matter, they found sacrificing their lives for freedom to be a great honor, no?”

“Freedom of choice is life’s greatest honor, Senator. Fighting for other’s freedom but not their own, being created solely for someone else’s purpose, the chips in their heads stripping them of any independent thought…they never had a choice. They didn’t have rights to their own lives. Dying for a cause is not an honor when their lives never had any meaning. It was as wrong to force them to fight for us then as it is now to force them to serve the Empire. Removing the chips sets them all free to live the lives they were always denied.”

Bail stood up with his eyes closed, his expression solemn and he reached forward to hold my shoulders. “You’ve come a long way from the little girl running intel to us from Coruscant’s criminal underworld. I’m very proud of you. What you say is very noble and very wise. I wish the Republic had shared your ideals when they voted on the creation of this army all those years ago…” he sighed, looking up at the moon illuminating the balcony and glimmering across the babbling fountains in his gardens. “Might’ve saved the universe from all the atrocities and horrors we’ve endured.”

“Seeing the love of your life come home each time a little more broken than when he left does that to you. They do not deserve the suffering we put them through. We all owe them. Freeing them is the only thing we can do that comes close to repaying them. Would your Rebellion stand with me if I spoke to them?”

Bail nodded his head, “I’m not sure how many of them share our passion for this. I’m not even sure many believe that the clones weren’t in on it from the beginning.”

The idea that they had somehow willingly chosen to go along with fascist genocide made my blood boil. As if my Rex would EVER do something so unspeakably horrific. If they didn’t believe the news out of my mouth…

“What if they heard it from him?” I asked, secretly hoping he’d be up for explaining everything to people I trusted.

Bail’s eyes widened, “he’d be willing to take that risk?”

I laughed, “You senators haven’t spent enough time around clones, have you?…he’d do anything for his brothers.” I glanced over the courtyard hoping to find some glimpse of him waiting for me to come back to him safely. If I took much longer, he’d get too worried to sit around and wait. Rex was always a man of action. If that action was giving a speech to convince senators to support us in our fight to save his brothers, then that’s what he’d do.

Bail hummed softly, understanding that if Rex would be willing to come out of hiding then this situation was as severe as we say. “They’ll at least listen if we vouch for him. I cannot yet speak to their ability to trust any clone enough to give him our support. These aren’t the outspoken senators we once knew. They are moving in secret. It’s all we can do now.”

He walked back inside his living quarters, opening a cabinet to hand me some water and food he had more than enough of to spare. I smirked, trying to imagine Padmé sneaking around to support a resistance effort. Totally something she would support.

“If you’ve somehow managed to find a way for Padmé to move in secret then I’ll be impressed.” I joked, taking a bite of bread for the first time in weeks. Suddenly, Bail stopped in his tracks, dropping the supplies he was gathering to the table and glaring at me with dismay. “What?”

Bail’s eyes closed and a single tear slid down his cheek. “Maker- you don’t know, do you?” He muttered sadly, collapsing into the chair at his dining table. I blinked in confusion, sitting down beside him and holding my arm nervously.

“Know- know what? What do you mean?” I asked, a sinking feeling pulling me down further into the chair. Like Alderaan’s gravity suddenly made me ten times heavier than I really was.

Bail Organa, the most stoic, proud and respected man in probably all of Galactic politics, emitted a shaky breath and a miserable whimper. “Padmé Amidala is dead.”

It felt like a rocket hit me in the chest, paralyzing me from taking in any breaths. Dead? How? How could she be dead? I felt tears beginning to pour and my body portrayed my shock even faster than my sobs could come. My mentor, my friend. Dead. I sobbed into my hands, Bail’s hand patting my back and pulling me into him like a comforting parent as I wept loudly.

“How…? When?” I asked, sitting back down in my chair and holding Bail’s supportive hand. He explored my face pensively, like he simultaneously knew everything and nothing all at once. Before he could answer, padded footfalls landed on the balcony, drawing his gaze away from me sobbing in front of him.

The white curtains framing the opening blew in with the wind, carrying with it the unspoken secret figure Bail knew was traveling the galaxy with me. The moonlight illuminated behind him, concealing the details of his identity in shadows behind the cloak he wore. The hood covered his face, his helmet stashed at his hip in a bag to cover it's undeniably unique markings. He loomed in the opening, both blasters drawn and legs parted, as he tuned into the sound of me sobbing only a few feet away. He scanned the room for droids or signs of any other people before stepping forward and removing his hood.

“Senator Organa, sir.” Rex spoke gruffly, still maintaining a formality he no longer needed to, but abided by out of respect anyways. His eyes were focused on me, shifting over the sight before him trying to make heads or tails of the situation. “What’s going on here?” He asked tentatively, desperately wanting to rush to my side to comfort me, but unsure of how his movements would be perceived. Was he seen as a threat here or a friend? Too upset to care about breaking the tension in the room, I stood up and bolted into his arms, resting my head on his shoulder and sobbing.

He immediately soothed me, his palm gently stroking the back of my neck to tuck me further into him. I pulled back and looked up at him with nothing but sorrow and pain glazing over my eyes. He scowled even heavier, the pain I was feeling made him upset too. “What happened?” He asked again, impatience filtering into his deep voice.

“Padmé Amidala is dead, Captain. I understand you knew her well. I’m so sorry.” Bail repeated, the tone of his voice softening into silence as he watched Rex’s expression break into heart wrenching sadness too.

Rex’s heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in his pulse under my fingertips. His grip on me tightened as we both collapsed under the weight of the truth. The sadness dragged us both to our knees, threatening to drown us in loss we couldn’t seem to ever escape from.

Bail let us sit there. I don’t even know for quite how long. But we sat on the palace’s floor and cried in each other’s arms. Her influence on our lives, on our jobs, on our relationship, on our galaxy. I wouldn’t have my job without her. I wouldn’t have explored even the idea of a relationship with Rex without her pushing me toward it. I wouldn’t have even half the strength, tenacity and courage I had to battle and continue on if not for the lessons she taught me. Her belief in me and the infectious power of her faith in the tenants of the republic made me who I was. Without her, how could the galaxy go on?

And Rex? Rex knew enough about her kindness and her compassion through Anakin. His General, his brother, one of his best friends in the universe. He had told endless stories about the quiet encouragement (and a ton of convincing of her husband) she’d given him to take the risk for me. To actually have something of his own. It was conversations with her while waiting for Anakin to come back from some wild scheme that helped him realize he was a whole person and he deserved to do things he wanted. She took time to teach him about political concepts that escaped him. She and Anakin together, even with all the trouble they’d put him through to keep their secret hidden, had made him a better leader and an even greater man.

We’d already begun to process the idea that General Skywalker was probably gone. There weren’t many Jedi left and one that great would’ve died trying to save the galaxy from the horrific circumstances we found ourselves in. But nothing could’ve prepared us to lose Padmé too. This was a hit we had not anticipated and it hurt worse than anything that had happened to us since the order was given. It was like darkness had finally penetrated the galaxy’s brightest star and took the last light of hope, freedom and justice with it. We were truly living in the darkest of times, with the beacon of good that was Padmé Amidala no longer here to show us the way out.

“How did it happen?” I spoke finally, holding Rex as he buried his face in my shoulder. I watched Bail slump in his chair, like he wasn’t fully prepared to discuss it himself. He ran his hands through his dark yet graying hair and exhaled slowly.

“We do not know for sure. Something happened sometime during the Jedi Purge. We think sometime during the Order…maybe she had gone to help her Jedi friends. She and…Skywalker…were very close. It’s…possible she went to help him in the end.” Bail muttered, wincing as Rex’s body trembled at the mention of his beloved General’s name. He pulled back, wiping his face quickly on his cloak and staring up at Bail.

“He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. And they would’ve wanted to be together.” Rex muttered, nodding up at Bail in acknowledgment. Bail’s brows shot up in surprise and he sat back, studying the intense sincerity all over Rex’s face.

“You knew?” Bail asked him incredulously, getting up to grab us glasses of water.

“Think I was about the only one they actually told.” Rex admitted, fiddling with the bag holding his helmet still attached at his hip.

“You kept their secret all these years? To protect them?” Bail asked, kneeling down to our level and handing us the food and drinks as a gesture of comfort.

“I would’ve died to protect that secret.” He said, chin up and shoulders proud, the way he always looked to me. The honorable man I knew, that those who spent little time around clones rarely ever saw.

Bail reached a hand out to Rex and patted his shoulder. “I understand. Trust me. I do.” He explained, looking away toward a different far off part of the palace he had grown up in. As if he himself was protecting something unseen and unknown to us. Something about what Rex said had changed Bail’s demeanor because he had gone right back to the statuesque regal man that accepted me on the balcony an hour ago. “You’re a good man, Captain…forgive me, we were never formally introduced. I’d prefer to address you by your chosen name.” Bail offered, proving to Rex in just one sentence that this was someone we could both trust.

Senators didn’t usually care to learn the names of their clone protectors. If they knew them too personally, it would be too hard to think about sending them out to their deaths day after day. Treating them as people instead of Republic war property would force them to confront the moral injustice they contributed to from the day they co-signed the GAR’s creation. It was dehumanizing and bothered me so much it led me to seriously question my participation in the galactic senate at all.

Had it not been for Padmé sharing my beliefs that the clones deserved equal treatment I’d have quit years ago. Bail shared our beliefs too. He even initially voted no on the army’s creation out of moral principle. Ironic that now he was faced with the task of protecting the very men he believed should never have been made.

Rex stood up, awkwardly offering his hand to the Senator, instead of the usual salute. Bail didn’t see him as a rank or title, but rather his equal as a man.

“Uhh…my name’s Rex, sir. You can call me Rex.” Bail shook his hand politely and smiled warmly.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you you’re among friends here, Rex. You both look exhausted. Stay here for the night and we can talk more about rebellion tomorrow.” He offered, motioning down a hallway where I remembered guest rooms being.

I picked myself up off the floor and joined Rex’s side. “Senator…we can’t stay in any one place too long. We don’t want to put you at risk being here.” Rex gripped my waist tightly, as if I could be torn away from him at any moment. Bail was right. He did look exhausted and upset, but was too proud to admit he needed the help we were being offered.

I ran my hand up Rex’s chest and stared up at him with pleading softness in my eyes. He sighed, looking around the palace to scope out an exit strategy. “I suppose we can stay one night. To process. Stay somewhere safe for once.” Rex nodded, finally agreeing to Bail’s offer reluctantly.

“There’s no place safer.” Bail smiled kindly, starting down the guest hallway and motioning for us to follow. I held Rex’s hand as we crept down the hall in a slow huddle, our soft footsteps barely making sound. Bail seemed familiar with smuggling people into his home. It must’ve been happening frequently enough that safe rooms were set in the spare bedrooms filled with indistinct clothing, the finest toiletries to get cleaned and bacta patched up with, and enough pillows and blankets to supply all the clones I could name.

Bail showed us to an empty room and left us alone for the night, promising he’d have plenty of things to send us on our way with tomorrow morning. As the doors closed, I turned on my heels and threw myself into his arms. We’d been through enough trauma for one day. All I wanted was him.

His large hands gripped the back of my shirt tightly as he held me in his arms. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” He muttered in my ear, “saw you crying, cyar’ika…didn’t know what to think.”

“I was just…upset. And I’m so, so scared. If she couldn’t make it, how the hell are we going to?” I whispered, biting down on my lip to keep from letting the sadness overwhelm me for the second time today.

He pulled away, lifting up my chin to look in my eyes and flashing that cute little smirk. “Shh. It’s alright. No more tears now. Just let me see this perfect pretty face of yours…and we can get through anything.” The pads of his thumbs smoothed over my cheeks and I blushed as he stared deeper into my eyes with that familiar craving warmth flowing through his brown eyes.

I knew what he wanted. Honestly after the giant bomb that was just dropped on our laps, just being with him and blowing off steam sounded better than anything else. And somehow I think he knew that too. That just being together was what made us both feel better. “Rex.” I giggled softly, “how do you always know what makes me feel better?”

“Because I know you.” He responded, running his hands down my arms to reassure me. He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of my wrist, lips plush as he ghosted them across my skin, hot breaths contrasting the tepid draw of his tongue tracing patterns along the pulse in my veins. Slowly, his fingertips followed his lips, peeling back the layers of the clothes he knew I was itching to get out of.

“Be with me. Here. Just us. You and I.” He muttered between kisses now trailing my arms length and across my collar bones. He helped slip the shirt up over my head and guided my hands with his down his already shirtless chest. Pulling my exposed chest into him, he floated his calloused hands beside the swell of my rib cage, heaving slowly with each bated breath. His honey brown eyes, still pooling with sorrow, followed the path his hands traced, only to flick up at my face as I sighed out in soft delight.

“I am with you. I always have been. Always will.” I rested my palm over the part of him where I lived, where no wound could ever reach, where the scars the world left him with would always heal, where the soul of a man created to be just like the rest proved his worth soared well above the call of duty for which he was born. In that precious warrior’s heart where he’d given love my name and carried it with him as his battle cry. Fight hard, love harder and on and on until the day is won.

And he always did. He never stopped coming home. Where others met death or fate far worse, Rex survived. Even when it hurt more to live than to die, Rex came home. For all that he suffered, he deserved a love powerful enough to help him heal. I’d fight as he did, every passing second of every grueling day, to give that to him. To love him. And I wouldn’t fail. Because he never did.

My hand caressed the back of his neck, my thumb stopping to massage circles into the taut muscles and I cupped his perfect cheekbone in the other. My fingertips slotted into the dips, curves and lines on his face like I had carved them all myself. I could feel his arms trapping me in his grasp, pulling my far smaller frame against his broad one. He covered the small of my back with just one of his strong hands and the other gripped tightly to my hip bone, his thumb hooking into the layers of clothing still hanging unneeded there.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes, ya know. Bare it all for me tonight, ok?” He asked, his voice such a gentle whisper he seemed to surprise even himself. “I just want…want you to feel how much I love you. You’re all I want to feel right now.” He pressed his forehead to mine and sighed deeply, the cold truth weighing heavily on both of us.

“I’m only following your lead, baby. My pants come off when yours do.” I retorted, bumping our centers together and making him audibly huff out a pleasured exhale. “Take me so slow tonight. I want to feel nothing else but you. I love you, Rex.” I said, tipping my chin forward to press the softest kiss on his lips and inhaling his breath as a reminder that we were still alive. Both of us are still here.

“And I love you. That’s what we have to hold onto. No matter what. I can’t lose this. I’ve lost enough already. We- we both have.” He said, shuddering as the words left his lips and brushed against mine. He crashed our lips together, as if swallowing the thought in a kiss would make it less possible. With every gasp for air, the flood of emotion resurfaced between us. The atmosphere around us filled with nothing more than the purest whispers of devotion and accelerating panting sounds as both our desires for the comfort of each other took over.

Lips dragging against lips escalated to tongues synchronously dancing in amatory rhythm. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and clung to him for the support I needed. As if on instinct, he lifted me off my feet. With one wide hand gripping my back, he scooped me up with the other to intertwine my body around his. My eyes were shut, neglecting my surroundings to focus only on him, to let him overwhelm all my senses. Every kiss felt like the dragging on of hundreds of days we’d been forced to spend apart.

Those days were over, but the familiar uncertainty of his survival in war was being replaced by soul crushing loss in the supposed peace now happening around us. As if the cold clutches of the dark side that now consumed the universe would allow us to live together but only at the expense of the people we cared about. As if in darkness love could only exist if loss had its fill first.

The desperate need for air between us wasn’t just because physically we were taking the breath out of each other, but because loving each other was the only way we knew how to come up for air. The only way we knew not to drown in the depths of pain submerging two lost remnants of the Republic.

He was so soft. Softer than usual. Softer than he had ever tried to be before. He spilled us onto the bed in the center of the room, lowering my back down and not moving his hands from me until he knew my body was supported. He hovered above me, my legs naturally parting to allow his body to slot in between them. I rested both my hands on his face, clutching onto him for dear life as he rolled his hips against the heat of my center.

“I need you. Want to feel you wrapped around me…hear those perfect sounds you make for me…only for me.” He whispered, trailing kisses down my neck and smiling as I sighed at his words. “Yeah…like that. Just like that. Prettiest things I’ve ever heard. Can you give me a little more, mesh’la? I’m feeling greedy…” He smirked, tracing the curve of my breast with his hand as he nibbled gently on my collar bone. He laved over the fresh bite mark with his warm tongue and traveled lower, placing fervent kisses in a neat line down to where his fingers were pinching at the budding hardness of my nipple.

I arched my back into his touch, moaning a gentle approval. “Mmm I like it when you crave me.” His lips quirked as mischief drew a wicked line across them, a teasing thought no doubt crossing his mind. He flicked the bud with his tongue, watching my skin erupt in goosebumps at the motion, before circling his lips around it and tugging. It was subtle and soft, but it felt so good. I whined out loud, my fingers gripping the back of his neck and encouraging him to kiss deeper. His tongue swirled around my nipple and before long he’d moved to pay the other side the same gentle attention. “Maker, I forgot how good you are with that tongue, Rex.”

He tipped his head up from its position on my chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Then I’m just gonna have to jog your memory, cyar’ika.” He laughed, the rumble in his chest a welcome distraction from all the gut wrenching trauma of today. And every day since he’d come back to me. His lips started trailing down the length of my torso, soft lips worshiping every inch of my skin and branding me with overheated kisses.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my bottoms and tugged them down slowly. Lust filled eyes glanced up at me as his kisses replaced where his hands had been. Each kiss dragged closer to where I needed him, my body trembling as heat simmered in my lower belly. His hands massaged at my thighs, pulling them apart to lay himself down between them. “Want to taste this pretty pussy…kiss you here until you’re dripping down my tongue. Is that what you want, mesh’la?”

I bit my lip and nodded, reaching for his hand and watching his eyes light up at my approval. “Yes, baby. Please.” I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone and scratched my nails softly along his scalp through his grown out blonde hair that was just starting to curl. He turned to kiss my palm, inhaling softly before running his fingers through my folds and circling my clit with a fingertip.

“That’s my girl. So pretty when you say please. So polite.” He cooed, hot breaths fanning over my wet heat. He dipped down and closed his lips around my clit, suckling softly and making a shudder ripple down my spine. Featherlight flicks of the tip of his tongue sent pleasure swirling in my belly. I bucked my hips upward, craving more of the delicious contact and he hummed. Strong forearms curled around my hip bones, holding me in place and preventing me from squirming.

“More, Rex. Lick my clit, just like that.” I whimpered, my breath catching in my throat as he thrust more pressure down on the bundle. The hungry eyes of a man who had not yet gotten his fill were gazing up at me, watching my face contort in pleasure at how he worked me. His hot tongue slid lower, collecting the wetness dripping out of me. His eyes rolled back in his head, his need to consume me leading him to trace the fluttering hole of my opening with his tongue.

I slammed my fist on the mattress as the overwhelming pleasure racked my body with spasms way sooner than I’d expected. “So impatient, greedy girl. Spilling all over my tongue like this. Tastes so sweet…all for me. You’re going to give me so many more. Aren’t you, my good girl?” Rex asked, flattening his tongue and dragging up my slit.

My eyes fluttered closed, tipping my head back against the mattress as he built up the undercurrent of pleasure all over again. “Yeees, Rex. As many as you want. I’ll be good. Promise.” I muttered, trying my hardest to push my hips toward him. He pinned them down with his forearm and spread my folds open with his fingers.

“Leaking little mess for me. Gonna make you drip more each time. Just so I can lick it all up again.” The bed was rocking beneath us from Rex’s hips rutting his painfully stiff cock into the sheets for relief. The coil in my belly was wound tight and painful, the pleasure rebounding faster than it ever had before. His tongue was delving deeper inside me, reaching just deep enough inside my walls to feel how it throbbed against him. He groaned, his nose bumping my clit repeatedly as he dug as deep inside as he could reach.

I could feel the white hot orgasm coursing down through all of my veins. He brought it on again, the torturous pleasure in my center gushing down to his waiting mouth at my entrance. “Fuck, Rex.” I cried out, my moans breathy and broken as my overworked body gasped for air. Broken sobs of his name left my lips as tears erupted just as my orgasm did. It felt so good I couldn’t help it. He hummed in satisfaction, collecting the drip I felt leave me onto his tongue. I gasped for air, my pulsating walls craving the delicious pressure and friction of his cock dragging against them.

“My strong girl…so perfect when you cum so much for me. Can you cum this pretty on my cock too? Want to watch you when my cock splits you open.” He groaned, his chest heaving as he lifted his chin still slick with my release. He reached down to tug at himself raggedly a few times. The contact made his head tip back and I sat up, chasing after him.

I slid forward to sit on his lap, sliding my slick along the rock hard shaft he couldn’t help but stroke impatiently. I pressed my bare chest to his and felt his arms trail up my back to clutch our bodies together tightly. I rolled my hips cruelly, smiling mischievously as our upright position made every part of our bodies touch. I tipped forward, resting my palms on the plane of his chest and whispering seductively in his ear “Split me open on that perfect cock, Captain. Please. I can always take you.”

He exhaled in satisfaction, more than tortured by my filthy words and salacious hip movements against him. His palms gripped the small of my back, guiding me into place above him. Slowly, he filled my insides to the hilt, making a low groan erupt in his chest. “Mesh’la…still so tight. Even after all I did to you. Oh fuck.” He hissed, slowly rolling his hips to start a building rhythm.

Each stroke was blunt, powerful and relentless. Our writhing hips moved together as one, a slow rocking that pulled him deeper and deeper, imagining that each time brought him closer and closer to splitting me in two from the inside out. Gut deep and pounding against my swollen walls, I tipped my head back and moaned his name in a drawn out, breathy symphony. “Reeeex…”

He groaned loud enough to match, watching me take every inch of him and losing grip on his own sanity to chase the high I was so close to providing him. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, my ears filling with the sound of his harsh, frenzied panting. “My perfect girl…taking all of me. You were fucking made for me. You’re mine. Always mine.” He rambled, his voice gruff and deep with unbridled lust.

“Always baby. Stars…Rex- fuck me.” I wailed, gasping as each roll of his hips forced my walls tighter around him. My thighs burned from twisting my hips in endless looping circles and sinking down on top of him so many times I could barely breathe. The pleasure in my core slowly burned through me like lava, white-hot, unforgiving and all consuming. Never before had he worked me up for this long, torturing me by keeping the remedying high of my orgasm just an arm’s length away. My body was slick with sweat, the slipping of skin against skin making his brushes against me even more frustratingly frictionless.

“Oh mesh’la I’ll never stop…I can’t stop myself you feel too fucking good…” Strong arms curled up my back, his hands clasping onto my shoulders to steady me as his hips snapped brutal jolts up into me. “Watch me. Look right at me. Love how pretty you look taking my cock. You fucking love it dont you? Tell me…” He demanded, his forehead pressed into mine and his eyes hungrily watched my face contort as I took him.

“Yes, Rex. I love it. I fucking love it. I…love you.” I muttered between needy kisses, our eye contact the only thing that remained steady as I gave all of myself over to him, my body resigning to his total and complete control. He smiled in satisfaction as I slung my arms over his shoulders and dug my nails into his rippling back. The drag of his cock inside me brought me sanctity and numbed me of any other feeling but this. Which was all we both wanted.

He crashed his lips into mine, breaking every so often to exhale in delight as my opening fluttered around him. “That’s right. I know you do. I know you. I…love…you.” He huffed between grunts of exertion, every sound he made ending in a whimper as the swelling of my heat around him made him more unwilling to pull out for even an instant. Our noses bumped, cheeks brushing as we moved as one, letting our dive into pleasure pull us both under.

I held the back of his neck with my hand as his moved to circle my clit, the perfect amount of pressure making pulses race through all my nerves and taking me just steps from falling over the edge. Every muscle in my body was seizing at once, my core screaming for relief he was so close to giving me. But I didn’t want to feel it alone. I wanted it for both of us this time. I moved my fingertips along his clenching jaw and held his gaze with mine. “Together, baby. Let go for me. Wherever you go, I’ll follow. Always, Rex…cum for me, baby. With me, Rex.” I cooed, watching his fondness for me ignite fiery affection in those deep brown eyes.

The burning tension in my belly snapped as his quick fingers jerked over my sensitive bud faster than before. His tip pricked up against a spot inside me so sensitive that bright sparks blurred my vision and tears immediately pooled up at the corners of my eyes. “There ya go, mesh’la. Fuck you’re right there, I can feel it. So fucking tight. So perfect for me. Mmmf, you’re gonna take me with you.”

My jaw dropped open as I struggled to emit sound or breathe air or do anything but feel him taking up all the space inside me that had once been empty. Every last inch of me that had ever felt incomplete was filled by him. His name fell from my lips in a repeated satisfied chant, soft and emotional and desperate for him.

I ran my thumb down his chin, pressing us into an open mouthed kiss. Our breathing in perfect synchronicity as we fell headfirst into our high together. His pistoning hips stuttered beneath me, sinking me into his lap and holding me there as we both spasmed in harmony. Inside me his cock stiffened, his body rolling as the power of his orgasm wiped every ounce of energy out of him from head to toe. My walls collapsed to receive him, the squelching wet sounds obscenely filling the room as I pulled him into me and held him there. I felt him jerk forward as he painted my insides with his warm release, a mix of us dripping down my thighs.

“Cyar’ika…fuuuuck…little more…” He grunted, dropping his head to my shoulder as he shuddered, spurting line after line of cum inside my spasming cunt. I ran my hands down his shoulder blades, cradling him in my grasp.

“Now I’m feeling greedy.” I teased, his pants and whimpers filling my ears as he fucked into me past the point of oversensitivity. The mind numbing tingling sensation spread outward into all my limbs and wiped away any thought that wasn't about him. I could feel him seeping deep into me, our pleasure hitting us so hard it was like neither of us could stop it.

“Oh Rex.” I sighed, slumping as the violent orgasm finally slowed. The clenching inside me released, threatening to slip me from consciousness with it. I giggled softly in the afterglow, caressing the lengthening hair at the nape of his neck. “Yours. Forever.”

I could feel his lips spreading into a smile against my neck, his arms gripping me into a tight hug. He lifted his head to gaze into my eyes again, always wanting to be face to face when he spoke to me. Because he respected me that much. “And longer.” He said, kissing my forehead and moving to lift me off him gently. I hissed at the loss, already missing the full feeling that overtook me seconds earlier.

I leaned back on my elbows on the nicest bed we’ve been in in weeks and spread my legs. The slippery mess he left inside me slowly dripped out my opening, making Rex chuckle with amusement. “You look too good like this. All filled up with me. I almost want to leave you this way.” He flopped himself down to join me, reaching down to clean me up with a washcloth he’d left beside the bed.

I grabbed for him, turning my body into his and feeling him protectively wrap himself around me. “Think you finally managed to tire me out, baby.” I whispered, closing my eyes as exhaustion pulled at my consciousness. Rex’s fingertips massaged up the back of my neck and he hummed his satisfaction.

“Sleep, my sweet cyar’ika. I’ll watch over you.” His words carried me closer and closer toward the rest every muscle in my body was craving.

“B-but…you should sleep…too.” I said sleepily, tucking my head into his chest and breathing in the scent of desire and musky sweat on his warm skin.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, you’re so pretty when you’re dreaming…looking at you is better than sleep.” He cooed, his hands traveling up my neck to stroke my hair so softly. I wanted to argue with him. To convince him that the palace was safe. That Bail would never do anything to hurt us. That even after all he’d witnessed and gone through in the past few weeks, he held no grudges against clones. He wouldn't turn his back on the men who had fought and died for the Republic and all its people, not when they needed him most. Rex was safe here. We both were. We finally had a powerful ally. We weren’t alone.

Rex really did need to rest and recharge with me. But he was stubborn and I was far too satisfied to keep my eyes open.

–

“Rex?” I whispered in his ear, my limbs tangled with his while we slept. I gently brushed my knuckles along his temple, leaving a trail of kisses after each touch.

“Hmm?” He asked, pulling the plush, expensive blanket up over his eyes. I chuckled sleepily, brushing our noses together as I kissed his lips gingerly. “You’re up too early.” He grumbled, the early hours of morning making his voice deep and gravelly.

“I think…I think I want to go see her. On Naboo. Say goodbye.” I muttered, feeling his hands pull me tighter instinctively. I thought about what she meant to us both. How none of this would be possible if not for her influence. The impact she had on people’s lives was immeasurable and irreplaceable. The hundreds of people who had given their lives for her over the years because they knew how important she was. How much of a difference she could make just by virtue of existing. We owed it to her memory to thank her. For everything. For more than she could ever know.

Rex was silent, his fingertips skirting up and down my bare back as his mind probably raced with thoughts of risk vs reward. Calculating how we’d get there, what we might face, if the danger was worth it to satisfy our conscience. “Baby…I know it’s risky. I know it doesn’t make sense but it’s…”

“It’s her.” He finished my thought, his eyes flicking open and resting his forehead on mine. His brow furrowed, his mind deep in thoughts and memories of time he’d spent with her. And his General. “I know. We have to go. No matter the risk. It’s what she would’ve done for us. They both would.” He sighed deeply, closing his eyes again and turning on his side to face me.

“I can talk to Bail in the morning. We’ll see the best way to get there safely.” I shut my eyes, ready to fall back into sleep cuddled up next to him. But instead Rex nuzzled his head into my shoulder and sighed. There was definitely something else on his mind. “What is it Rex? Talk to me…”

“I worry…about Ahsoka. She thought Anakin might still be out there. She swore she could feel something. But Padmé being gone too…this will crush her. She’s out there alone. And she probably doesn’t know.” He sighed, gripping my shoulder for comfort. “She’s too young…”

“We all are, baby. What we’ve all been through- no one should have to deal with. But we’ll do the best we can each day. Say a few words to Padmé for her and hope that someday soon she can go say them herself.”

“Yeah. I hope.”

–

In all my years of serving the Senate, I never stepped foot on Naboo. I never had time. The planet I served was Coruscant, the only place I lived for all my life. Coruscant was congested, smoggy, exhausting and overcrowded. But I did love it once. The hustle and bustle was exciting for someone like me, who always dreamed of one day living in one of the infamous skyscrapers that touched the clouds. To finally see sky and speeders and sun instead of fluorescents and neon signs and shadowy city streets.

Naboo was nothing like that. I had never seen so much color in my entire life. Everything was flourishing, lush and green. Flowers in every color I could imagine littered the sprawling meadows that surrounded Theed. Even the buildings were ornate, warm and inviting. It was a beautiful planet and it made all the sense in the universe that someone as star shatteringly perfect as Padmé Amidala was from here.

Rex and I absolutely did not fit in. We never would have in the first place, but especially not now. Not after being on the run for more than a month. Bail and Breha did their best to supply us with more clean civilian clothes, rations and such. They suggested we travel as refugees and dress ourselves as such.

Rex found an old helmet to hide his easily recognizable clone face and kept his most personal prized possession stuffed in his pack. I wore a somewhat tattered brown cloak that could cover my head if I needed. But we still looked foreign, plain and dirty compared to the endless beauty seen on everything from the flora to the faces of the people who lived here.

I did miss getting dressed up. Looking clean and organized and put together for some grand event. Meeting Rex in a closet or an empty room and watching him drool at the sight of me looking so good. I was tempted to do so now, just for the sake of blending in a little better. All of those times together, all that sneaking around was just a memory now. Memories tainted by all the nefarious things going on right under our noses. How naive we all were to believe we were making a difference. Even Padmé.

I recognized the gigantic green capped roof of the palace she always had paintings of in her apartment. The sprawling cobblestone streets were littered with water gardens, ivys and street vendors selling beautiful jewelry, clothes, fine art and foods. I gripped Rex’s hand as we walked through the crowd of the market we’d stumbled upon.

At the end of the street was a massive, stone staircase with statues of prominent Naboo kings and queens guarding the entrance. There, sitting at the center, was a monument dedicated to her. A newly carved marble piece that was her perfect likeness from the cascading curls down to the beauty marks on her face. It was her. There was no denying it. And that’s when I realized that this wasn’t a market. It was a celebration of her life. People gathered together to create something beautiful for a person that gave her all to her planet and her people.

Rex stopped, reaching forward to grab a poster from the side of one of the vendor booths. “They’re celebrating her.” He muttered, handing me the flimsy flier with artwork that had Padmé holding the scales of justice in her hands like she was a goddess sent by the force itself. It was beautiful work. And not far from the truth really. I folded the piece up and tucked it away safely in my pack to hang up in our bunk on the ship.

“Of course they are. They'll probably dedicate a month-long holiday to her. She was beloved, Rex. The best Queen they’d had in a thousand years.” I smiled, remembering the way she rolled her eyes and blushed whenever someone heralded her as such. She was modest even when she had more than enough accolades and accomplishments to prove she no longer had to be.

“Think Skywalker would’ve dedicated the whole galaxy to her. He was crazy about her. As long as I knew him…he’d put everything on the line, missions, ships, himself…he’d do anything for her. At first I didn’t get it. But-” He reached for the tiniest white flowers which adorned every booth on the street, the petals opening as he handed it to me. He brushed my hood back slightly, just enough to let him see the sunshine light up my eyes.

I felt my own face blushing at the gesture, even under the cool shade of my cloak. I wished I could see his face, the sweet, slight smirk that only ever looked right on him and the nervousness in his eyes as he waited to see how I’d respond to him. “But?” I asked, stepping closer to him and lacing my fingers with his. The foreign armor didn’t suit him like his clone armor did, but the anonymity meant I could be as affectionate with him in public as I wanted to without worrying.

He stepped forward, walking us arm in arm down the street toward the Theed Royal Palace entrance. “But…then I met you. Now I know the feeling. I understand risking everything for the people you care about. You, my brothers, Ahsoka. I finally understand. And I guess I really have the two of them to thank.” He explained, turning his helmet to pan over the street before us.

The vendor booths were behind us now, the space along either side of the street replaced by thousands of the same white flower Rex had just handed me. Some were old, browning and shriveled from neglect, but great care was taken to replace them by hand with bright, crisp new ones. Just like the one I held. These must’ve been the flowers her people left for her. That filled the streets the day they all laid her body to rest somewhere among the tombs the sprawling palace reserved for people as important as her.

The looming statue stood before us, the waning light of day reflecting off the pristine marble surface. I’d expect nothing more beautiful for her. The artisans and sculptors who lived on this planet must’ve worked tirelessly for days on this. It was her spitting image, donning the garb and heavy makeup she wore as their Queen but holding the symbol of the Republic in her hands. The very same symbol she had all over her office and in honorary medals and plaques she had always kept on her desk. This was how I remembered her. Even without being all done up, this was her. Their Queen.

“It’s perfect. Not a hair out of place.” I whispered, resisting the urge to touch the work of art. To feel if maybe it could convey her pulse the way it did her spirit. Rex slung his arm over my shoulders and pulled me into him, rubbing my arm comfortingly.

“It is. He would’ve loved it too. The whole 501st- well hell almost every clone I knew thought she was an angel. For a lot of us, she was the first woman we’d ever really seen, who looked at us back. She was so kind, supportive…she saw us as men. Never treated us any different. Fought for us on her own battlefield like we were lives that actually deserved defending.”

“You should’ve seen how she talked about Anakin. And you. She spoke out, using her every breath to try to bring an end to this war faster. If only so she could bring you all home. Especially her Ani. I’ve never seen love like that before. Not before I’d met her. I don’t remember my parents, Rex. Not really anymore. But I remember Padmé showing me the way. Taking my hand and guiding me forward into a world of caring for others like she did.” I felt the tears beginning to pool at the corners of my eyes, sniffling as I realized she was every bit the parent, the mother I never had.

“They were unstoppable together. There’s nothing they could not accomplish fighting side by side. She fought at the Battle of Geonosis. My first battle. She could outrank us all.” He laughed softly, looking up at the statue and quieting down. The realization that they were both gone was finally hitting home. His General would never have left this galaxy without her. He was gone and although this funeral, this celebration, was for her. In Rex’s mind, it was for Anakin too.

I looked around for the continuation of the white flowers swirling in the breeze down the path her funeral procession must’ve taken. A long winding dirt path crossed over the river that ran alongside Theed Palace. To the final resting place, her tomb. The sun was sinking fast over the green domed buildings of the city, painting the sky pastel hues of pink, purple and orange against the cobblestone structures. I turned to Rex, the tears brimming in my eyes glittering in the sunset. I motioned down the path for him to follow. It was time.

He nodded and walked forward, holding my hand tightly in his as we headed down the path, both of us trying hopelessly to keep it together. At least he had a helmet on, anyone could see the sorrow screwing up my face from a thousand clicks away. There were so many things I wanted to say roiling in my mind. I could barely think. Rex probably felt the same, though he was a lot better with words under pressure than he’d ever admit.

The number of people around us dwindled down to nothing, the beauty of the evening calling people away from the saddest place on the planet and into the arms of loved ones they still had the privilege of holding close. A privilege Rex and I were clearly only afforded a finite amount of. The path we traveled on was freshly worn from the thousands of people who’d walked it to say their goodbyes. It must have been fairly recent that they carried her here. The procession couldn’t have been more than a few days ago.

The worn footsteps digging into the fresh dirt stopped at a modest building with the same stone columns and green capped roof. Two sandstone pillars framed the entry to the closed final resting place of the larger than life person it was constructed to contain. In the center of the entryway was a statue even more beautifully lifelike than the last.

It was meant to be identical to the fantastic, idyllic size of the one on the palace steps. Yet this one felt alive. The determination and compassion carved into the eyes on her face was so real I could almost see her blink. We both stopped in our tracks, completely frozen in place. The image of her before us guarding the way in felt more believable than the idea of her cold, lifeless body hidden away from the world inside.

I stepped forward, unafraid to touch this statue, reaching out to hold what was left of the woman I knew. Although it looked like her, dressed like her, resembled her face, it was just stone. She was no longer as real as she was in our memories. And like that the waterworks came again. I wrapped my arms around myself, letting tears fall as I processed what she meant to me. How going on in life, especially at a time like this, without her will be the hardest thing I’ll ever do.

“Padme. My mentor. My fearless leader. The Mother I knew. My most compassionate, loving friend. It…feels like I was carried here today on the wings of your spirit. By the light that you taught me to follow. That you taught me to see. To say you’d be proud of what I’ve done for others up to now would be an understatement. I finally understand the gratifying power of dedicating your life to others. The galaxy now is a twisted, dark and warped place. We always knew dictatorship was a frightful thing. I’m almost glad you aren’t here to see what it has become. I wish we’d seen it coming. A life without freedom to choose is no life at all. I know it would’ve broken your heart to watch the Republic go down a path you could not follow. But we, Rex and I…we won’t give up. Fighting for the people that need us…for the people we love is the greatest lesson you could’ve ever taught me. And I’m sorry that fighting to protect him is how you died. It shouldn’t have been this way. Not for you. Not for any of us. Padme, I promise that no matter what we do, we’ll fight for the voiceless. For the rights of the innocent. For every brother Rex has and for every person who believes in the democracy you built…we won’t let that liberty die. I hope that wherever you are, Anakin is with you. I don’t think he could bear to live any life without you, the love of his life. I know I couldn’t go on without mine. I’ll love you always. Goodbye, my friend. May the Force be with you both.”

I heaved for air, stepping back to look up at the statue again, as if I was expecting her voice to carry out of it in response. Rex walked up beside me, pulling me into his chest and holding me tightly. He knew well enough that right now words weren’t needed. He just had to hold me, be there. To be the proof that good things do still exist out there somewhere. That all the light in the galaxy hasn’t died yet. Not as long as he stood here beside me.

He held me for a long time, letting me sob hard enough to wet his shirt with my tears. His chest was stuttering, the threat of his own tears falling making his breathing ragged and unfulfilling. He tore the helmet off, tossing it at his side, disregarded and unimportant. I looked up at him and for the first time saw him in a kind of pain no one ever wants to witness in the love of their life. His brown eyes were clouded with misery, biting down on his bottom lip to hold back the tears he’d always been too proud to shed. He looked too young, far too young to know loss of this magnitude.

His shoulders fell and he pushed himself away from me, stepping forward and slumping to his knees before her. He pulled his real helmet from his bag and sat it at her feet, his reflection staring back. His ungloved fingers buried themselves in the ground at either side of him, collecting the downtrodden dirt between his fists.

“...I’m sorry, Senator. Padme. At every turn, I have failed you. Your army failed you. The Republic was ours to protect, yet it was us who they used to make it fall. The Jedi are gone and it was by our own hands. It’s my fault. My General, my brother, your husband is dead. Killed by his own men, my men. And it’s my fault. Because a weapon for destruction is all I was ever supposed to be. Our existence was a curse from the very beginning. No matter what, everything I promised you both was always doomed to fail. Because I’m not a hero. I’m just a clone. And I’m sorry that who I chose to be could never be more than that. I expected to lose a lot of men. I expected to die in war, not survive amongst the ashes it created. It should be you both standing here to bury me. I’m sorry I could protect your secret better than I could protect you.” He hung his head, unable to look up at her face anymore.

Without thinking, I fell to my knees beside him. I cradled him in my arms and felt him let loose in my arms. He jerked softly as he silently cried, the guilt of surviving eating him alive. I rested my cheek on his and let the stability of my chest guide his breaths to calm him down. No man should have to live with the doomed fate of the lost galaxy on his shoulders. Not even men built to outlast it all could bear its weight.

His helmet sat at her feet, the dark visor staring back at him almost mockingly as he sobbed on his knees. Suddenly, a misted cloud of fog slipped away, the final light of the setting sun glinted blindingly on the reflective surface. It was like Padmé herself had emerged from beyond to flash a beacon of hope onto the one man who needed it most. She always did have a way of finding the solution to any problem. And it seemed that even from out there in the mystery of the cosmos, she’d found one again. In him. She saw what I did. A man who despite the odds refused to step aside. A man who was once again the Queen’s hope to lead the worthy forward into the light.

He stuck his hand into the ray of sunset, looking back at the source of it and closing his eyes. With a sigh, he picked up his helmet again, tucking it under his arm and picking up a loose cobblestone beside the left pillar. With a knife he dug out of his bag, he carved into the stone, with only that last ray of sun to light his way.

“A secret kept is a promise unbroken. For the light that led the Republic was always with you.” He signed it, The Captain, before tracing his jaig eyes mark very lightly underneath it. The message was cryptic and probably indistinct to anyone who didn’t know well enough. But it was perfect. The secret was their marriage. Rex had kept it always, even past the time of their deaths. The light that led the Republic was the way I had always referred to her in a poetic sense. Her generous yet fierce heart fighting for all the good that was left in the galaxy. But it could also be interpreted another way, by only those who knew enough to understand it.

To Rex, to all the clones really, the light that led the Republic was their General. Anakin Skywalker was the Hero With No Fear, most especially to his men. He cared for all of them, fought with them side by side for years, encouraged them to think for themselves, follow their best instincts, defy the rules and be their own men. Real men. Not numbers. But, as Rex came to find out, in all that time Anakin’s heart was with her. Always. Both heroes to the Republic in their own right had found themselves devoted to each other too. And Rex knew that secret before anyone else. They trusted him with that. For he knew loyalty like no other. Not because he was bred to but because that’s who he chose to be. Their most loyal Captain.

The message was left on a loose brick tucked into the cobblestone pillar holding up the building housing her final resting place. It was inconspicuous enough to be ignored by most, but the right eyes would find it. Force knows they always seemed to.

As suddenly as we arrived, we had to go. The beauty of the planet from before had seemed to go cold as night fell upon the outskirts of the palace. Rex and I walked hand in hand for a long time in solemn silence, following the dirt path along the length of the river that led back to our ship docked in the outskirts of the swamps.

By the time we reached our ship, the murky twilight of the swamp had us soaked in mist and beyond ready to leave this planet behind for good. Rex removed his helmet as we climbed up the ramp, wiping his eyes with the heels of his palms and guiding us both into the comforting warmth of our beaten up old freighter. Never before had this ship seemed so homey.

–

Notes: I am so, so sorry for the pain and the sad. I cried many, many times writing a lot of this and I genuinely hope this is the last very draining sad bit for a long while for these two.

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#wip captains log chapter 8 #wip captains log #captain rex x f!reader #captain rex x you #captain rex x reader #captain rex x fem!reader #post order 66 #post order 66 rex #captain rex smut #the clones smut #star wars fanfiction

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azucarian · 3 years

Text

Second part to my idea of how Tokyo Revengers could possibly end (First part here)

MANGA SPOILERS(?)

TR ; mental illness, major character death

A world without Hanagaki Takemichi felt unnaturally bland - anyone would admit. It had only been days since he passed away and yet the impact of his death was so blatantly apparent.

Mikey and Draken had explained to each of their friends that Takemichi had passed away - but, by far, the worst reactions came from Hinata and Chifuyu. The moment the news slipped from their lips, Hinata asked them if they were joking and, if they were, it wasn’t funny. Neither knew how to react, and averting their gazes. Chifuyu just broke down into silent sobs - he could tell instantly by their pale complexions and the dark eyebags under Draken’s usually clear eyes.

Mikey whispered apologies, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - I couldn’t save him, I didn’t save him— ” Hinata didn’t let him finish and simply cried, realising the severity - her boyfriend, her happiness, was dead. She embraced Mikey, and he held her tightly in turn.

The funeral caused agony for everyone involved - especially as Takemichi's mother collapsed to her knees, screaming "my baby" through her tears. As a mother, she felt as if she had failed - and no one would be able to convince her otherwise. Hinata approached the casket, hardly holding it together - but her hands shook as they pressed themselves against the wooden structure holding her late boyfriend.

“Come on, Takemichi... Now’s the time to tell me you’re joking—” Those words broke everyone else into an endless stream of wailing, tears and regrets.

I feel as if Hinata would never truly get over his death - especially considering she still loved him twelve years into the future. She would likely be placed on medication, or be consistently seeing a therapist, due to her claiming that she had “gone on days out” with Takemichi (which was obviously impossible).

Mikey would become Hinata’s support - he felt as if he owed that much to Takemichi. He would do an all-round trip to everyone’s graves every week - first to Shinichiro, then to Emma, then a small visit to Izana’s, then to Baji’s.

Then he’d finally sit down for a few hours to tell Takemichi about his week. How much he misses him “I wish you could see how everyone was doing, Takemitchy— We all miss you like crazy. Mitsuya made you this memorial blanket, look—” And he’d show the sewn fabric to the grave. There would likely be with something cheesy like ‘Toman’s Little Hero’ or ‘Crybaby Hero’ on the front, or stitched into the corner. Mikey would definitely be in tears by the end of it, blurting his regrets - and it always made him feel better (it made him believe that Takemichi was comforting him, even beyond the grave).

Chifuyu would always make it a habit to visit his grave weekly too - and (in the future), occasionally, he was joined by Kazutora (especially on days where the pet store was closed). He’d always bring a new puppy or kitten along, because he knew Takemichi would appreciate it if he knew. Kazutora always paid his sincerest respects, bowing so deeply that anyone would think he would break his back - he may not have known Takemichi very well, like, at all, but he was the boy who tried to save Baji from his bad mistakes. Kazutora could only hope they were looking after each other in the afterlife. Chifuyu would always light incense on his grave, and place his favourite snacks - jokingly saying how Takemichi couldn’t steal his food anymore. He’s another one who would cry, probably because of his own poorly timed jokes - but it was how he coped and no one judged him for it.

After the incident, Draken found it difficult to not scrub his hands raw - the staining feeling of his friends blood on his hands haunted him for the longest time (he only stopped when Mikey made him promise to, because Takemichi would feel upset knowing Draken was hurting himself). He didn't visit the cemetery often but, when he did, he came sporting a bunch of flowers and a few gag gifts (he wasn't great at gift giving, so he opted to be funny instead) "You're probably sitting up there worrying your ass off about us— Give it a rest already," although his words were harsh, a smile was on his face the entire time. He whole heartedly believed Takemichi was probably panicking and bothering Emma and Baji in the afterlife (if there was one, he wasn't too sure). He wouldn't cry, and he wouldn't rant - he'd just run his hand along the grave stone before he left with a "I'll see you later, Takemitchy". He didn't know how to appropriately express his sadness.

Mitsuya would always join Hakkai and Yuzuha on their trips to visit Takemichi's grave - mainly because Hakkai couldn't stand visiting alone. It hurt him to much to see his hero no longer living alongside them. The blonde had done a lot for Hakkai and his sister - but neither of them could escape that loneliness that came with his sudden death. The trio always sit and have a natural conversation and, occasionally, Mitsuya would pipe up with a "They're idiots, ain't they, Takemitchy?" in an attempt to involve him in their chatters. Oddly enough, Mitsuya always found himself sewing extra clothes - during the winter he'd bring a sweater to Takemichi's grave as a gift (although he was aware he couldn't never wear it) and always jokingly tell the tombstone how atrocious his fashion sense was "You dressed like a four year old had picked your outfit— Hell, even a four year old could dress better!". Hakkai and Yuzuha would always bring little trinkets that they found in the local markets - tiny figurines, poker cards, etc.

Other old members of Toman try as often as possible to visit the grave and offer their condolences - Smiley and Angry visit it together, despite not being overly close to the boy; they appreciated him and his loyalty to Toman and his friends. Pah-chin and Peh-yan visit with Pah's wife, bowing deeply and leaving cecelias on his grave before leaving. Inui occasionally asks Koko to visit with him but, when he's alone, he just quietly talks - knitting stupid scarves and wrapping them around his grave when he was finished (he was already used to grieving, especially after Akane).

Every year, on Takemichi's birthday, everyone gathers together for a celebration - over the years they've learned that, instead of remembering him for his death, they should honor his memory through celebrating his life. Everyone would get drunk, someone would cry, and many adoring speeches were made - a picture of sixteen year old Takemichi Hanagaki would be on the table, a drink poured for him as a sign of respect. As life continued, the ex-gang members started having families - and they all spoke highly of the blonde who had improved their lives. Their children adored Takemichi and his insane stories, inspiring them to be as courageous - even when they're scared.

Although he was no longer with them, he remained as a sacred memory to each of them - and they were sure he was happy with that ending.

FIN

#takemichi hanagaki #ken ryuuguji #tokyo revengers #tokyorev x reader #tokyo manji gang #mikey #tokyo revengers x reader #draken #sano manjiro #tokyorev #hinata tachibana #chifuyu matsuno #hakkai shiba #takashi mitsuya #yuzuha shiba #nahoya kawata #souya kawata #baji keisuke #emma sano

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 3 years

Text

Green is My Favorite Color Ch. 5

Pairings: Dean x Fem!OFC (eventual)

Explicit 18 +/Warnings: None in this chapter. Sadness. Talk of a major character's death. Eventual fluff.

Word Count: 4,805

Series Summary: Dean has been her hero from childhood, can she ever get him to be more?

|| Series Masterlist ||

Chapter Summary: Dean is gone. It's been 4 months. What is Julie doing to cope?

A/N: The fifth chapter in a longer series. I’m figuring about 10 chapters. (At this point, anyway.) It’s what I’ll call cannon adjacent. It will follow the general storylines through the seasons, but I’m creating my own offshoots. 😊

4 months later (Or 40 years for some)

Sometimes, in the mornings, she could lie awake in her bed for almost a solid minute before it slowly seeped back into her consciousness. It would take nearly a full sixty seconds for her to figure out why there was a hollow pit in her stomach. Where did it come from?

And then she would remember; Dean was dead.

Sometimes, throughout the day, her brain would be so focused on the task at hand, stripping, cleaning and reassembling the weapon in her lap for instance, that her mind would get quiet. The repetitious nature of the chore would occasionally clear her mind enough that a kind of merciful numbness would pervade for a few minutes, sometimes giving her up to fifteen minutes of respite.

But inevitably the last metallic click would sound on the pistol and it would be clean and in one piece again, and as though she took out a set of earplugs the noise in her mind would come rushing back in.

It was the same noises over and over. Just questions, dozens and dozens of questions repeated on a loop in her mind.

Where was he exactly? What was happening to him right now? What were they doing to him? Who were they? Was he afraid? Was he in pain? Was he alone? Did he remember them? Did he remember her? Could he see them? Was he hungry? Was he cold? Was he burning? Were they hurting him? How were they hurting him? Were they torturing him? If she spoke to him would he ever hear her? Did he miss her? Would he really be in that place for all eternity?

On and on the questions swirled, sometimes in a long line, sometimes repeating the same question over and over again. But always accompanied by horrible flashes of possible answers, images that made her feel a continuous kind of nausea.

And always with one particular question circling in amongst all the others; why didn't he tell her?

He was dead, he was in hell, and he hadn't said a word to her, hadn't even said goodbye. Not really. Not properly.

Julie's mind had been endlessly circling for nearly four months, since the day Bobby had shown up at her apartment door.

"Bobby!" she'd cried, beyond surprised he was there.

He never came to her see her in the tiny apartment she shared with Eliza. It didn't make sense. She always went home to South Dakota to visit; always happy to walk through the door and smell the mixture of old books, car oil, and baking that permeated the house. It was a unique combination of smells and always welcomed her back and made her feel happy to be home.

So as she hugged Bobby and ushered him into the tiny space, a small kernel of dread began to curl in her stomach. Why was he here now?

She brought him a beer and sat facing him from the end of the couch. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, instinctively and unconsciously shielding herself.

"What's up?" she asked, smiling at Bobby and praying he'd say he just happened to be nearby on a job.

But of course he didn't. He stayed silent for a minute and as the seconds ticked by, Julie's heart picked up its pace, beating loudly in her ears.

Finally Bobby looked at her properly. His face looked suddenly older, much older.

"I've got to tell you something. I wanted to tell you before. Really, I did. So did Sam. But he made us both promise not to." Bobby said, his husky voice low but ardent, as though he was desperate she understand him.

It was apparent who he was talking about, but Julie clarified anyway.

"Who, Dean?"

Bobby nodded.

"What did he make you promise not to tell me?"

Bobby closed his eyes. "I'm just gonna tell you quick, darlin'." he said, clearly steeling himself.

Julie felt her stomach clench and somehow despite the impossibility of it, she knew a second before he opened his mouth, what Bobby was going to say.

"Dean's gone." He paused and when he spoke again, the word was a quiet creak from his throat. "Dead."

Julie just stared at him, slowly shaking her head, looking at him as though trying to understand a riddle he was giving her.

"I don't...know...no." Julie concluded, her mind providing her the only comfort it could - denial. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Bobby swallowed deeply. "About a year ago...Sam died."

Julie reeled back, her jaw dropping open. Somehow this information seemed to make the situation completely ludicrous in her mind and she gave a broken laugh, like this was somehow part of a silly joke...

Two brothers walk into a bar - they both walk out dead. Ba dum bum!

"What? When?" Julie paused, then shook her head hard. "What?" she repeated.

"Please, darlin'" Bobby pleaded. "Just let me say it all - quick."

Julie bit down on her tongue and nodded, wanting to hear what Bobby had to say so she could explain to him why he was mistaken. He was obviously misunderstanding something.

"A year ago, Sam died. Killed. During a...a mission I guess you could say. Not surprisingly, Dean was pretty messed up about it. I mean, you know Dean, felt it was his fault, thought he should have protected him, thought Sam's life was worth a lot more than his."

Julie felt panic begin to set in slightly. That was exactly how Dean would react, the ludicrous story was starting to have a ring of truth.

"So, he made a deal. To bring Sam back. His soul for Sam's life and one year to live."

Bobby paused and Julie watched him rub a rough hand across his face, scratching his fingernails through his beard. Julie realized he was fighting tears and that was the thing that finally convinced her frozen mind that this was real. This was true. She'd never seen Bobby shed a tear, not once in almost twelve years.

If he was crying, it was real. This was real.

And if this was real, Dean was dead. Dean was dead. The words rattled around in her head as bile rushed up from her stomach and tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks.

"How...how did he..." a thought crashed into Julie's mind, suddenly catching up with Bobby's words. If Dean sold his soul then...

"He's in hell?" She said, practically screaming. "He sold his soul? Then..." Julie shook her head again. "Sold it to a demon? Like to the devil? He's in hell?" she asked again, trying desperately to sort it all out in her mind in a way that led to a different outcome.

Bobby just nodded. "We tried everything we could to get him out of the deal, but we just couldn't. The hellhounds came for him." Bobby looked as though he was instantly sorry he'd shared that last piece of information.

Julie buried her face in her knees, her arms coming up to wrap around the back of her head, all of it just too much. It was too much information at once, too much damage to her heart.

Hellhounds. She'd never heard of them, but did they really need explaining? What else could they be but demonic hounds who came and ripped away people's souls. Killed them? Mauled them? What other explanation would fit the word hellhound?

Julie felt an agonizing pain slice through her chest and for one wild moment she really thought she might be having a heart attack. But the pain wasn't physical; it was a tear in her soul.

Now four months later, that tear was still bleeding. She'd found no way to patch it up; though she'd tried.

After nearly two weeks of numbness and a kind of mental paralysis, she woke up one morning and decided suddenly and inexplicably that she needed to talk to Sam. She needed to know what he was doing. She thought she remembered Bobby saying that Sam was worrying him a little because he seemed determined to "bring Dean back."

Julie had let that information just wash over her, as she had all Bobby's words over those first days. She wouldn't admit it to him or even really to herself, but she was angry at him. Angry at all of them. Dean had made the decision not to tell her, but they had abided by it. Bobby and Sam had allowed him to get dragged to hell without even telling her it was happening.

Deep down she knew they weren't really to blame. She even knew Dean was just trying to protect her in his own idiotic way. But that knowledge couldn't stop her anger, or her feelings of resentment.

So she called Sam a hundred times until she eventually guilted him into meeting with her. He was a mess. She was pretty sure he was drunk, at least a little. He wasn't making a lot of sense. He kept saying he was going to try and pull Dean out through the gate, that he was going to open it.

"What gate?" Julie had asked, but Sam continued his mostly one-sided conversation.

"That's how Dad got out. That's what's gonna get Dean out." He nodded as though it was a sure thing. Julie had left his motel room more worried about him than Bobby had been.

Over the next few weeks she'd hounded him like a woman on a mission. She tracked him down again and again, showed up at his different motel rooms and played on his protective nature to make him open the door to her.

"Okay, Sam. I guess I'll just sit out in this poorly lit parking lot all night. I'm sure no one will come to bother me. Or rob me. Or kill me.

Or gobble me up!" she finished on a shout.

She was being dramatic of course and the look of death that Sam leveled at her as he wrenched open his door told her he knew it too. But he was worried enough that something really would happen to her, that he let her into the room.

And so it went, over the next while. She would track Sam down like a bloodhound and force him to teach her things about hunting. He was completely against it to start with, giving her the same argument Bobby and Dean had.

Being a hunter was hard...it was no kind of life...she deserved better.

Finally she had shoved his hungover ass backward so that he sat down hard on the chair behind him. For once she could actually look him in the eye since he was nearly as tall sitting as she was standing.

"Listen to me, Sam Winchester. I am going to learn to hunt. I am so finished with sitting at home, wringing my hands and worrying myself sick while the menfolk go off to war. So, either you can teach me some of what you know or I'll go out and learn it myself."

Sam scowled at her. She scowled back, her gaze steady and unwavering.

It may have been Sam's hangover that made him capitulate so easily. He didn't seem to have the energy or the verbal capabilities to argue with her.

So, as the months passed Sam taught her the life of a hunter. He started with weapons, how to make salt rounds, how to clean and assemble both pistols and shotguns. He taught her basic lore as well, most of which she'd already gleaned over the years, but it was still good to verify it.

After a while he began to teach her hand-to-hand combat. He moved slowly through the motions of a fight, teaching her how to land a punch with all the weight of her body behind it.

He showed her defensive moves and how to block strikes, panicking when he accidentally landed a blow she should have been able to block. He'd only been moving at half speed and strength but it still made her nose bleed.

"Jesus, Julie!" He'd cried grabbing a motel face cloth to staunch the flow. She was sitting on the hard-backed chair beside the table and he squatted in front of her to press the cold, wet cloth to her face. "This is ridiculous." He'd whispered, almost to himself, clearly doubting he was doing the right thing.

She reached out and yanked on his long hair, making him grunt. "Hey! Don't start. I'm fine." After a minute her nose stopped bleeding and she stood up, throwing the cloth into the sink.

"Show me that again."

Time passed and she learned things, she improved. Eventually she just started traveling around with Sam in the Impala, wedging herself into his life without giving him much choice. They didn't do any traditional hunting, since she was still a newbie and Sam was focused only on finding and killing the demon who had sent the hounds for Dean. Lilith. Her name and the fact that she often possessed little girls was all she knew about her. Sam's face got cold and scary any time she brought her up. So, she didn't.

Sam seemed to be improving too, sort of. He'd stopped drinking as much, anyway. He was very focused and more serious than ever. She missed his deep-dimpled smile.

He would sometimes take off for long stretches at a time and at first she thought maybe he was going off to be with someone. Now that she was always around, like an annoying little sister, it had to be cramping his love life.

Eventually, though, she began to suspect it was something more. For one thing, he was gone more often and for increasingly long intervals, and she was sure nobody needed to get laid that often. But he also began to change, he was more confident, more full of purpose. She just wished she knew what the purpose was.

But she tried to give him his space and privacy since he was allowing her to tag along everywhere and continuing their lessons whenever he was with her.

She checked in with Bobby fairly regularly, not angry enough at him to let him worry about them unnecessarily. He was still mad as hell that she was choosing a hunter life instead of going back to school.

They'd had a big argument over the phone a few weeks ago, when September rolled around and she told him she wasn't going back to college. Ever.

It was the biggest fight they'd ever had, arguments having been few and far between for them through the twelve years she'd been with him.

There was a part of her that felt guilty and like she was letting him down, like she was being ungrateful for the life and security he'd provided her all these years. But when she felt that way she just reminded herself that as much as she loved Bobby, her life was hers alone and she didn't owe her choices to anyone else.

A few days after the fight Bobby had called to concede defeat.

"You win, kid." He said, and Julie felt her throat tighten at the exhaustion in his voice. No matter what truths she told herself and how sure she was in her decisions, she hated that she was hurting him, making him worry.

"You're right. I can't live your life for you. You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess." Bobby continued. "It makes me feel better that Sam is the one teaching you things, he'll do everything he can to keep you safe, so..." Bobby cleared his throat. "And it's good that he's got you there too."

So things had settled into a sort of routine, Sam training with her for half the day and mysteriously disappearing for the other half. She checked in with Bobby every day or so and read as many books on lore and hunting as Sam could get her.

And through it all, through every day and every task, the never-ending parade of questions persisted like a hum in the back of Julie's mind.

Was he bleeding? Was he screaming? Was he crying? Would they ever stop? Would she really never see him again, even in heaven?

Why didn't he say goodbye?

She worried sometimes that, one day, she would be driven mad by the endless litany in her head. The ache in her chest never let up, and she was sure it never would.

But it did; the day he walked back through the door.

***

"Hey! I'm back. Finally!" Julie called out as she walked back into the room she and Sam were sharing at the Astoria Hotel.

"We definitely have to find a different diner." She continued as she jostled around the three bags of food and tray of drinks she carried, trying to lock the door behind her. She ended up holding one of the bags in her teeth as she turned the deadbolt and slid the chain in place.

"Dere wasz hardly anyone dere and it shtill took forever!" She said, words garbled by the paper bag in her mouth. She took it out and delicately tried to spit out the fibers of the bag as she turned around.

"Their food definitely isn't - " Her words ended abruptly as she watched Dean walk slowly out from around the corner.

The bags and both drinks crashed to the floor, soaking the hideous red carpet as Julie's arms went numb.

Her mind couldn't take in what she was seeing. She looked quickly to where Bobby and Sam stood, desperate for confirmation that she wasn't just completely nuts and hallucinating the man in front of her. Both men nodded, and Bobby gave her a small, encouraging smile.

Dean approached her and she felt like she couldn't take him all in. He wore a long-sleeved olive green shirt over a darker, army green t-shirt and jeans. His hair was short and styled in his usual spiky, militaristic cut. He looked like Dean. Exactly the same, he was exactly the same, which was of course, impossible.

As he got closer she tilted her head up to keep eye contact. She felt a kick to her gut as she feared momentarily that she was dreaming again. She didn't blink, sure that if she did he would melt away like he had in a thousand dreams before.

"Hey, kid." He said, his voice quiet but deep and full of grit.

Julie blinked up at him as tears welled up and fell over her bottom lashes. "Why?" She asked, her voice choking. "What were you...? How did...? How could you...?" No matter how she tried she couldn't get out a sentence, one thought just kept crashing into the next.

He smiled at her and seemingly of its own volition, her hand reached up and smacked him sharply across the cheek.

Surprise flooded Dean's face as he raised a hand to his jaw. "Ow." he said, and it was part statement, part question.

She raised her small fists and hit his chest, not at all in the way Sam had taught her to punch, but like a little kid throwing a tantrum. "You...just left...why wouldn't you..." her voice was cracked and raw, the heartbreak and pain of the last four months crashing over her and through her.

Dean caught her fists easily and she ended her tantrum by crashing into his chest and wailing, "You're such an asshole!"

She wrenched her hands away from him to wrap her arms tightly around his waist, fists now clenching and unclenching in the back of his shirt. Her sobs wracked her and she was slightly embarrassed by her lack of control as she shook in his arms, crying so hard she began coughing.

"I know I am, sweetheart. I know." He said gently as he ran both arms up and down her back. "Shh." he whispered softly against the top of her head as she sobbed into his shirt, soaking it. He moved one of his hands into her hair and let his hand run soothingly through the long strands.

After a few minutes Julie's sobs turned to shuddering breaths. Dean pulled back and looked into her face, wiping away the tear tracks that trailed down her cheeks with his thumbs.

"What are you doing, here Jules? Why aren't you in school?"

Bobby cleared his throat and Dean turned his head to look back at him.

Bobby shrugged, "Sam's been teaching her to hunt."

Dean's head swung back around to face her like it was spring-loaded. His hands dropped to her shoulders. "What?" he asked, voice low and hard.

He turned away from her quickly to face Sam and repeated himself, much louder this time. "What?" he asked, glaring at his brother.

Sam raised his hands. "Don't get mad at me! What was I supposed to do? Have you ever tried telling her no?"

Julie frowned at their discussion of her as though she wasn't there.

She didn't need to explain herself and she wasn't about to feel guilty yet again for living the life she wanted. "Enough." she said, pulling on Dean's forearm to get his attention back. He scowled down at her beside him.

She shook her head. "That is so not important right now."

She took a deep, still shuddery breath and ran her hand up his arm, resting it on the thick, round curve of his shoulder, marveling at the vitality and strength she could feel beneath her fingers.

"How are you here?"

Dean looked like he wasn't going to drop it, but Bobby stepped in. "Come on over darlin' and sit down." Bobby handed her a beer from the coffee table in front of him. "Might as well add your ideas to our pile of guesses."

***

Hours later they were on the road, heading down the interstate toward a psychic Bobby knew, hoping she could give them any kind of answer.

Sam was laying in the back seat as stretched out as his tall frame allowed, snoring softly. She sat beside Dean in the front, her mind still reeling and constantly worrying she was going to wake up.

She looked over at Dean behind the wheel and her breath caught in her throat.

God he's beautiful. She thought.

It seemed to hit her even harder now. Perhaps it was simply that she'd been living with the ghost of him for these last months, and now here he was, strength and power rolling off of him, even when he was just sitting, relaxed against the comfortable seat.

He ran his hands along the steering wheel, caressing it, obviously so glad to be in the driver's seat again. She watched his hands move lightly over the hard leather covering the wheel and couldn't explain why the sight caused her breathing to pick up and her cheeks to flush.

She stared at his profile, tracing her eyes along his straight nose and down over his mouth as he sang along softly with the AC/DC song playing quietly on the radio.

She knew she'd stared too long when she saw his mouth quirk up at the corner.

"I'm not gonna disappear, you know?" He turned his head towards her. "Promise."

He turned his eyes back to the road and Julie was grateful to be able to hide her blushes at being caught staring.

"Right." she whispered. She looked down at her lap before looking back at him.

"How are you?" She shook her head. "That's a stupid...is that a stupid question?" she asked.

Dean squinted against the headlights of an oncoming car. "No, it's not stupid."

He glanced at her. "I'm fine." He said easily. Too easily.

Julie nodded slowly. "Uh huh." she said, her voice unbelieving. "Sure. Just spent four months in hell and got pulled out by some force none of you can even guess at, but yeah, you're...fine."

Dean gave her a look of annoyance. "Well, I don't remember hell or how I got out, so...what is there to bother me?"

Julie stared at Dean's profile, silently evaluating for a moment before she spoke. "Well, even if you don't remember hell -"

"I don't." Dean said again, vehemently.

Julie nodded and looked back out the wide windshield. "Okay. But you still died, still got dragged away by rabid invisible dogs. You're still back on earth with four months lost. That has to be strange and scary. Certainly something more than 'fine'."

Julie saw a muscle jump in Dean's jaw, but he just reached over and squeezed her knee. "I'm good."

Completely distracted by the lingering heat left behind by his massive hand, even after he moved it back to the steering wheel, Julie let the matter drop and they descended into silence.

A few minutes later Julie broke it. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

Dean grinned wide and the sight of it made muscles clench low in her belly and a lump form in her throat.

God he's beautiful. Julie thought again.

He glanced at her. "I'll survive, I think."

He reached over with his right hand and squeezed her bicep between his thumb and forefinger.

"Although, you gained some muscles, kid."

Julie tilted her head toward him and told him with her eyes how funny she thought he was.

He chuckled lightly. "Seriously though, Sammy says you're good."

Julie was surprised. "He does?" she always assumed Sam thought she was one good punch away from getting herself killed.

"Yeah." Dean said. "And that's no small compliment."

Julie blushed a little. "Well, he's a good teacher."

"And this is..." Dean took a deep breath. "You're determined to hunt? There's nothing I can say to sway you, nothing I could offer you as an alternative?"

Julie shook her head. "No, Dean. Nothing."

Again she saw the muscle jump in his tight jaw and she almost reached up to run her fingers along his jawline, fascinated. Thankfully she came to her senses before she gave in to her bizarre impulse. But she also had a sudden desire to scrape her nails gently against the rasp of scruff on his cheeks. How would it feel against her fingers...against her lips.

She jerked her attention back to reality when Dean turned to look at her. Judging by the expectant expression in his mossy green eyes, he'd said something and was waiting for an answer.

Julie shook her head as though she was a dog shaking off water. "Sorry, what?"

Dean's eyes shifted to her lips for just a second, his mouth slightly open, tongue pressed lightly between his teeth. His eyes moved back to hers and she wondered if she was imagining the heat she saw there.

He cleared his throat. "I asked if you'd be okay with me teaching you some stuff too."

A blush lit up Julie's cheeks as her mind was filled with "The Things Dean Winchester Could Teach Her".

She bowed her head, clearing away her inappropriate thoughts. When she raised her eyes back to his, she was beaming. His acceptance of her decision meant a lot to her. "Of course. Dean, I would love that."

Dean nodded. "Good. I'll teach you all the dirty fighting tricks I know. There's no such thing as a fair fight when it comes to monsters. You take 'em out any way you can. And I can teach you how to hustle pool and scam credit cards too, cause hunting doesn't pay crap."

Julie smiled wide and scooted close to him on the seat, leaning her head against his bicep. He was tense beside her for a moment but then he raised his arm so she could duck under it and press right up against him.

His body was hard and warm and being this close to him again, close in a way she had never expected to be again caused tears to start falling, she couldn't help it. She shuddered against him and he squeezed her harder into his side, his arm a heavy weight across her shoulders anchoring her to the reality that he was really here beside her, safe for the moment and home.

Her tears dried slowly on her cheeks and she turned her head to lay her cheek against his chest.

Bon Scott's slightly nasal and gravelly voice sang Ride On quietly in the background.

(Ride on) gonna change my evil ways

(Ride on)

One of these days

The deep base of the song thrummed along with the ever present hum of the Impala moving smoothly along the black top to form a lullaby that slowly sang Julie to sleep.

She jerked awake barely two minutes later with dread in her stomach, her subconscious sure she'd dreamt all of this.

But Dean's arm was still there, his breathing was steady and soothing beneath her cheek. He turned his head slightly, and Julie looked up at him.

"I'm here, Jules. For real. I promise." He sealed his promise with a gentle kiss. His lips were unbearably soft against hers and she breathed out a sigh as he pulled back. He pressed another kiss to her forehead before he turned his attention back to the road stretching out in front of them.

For the first time in four months Julie's mind was truly quiet, not numb, not distracted. Just quiet.

And the lullaby played on.

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @foxyjwls007, @b3autyfuldisast3r, @myloversgone, @kazsrm67, @fangirlxwrites67, @kickingitwithkirk, @charred-angelwings, @hopefuldreamers-world, @siospins, @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp, @my-sherlock221b, @jensensgotyoudean @lyarr24, @akshi8278

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katexrenee · 3 years

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I’ve seen a lot of criticism over ACOSF since it was published — unsurprising because people were complaining well before it was out. I’ll be the first to admit that it was not the book I hoped for. The plot was weak and the character development was lacking, and I’ve learned to accept it.

One criticism I cannot get on board with is the complaints that the IC handles Nesta’s substance abuse. Specifically, these criticisms read as entirely opinion based; it’s painfully clear that the “critics” have little to no experience or knowledge on substance abuse. I have a professional understanding of substance abuse and how it relates to mental health, but I’m going to speak from personal experience here because it’s far more relevant.

SO. Let’s get to it then. People want to shit on the IC for how they reacted to Nesta’s drinking. So, so many complaints. Rhys is mean. Feyre is abusing her sister. They “gentrified” her apartment. They made her go to the house of wind. Cassian had no idea how to handle Nesta. Amren was vicious and lashed out. How dare they cut Nesta off like that. The list goes on and on.

Everyone is so caught up on complaining about how SJM dropped the ball with the character dynamics that they’ve missed the key point:

This is what substance abuse looks like. Their reactions, feelings and behaviors are incredibly realistic.

I prefer to keep my personal experiences to myself, but I’ll share a bit. I grew up with a parental figure who was an alcoholic (and recreational drug user). I watched one of my best friends turn into a drug addict as teen/young adult — there was a time where I saw her and didn’t even recognize her because of how sickly she looked. I slowly lost touch with other friends as they took a nose dive into addiction. My other friend’s (now ex) husband was also addicted to drugs. I also have friends who struggle with mental health issues and self-medicate with drugs/alcohol because they just can’t cope.

I’ve literally seen it all. Done the “interventions”. Sat through family weekend at rehab. Been stolen from. Found someone unconscious in their car (they survived). Found one of their toddlers wandering down the street unattended while my friends husband was high (DISCLOSURE: the little one was safe and the parent now cannot have visits unless they are supervised). I’ve enabled some of them financially and emotionally. I came to terms with the deaths via overdose years after I lost touch with friends. This is just the mild stuff, I won’t even touch on some of the behaviors that ensued from months/years of drugs and alcohol.

Why am I saying this, and how does it relate to ACOSF?

The emotional toll substance abuse takes on individuals and their loved ones is unbelievable. There is heartbreak, fighting, enabling, co-dependence, financial burdens, and emotionally charged interactions like you wouldn’t believe. What SJM portrayed with the IC and Nesta was mild to moderate dysfunction. It was not abuse.

Fighting over how to handle a loved one who abused alcohol and has risky behaviors as a result?? - this is a normal reaction to stress. This is not an example of controlling behavior.

Refusing to continue making rent payments? This is an excellent example of what it looks like to stop enabling someone. It was not an example of abuse.

Relocating someone who is actively using and lives in their own filth? This is a way of promoting safety and reducing the chance of future relapses. This is not an example of controlling behavior and it is not abusive.

Ganging up on someone and “forcing” them to temporarily relocate to a secure living environment? This is also known as an intervention. There is no equivalent to rehab/inpatient psych in ACOTAR, so sending Nesta to the house and having her work with the priestesses is an acceptable alternative (it’s fantasy after all).

Making Nesta choose between Illyria or living at the house to train/work? This sounds a lot like the typical deal of “You’re drug use is out of control and *insert unsafe or illegal behaviors* cannot be ignored. If you agree to seek treatment, you will not be involuntarily committed/incarcerated”. It’s a depressing reality.

Telling a loved one to shape up or that they will be forced to leave (aka go to the mortal realm)? Hitting rock bottom is heartbreaking for everyone. It’s hard to stop enabling and to stop being enabled. Loved ones can’t force you to change, and you can’t force them to watch you destroy yourself. This is setting boundaries and it is not abusive.

You’ve been sober for months now but everyone still treats you like you’re a train wreck? It probably took a long time for loved ones to lose trust, and it takes a long time to earn it back. It’s sad and frustrating to everyone involved; developing trust and redefining boundaries is hard. This is not an example of being cruel and uncaring.

Substance abuse is scary, and it takes an incredible toll on everyone involved. Consider this: you’re driving to a loved one’s home because you’re scared that you haven’t heard from them. It’s terrifying to wonder if this will finally be the day you find them dead in their living room. I truly believe the majority of the IC acted with good intentions, and I think ALL of their interactions and behaviors were accurate depictions.

I hope this was enlightening and helpful to anyone in the fandom who do not have experience with substance abuse. Please recognize that it is a blessing if you could not relate to or understand portion of acofs.

#acotar #acosf #nesta archeron #feyre archeron #the inner circle #sjm fandom

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nox-artemis · 3 years

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Kentaro Miura

It took me awhile to get my thoughts in order. Honestly, as well intentioned as they are, a constant stream of fan tributes on Twitter and Tumblr more-or-less telling me how to process “The End” of Berserk with Miura’s death didn’t do a lot to console me, so I had to take some huge steps away from social media and only conversed my feelings with my other close Berserk fan-friends.

It was very surreal waking up yesterday morning to a friend messaging me simply saying, “did you hear the news?” When shit like that happens, I go onto my Google stories app and scroll through. I didn’t find anything really worth getting too upset over (maybe a bit sad that Queen Elizabeth II’s doggo died?) so it hit me to check my Twitter feed instead.

And that’s when I saw it.

We all know death is inevitable, and life is pretty much spent prolonging the point to that inevitability as well as preparing ourselves for when it happens to us or someone close to us. Being part of the Berserk fandom was the only time we all collectively had this on our mind not only for someone else but for someone we never met or really knew that much about. We only knew Miura through his magnum opus – and that was good enough for us. And no matter how much we discussed the worst-case scenario – pondering how the story would continue and how WE would continue – it still wasn’t enough to prepare us for this amount of shock. Hearing Miura had died and that the Berserk we know and love under his direct supervision is over truly felt like losing a long-lost friend.

It wasn’t just that the Berserk we know of is “over”, but that Miura didn’t have to die. He was only 54: not a young age, but not an old age either, especially by today’s standards. He could have seen the end to his magnum opus the way he envisioned it, yet he died of something so avoidable but is only brought about by a great deal of stress (from what I’ve read). It was always a morbid open rumor that so many of Miura’s infamous hiatuses were actually mental and/or physical health breaks, so the older or more conscious of us fans, while always eager and anxious for a new chapter, learned to not take them so personally. Miura was a spellbinding artist and storyteller, but he was also a human with his own life and conflicts that he was entitled to address at his own pace. This isn’t meant to blame anyone (at the very least, maybe to address some societal/industry issues), but it’s troubling enough to remind everyone – as the story of Berserk has demonstrated – that you need to take care of yourself physically and mentally, and while everyone struggles in life, you don’t have to struggle alone.

I always despised this weird cult of youth that insinuates that life isn’t worth pursuing once you hit your mid-thirties, and how some people so engulfed in their youth insist that they wouldn’t mind dying by the age of 50 or 60. It’s a shame when people live by that because there’s so much to live for beyond your youth – as I’ve learned, I only started buckling down when I transitioned into my thirties. Miura could have had a longer life ahead of him, going beyond Berserk and into his other endeavors, professional and personal, but that will unfortunately never happen now.

Everyone knows I have a lot of thoughts and opinions on Berserk. Most of you found out about me through my blogging several years ago, and I’m pretty proud that I was never the sort of fan that groveled at Miura’s feet and treated Berserk as some untouchable holy book: there were things I disliked about Berserk and things that disappointed me about Miura’s writing, but there were SO MANY MORE THINGS that I loved about Berserk and was proud of Miura for, and I wished him to continue his advancement in narrative growth. He did so and we watched it happened.

And, by meeting so many friends and acquaintances through the fandom, we saw a lot in ourselves change too. It’s surreal how we always joked that it would be one of us fans who would die before Berserk ended or the worst-case scenario of Miura dying; maybe some of us secretly preferred for that happen. But when we weren’t waiting around for another chapter… look at how much we’ve done with our lives! We graduated high school, undergrad, grad school, started and advanced our careers, traveled the world, got together, popped out a kid or two!... And while we experienced a lot of downfalls and tragedies that coincide, can you believe how much we have accomplished together?

We were all personally inspired, motivated, persuaded by Berserk in different ways: a lot of us were inspired for the better and admittedly, some for the not-as-good (if spending countless hours on Tumblr has taught me, there were definitely some toxic fan takeaways that had to be confronted). I’m not going to go to the point of saying that I now live my life by Berserk’s philosophy to a T or live as a reflection of certain characters (because I’m pretty sure that Miura was trying to tell us to NOT live your life like some particular characters) but it certainly helped to brings some aspects of life and existence into perspective, through the lenses of so many characters. Berserk also inspired me to write more, an already favorite pastime of mine, and how I should go about writing and planning a story, taking cues from Berserk on how to and how NOT to write and approach things in my own way, which I think is for the best in the long run. I can only dream that I’ll be published someday – which doesn’t have to be a pipe dream because it’s still much more possible than impossible. And so many other have done the same, creating our own stories and works.

And OF COURSE Berserk inspired me to be a little bit badass from time to time in moments of frivolity and seriousness – but it reminds us all that being badass and being a kinder person who tries to become the best version of themselves are not mutually exclusive. We definitely need more of that in today’s world.

We all made our own little bonfires of dreams happen, and because of Berserk existing, there will be a lot more beginnings than endings, and I don’t see a lot of bonfires being extinguished anytime soon. Miura poured his heart and soul into Berserk and its characters, and while he has passed on, his characters and lessons will live on through us and everything we create and how we live our lives (hopefully for the better).

I was happy to share all of my thoughts with you all – and I’ll continue to do so, since the mythos of Berserk has been a major backdrop of my creative mind for over fifteen years now and there is still so much to dissect and speculate. Personally, I don’t see Berserk ending just yet, if only because I’d be surprised that Miura or his publisher didn’t have some Operation London Bridge type plan in place in the event that this happened (Berserk is, after all, a major title that most likely brings Young Animal a lot of revenue). Again, I never treated Miura or Berserk as divine untouchables, so if there are plans in place to continue Berserk without Miura (BUT with his permission) or just on how to wrap up the story to give it a fulfilling conclusion, I personally would be okay with it (as a friend of mine put it, it’d be more of a tribute than an imitation). Going beyond our lifetimes, works will continue to be interpreted and reinterpreted as they have since time immemorial; perhaps Berserk will reach that point someday.

Honestly, and many have thought so too, Berserk was also meant to be cosmic level in both scale and concept. The plot is so grand and Byzantine that, even under Miura’s direct supervision, I always had a hard time envisioning how a story of this scale would conclude. As much as we love to hate him, a final showdown between Guts and Griffith seems too simple, too “good vs. evil”-esque for Berserk. Maybe having a low-key, vague but optimistic and bittersweet wrap up is what is best for Guts, Casca, and their new-found family. But that’s just another one of my fan speculations.

Regardless or what is to become of Berserk now, I think it’s safe to give adulations. We all came across Berserk at different times in our lives and stuck with the story for different reasons. For some of us, it was just another series that our friend from the campus anime club recommended to us; for others, we were drawn in from a morbid curiosity of its dark notoriety in anime circles. A few of us read for the gratuitous violence and the clout (because we all know you’re so deep and hardcore [/sar]), but a lot more of us read for the journey and the characters that we became a part of. The heaviness of Berserk made us confront a lot of trauma and even relive our own. For some of us, understandably, it was not a good idea to dive deeper (and maybe somethings could have been handled better); for the rest of us, it helped us cope, if not entirely through the story itself, than through the support network we made for ourselves in this fandom and its many realms (some realms, I argue, are more caring and nurturing than others).

From time to time, I always wonder if I would ever “grow out” of Berserk. There were indeed several times I took a step away from fandom and have tried to reduce my exposure to the story - but I always came back in some way, because the essence of Berserk has never left me and never will. Humorously I envisioned myself actually forgetting about Berserk for several decades, decades in which I work at my career, raise my family, mourn my elders, but continue living my life, only to go on the future internet in my mid-50s to find out… Miura is STILL working on that ending, sitting at his desk in the same pose as that famous monochrome capture of him, only he’s grayed and wrinkled, like the great Miyazaki.

The possibility of that future is over, but there are so many others.

#berserk #berserk stuff #kentaro miura #rip kentaro miura

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autumnslance · 3 years

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Don’t Panic

Yuuichi Nakamura (Thancred’s JP VA) made vague comments on his show about Endwalker having a definite end to the Zodiark/Hydaelyn story and not knowing where the story and his character go from there.

From the r/ffxiv translation channel:

・中村さん「6.0のボイス収録をしたが、あれ？俺の仕事(サンクレッド)なくなるのかなと思ったし、次のステップがあまり見えなかった」 Nakamura-san is already done with recording his lines for 6.0 Thancred . But Nakamura-san, when looking at the script, thought his work/role for the game is done, and he couldn't quite see what's for him in the future. For context, Nakamura-san can roughly tell that, by the end of a story in a major expansion that there's going to be a continuation, but for Endwalker, it seems that the future becomes uncertain... This means Nakamura-san is amazed that the scenario has a proper and conclusion to the current Hydaelyn-Zodiark arc. The game doesn't end for sure, but the current story arc certainly has reached its end.

Someone else pointed out it seems unlikely he’d mention anything like that if his character was dying (though still might!). Remember, this man is an avid FFXIV fan as well as VA, he likes lore and speculation as much as the rest of us, he just happens to have a leg up on it.

Also, they said at the Showcase and FanFest that we might see the Scions stepping back and the WoL going to new adventures; it could be the organization gets disbanded or restructured once the Z/H story is over. After taking another option besides “fine” or “dead” with a beloved character in the 5.5 patch quests, and Lyse leaving the Scions to do something else in Stormblood, characters can change or exit from the main story in multiple ways. Try not to immediately jump to the worst possible conclusion based on the vaguest hint when the VA is under NDA. Especially when Ishikawa has said she dislikes random death for shock value, there’s other ways to up the stakes and make players care about story and character fates.

I am going to sound a bit harsh as I say right now that if people start wailing and gnashing teeth over the possibility of character death and go on about "if X dies I will quit the game" I will respond with "then quit." Cuz frankly:

1) it’s probably healthier if 1 pixel character is the only thing keeping someone playing a game they otherwise don't care about/enjoy. 2) I've already dealt with that from someone pre-Shadowbringers that I had to cut out of my online life for various reasons and honestly have no patience left for it. I’m old and tired, y’all.

Characters might die in Endwalker. Certain characters like to collect so-called “death flags” like some people collect novelty spoons. Will I be sad if my faves die? Of course! But I’ve also dealt with it before in other games and shows and don’t hinge my existence around other creators’ fictional characters. Will my WoL grieve if her partner is among the losses? Sure--but she’ll also continue on with her life, as there’s more to her than her ship*.

And if it is going to be emotionally devastating for you if we lose another beloved character (or multiple), please consider seeking pro help if able, and if not, looking for good coping mechanisms and friendly support. Your mental health has to come before the game you’re supposed to be playing for fun, not stress.

(*And if anything I’ll finally be free of this accidental pairing though I’d miss it...but since I don’t write chronologically anyhow and NG+ exists I can revisit and tell more stories as I want anyway. But that’s also gremlin voice talking and gremlin needs to go back in its box.)

#Final Fantasy XIV #Endwalker #Yuuichi Nakamura #thancred waters #Speculation #blogging #about me

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thespoonisvictory · 3 years

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Got any good c!Wilbur fic recommendations? I'm bored as well lol

so first of all, as obligatory self promo, I have an Ao3 with various c!wilbur and c!niki fics written. My favorite is probably “You Wonder What Happened”, just cause I think it’s neat.

Also! my bookmarks are literally anything I read and go ‘huh, this has really really good c!wilbur characterization (plus meridie’s adoption au? I think? idk but read that too it’s really good), so you can sort through that if desired.

however, I’ll do some specifics.

if you’re really bored:

The First Degree by ThroneofMist is a retelling of pretty much the election onwards, from the perspective of pretty much every character, fleshing out and filling in missing bits, up until wilbur’s death. it does have canon dnf, but it’s not a major part and easily avoidable, and I’m recommending it because the chapter where c!wilbur dies made me full on fucking sob in my bedroom, and made me forever mad that we didn’t get better c!techno characterization (129k words)

Valley Of Serenity by Interjection is a fic where sbi essentially swoops off to go live in a forest and heal, where phil doesn’t kill wilbur. it’s canon family dynamic, but ohhh my god it really shines in how it shows c!wilbur coping (86k words, ongoing)

if you’re moderately bored:

the closed mouth of secrets by fensandmarshes, featuring a c!wilbur who is revived but cannot talk, who joins the syndicate as harpocartes without anyone knowing it’s him. very very good wilbur and niki content, good sign language content, and just very very good learning to heal content (and I don’t like the syndicate so you know it’s good) (14k words)

the skeleton living inside your head by patrichor is a time loop fic where every time wilbur presses the button he sees a different person trying to convince him not to, once again very nice wilbur and niki content. also features mumza as death, and a happy ending that made me smile. (10k words)

‘yeah I could probably read this in one sitting’:

flight risk by angelsdemonsducks features revivedbur growing wings, and I usually don’t really like wingfic so this is a strong rec. bonus points for genuinely subverting my expectations and writing c!wilbur’s self loathing so well (6k words)

sunlight in the pit by fensandmarshes: button room. niki instead of phil. need I say more. (3k words)

spider lily by blue000jay is a short lil revivedbur fic back before everything went down that roughly centers around wilbur needing to relearn some fine motor skills in a way that makes me very sad (3k words)

#wilbur soot #dream smp #fic rec

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peninkwrites · 3 years

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In Which Punz is a Few Minutes Late.

(Major character death & graphic depictions of violence– basically I killed Tubbo) (ch 1 of 2)

Ch 2

Crossposted to ao3

(here is another sad alternative)

(and another)

“because you want to die for love, you always have. Imagine this: ... You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down, you’ve memorized it, it’s all you know. ... Imagine: Someone’s pulling a gun, and you’re jumping into the middle of it. You didn’t think you’d feel this way.”

-Richard Siken

First Tommy begged. Then he bargained. The following sheer denial was worthless. Tommy could only pretend to fight back for so long. Then he tried to stall the inevitable. He could only stall for so long. He cannot fight or talk his way out of this one. There’s nowhere to run. Tommy could never cope with hopelessness.

“Goodbye, Tommy.”

Tubbo is walking into his own grave far too calmly. The way Dream put a hand on his shoulder was almost kind. Almost.

“You’re smart, Tubbo. You didn’t fight back. For that, I’ll do my best to make it quick.”

Tubbo shudders away from Dream’s touch, turning back to face Tommy, looking him in the eyes with this barren intensity, a vulnerability only offered when there’s nothing left to lose.

Tommy couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let Dream raise an axe to his best friend. Tommy doesn’t even have the Axe of Peace as he charges him, unrelenting. Dream doesn’t flinch. He backhands Tommy hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor with a bloody lip. Tommy gets back up.

It was like Dream could see him iron out his conviction.

Dream’s tone is so cold, so level and unfeeling, without compassion of course, but there’s no malice either. Somehow that hurts worse. “Do I need to knock you out so I can get this done? You really want Tubbo to die alone because you wanted to pretend you even have a chance? If you take another step Tubbo is going to die alone and I will make it hurt.”

“Tommy, please,” Tubbo was so calm, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t afraid. “I think I’ve had enough pain in my life. Enough for three lifetimes, even,” Tubbo laughs softly. Too easily.

“Tubbo…” Tommy’s voice cracks but he doesn’t step forward, knowing Dream was good to his word. “I’m r-right here, big man. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy fights back tears viciously, not from some pathetic attempt at pride– as if he had any of that left– but to ensure his vision was not clouded by water, to ensure he can see Tubbo one last time. He hates it, but Tubbo wants Tommy to be the last thing he sees. Tommy wants Tubbo to know he’s not alone. Until the end. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to see the life leave his friend’s eyes–

But how could he leave him?

“You’re my best friend. Y-You’re my best friend, and I love you, man. A-And I’m never gonna leave you,” Tommy keeps talking because there’s nothing else he can do. He can’t stop Dream coming up behind Tubbo, he can’t stop him from raising the axe. Tubbo is shaking, staring at Tommy like that eye contact is the only thing keeping him alive. Tommy thinks for a split second Tubbo was going to say something, but instead, he flinches, as the blade comes around and meets his throat.

“No!” Tommy screams and it sounds like he’s being torn apart. Maybe he is because surely this kind of pain could only come from losing half of yourself. He lunges forward to catch him before he hits the blackstone beneath them. “T-Tubbo, come on man, stay with me–” Tommy’s hands are shaking as he presses them to the bleeding wound in Tubbo’s throat. He’s holding onto Tubbo so tightly with his other arm he has a pang of worry that he might be hurting him. Tommy doesn’t know how to be gentle. So all he can do is hold onto him for dear life like it will make a difference. “F-Fuck, oh, fuck– you can’t– you can’t. They were supposed to be here by now– I thought– I thought we’d– I thought– I…

...

“...Tubbo?”

Tommy couldn’t pinpoint the moment the life left his eyes. Tubbo was just gone. Tommy felt like that meant he had let Tubbo down somehow. Tommy couldn’t remember if he’d been looking Tubbo in the eyes when it happened or if he’d been distracted by the bloody wound across his throat. Why is he thinking about this? Why can’t he stop fixating on the way Tubbo had gone so still, the way his body still feels warm and blood hasn’t stopped pouring from the wound? A cruel voice that sounded like Wilbur, that sounded like violence, told him: the bleeding is slower now because there isn’t a beating heart pumping it.

Tommy can’t think anymore. He can’t breathe, he can’t feel– He can only hold him. He can only cradle Tubbo close to his chest.

“Come on, Tommy.”

It’s like Tommy can’t even hear him. He can only hold Tubbo’s limp body, bury his face in his shoulder, wishing Tubbo would just hug him back. Wishing it had been him instead.

“Tommy,” Dream kicks him moodily. “Not like you can do anything for him now. Get up.”

Something snaps inside of him. Tommy’s anguish is suddenly muted, almost turned off, replaced instead by a brutal cold rage tight in his chest. His hands are still shaking as he places Tubbo on the floor as carefully as he can. He gets to his feet slowly. Dream seems to think he’s won.

Tommy doesn’t let out a furious shout, he doesn’t channel his fury into harsh words or taunts or anything but the sheer ferocity with which he throws himself at Dream–– it takes him by surprise–– enough so that Tommy gets him stumbling back, his hands wrapped around the vile god’s throat. Maybe Tommy was always meant for violence. He couldn’t save Tubbo, but he could tear Dream apart.

The mask falls away and as hard as it is to read such a monster’s distorted expression, it’s clear that he didn't plan on this. Tommy almost has him on the ground, planning on gouging his eyes out next, instead Tommy hits the ground hard, the flat of the axe knocking him back, the blade still covered in Tubbo’s blood.

“K-Kill me!” Tommy screams himself hoarse and all that rage is replaced by desperation. “Just fucking kill me!”

Dream’s expression turns to one almost like amusement. No– it is amusement. Tommy had never properly seen the man’s face before, but it looks like he’s about to laugh. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s go.”

“Please.” Tommy knows it’s a lost cause, but it’s all he can think to do. He can’t look at Tubbo’s body still lying there, unmoving. Tommy can’t let the fact that he will never move again return to the forefront of his mind. “P-Please don’t make me leave him.”

Tommy knows when Dream steps forward he isn’t going to obey his wish. He’s more likely to drag Tommy to his feet or hit him for daring to keep protesting. Neither occur.

“Punz?”

“I’m sorry, Dream. You should’ve...” Punz can’t finish his sentence as he takes in the scene before him. There’s too much blood. As so many more familiar faces pour through the portal, the realization ripples over them like a wave, determination stagnating into shock. Someone screams. Punz’s mouth is hanging open, his sentence left unfinished. He had assumed Tommy would be the one to die. He had hoped that they would make it in time. This was something else entirely.

Tommy just stares at them. All of these people coming to his aid and there is no relief, only a desperate, hopeless cry for help in his eyes, desperate in the sense that he knows there’s nothing they can do to fix this. It’s too late. It’s too late.

Dream is the first to get over this turn of events.

“What is this?” Dream steps back, standing just behind Tommy. He grabs onto Tommy’s shirt, dragging him to his feet. “None of you move or Tommy dies.”

Tommy didn’t pull away even as Dream holds that bloody axe to his neck. He thinks he might be sick if he keeps smelling Tubbo’s blood for another second. Tommy stares blankly at the wall of armor and blades prepared to defend him.

“You’re not gonna kill me, Dream.”

Those across the room didn’t seem to believe him, none of them moving out of fear of what Dream might do next, terrified of another child’s body collapsing in a pool of blood. That soon changes as Tommy steps forward, leaning into the blade, daring Dream to let it cut into his throat as it had Tubbo’s. In this pathetic game of chicken Dream yields first, moving the axe at the last second so Tommy can’t get away with copying Tubbo’s wound.

This allows the others to get over their initial trepidation.

“Get away from him, Dream,” Sapnap speaks up first.

Tommy pushes towards the blade with more intent and Dream withdraws, letting go of Tommy for just a second. Tommy, more on instinct than feeling, stumbles forward, almost collapsing if not for Eret catching him and quickly pulling him behind the line of defense, just barely out of Dream’s grabbing hand trying to take back his last trophy.

Tommy is only vaguely aware of the mob encircling the outnumbered god. Eret is the only thing keeping him standing, their hold on his shoulders gentle and unsure. Tommy doesn’t look at them, just pulls away and turns around, walking past his allies to the hall of Dream’s trophies. There he retrieves the axe of peace.

The unrest behind him meant nothing. He doesn’t care about their own shock or grief or anger. He simply retrieves the axe, crosses the room, pushes his way between HBomb and Ponk, and brings the axe down on Dream’s head. No words exchanged, only the sound of a blade and a broken skull, and Dream is one life down.

Tommy says nothing, even as a general wave of shock swept over the waiting crowd. No one rebuked him, no one spoke, maybe a general gasp of shock and murmurs of fear but nothing more. There is no empathy for this lost life. Not with the dead boy in the room. Tommy has never heard these people so quiet. It’s like they’re already at the funeral. He waits at the bottom of the elevator as Dream returns.

“Tommy, don’t be stupid. You’re not gonna kill me–”

Dream has an axe in his side before he’s even stepped off the platform. Dream’s ribs crack audibly and his blood spreads across the blackstone now. He’s not dead yet.

“T-Tommy, don’t– Y-You don’t–”

Someone shouts something behind him, panic, not outrage, as Tommy tears through his face with the axe, splitting his cheek in a gorey pantomime of his smiling mask still abandoned on the floor. Another life down.

Tommy is not taunting or jaunty or smug. He is only blinding hot anger, holding onto his axe so tightly it hurts. The axe slips in his hands, his grip loosened by the blood on them. He can taste blood too from when Dream had hit him away. There is blood dripping into his eyes from where Dream had fended him off with the blunt of his axe. Tommy doesn’t care. He’s functional enough for this.

“GET BACK DOWN HERE YOU FUCKING COWARD!” He shouts at the empty cavern above. Only an echo replies for far too long.

Until finally a cold voice returns, and Dream still doesn’t sound scared. “I’m not gonna do that, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t retaliate. He’s tired. He’s tired of begging Dream to show some sign of remorse or pity or compassion. Instead he turns around, the crowd parting for him, taking the crossbow from his enderchest, silently loading a bolt, and turning it back on himself.

“Tommy!” Niki’s terror surprises even herself.

“No no no– don’t do it, man–“ Quackity hesitates, unsure of how to stop him.

“I don’t care anymore! I don’t want to care about anything!” Tommy shouts at all of them hoarsely. They stare back in muted horror. They had prepared for a fight. They hadn’t prepared for this. He still hasn’t looked at Tubbo’s corpse. He knows it’s– He knows he is there. Just out of the corner of his eye, just behind Ranboo and Sam. He can see the blood on the floor. How is there so much blood?

Behind him he hears the red stone mechanism whirring.

“What’re you doing, Tommy? You know I’m the only one that gets to kill you.”

“You’re not gonna have that chance. One way or another,” Tommy turns to face him again, turning the crossbow around easily.

Dream starts laughing. He doesn’t stop. Not even when Tommy shoots a bolt through his shoulder.

Tommy feels sick. Dream had kept him terrified for so long, had tormented him and pushed him over the edge over and over never showing mercy, and he had the audacity to die laughing.

Tommy drops the crossbow, axe at his side. He doesn’t use it. He starts with fists, shoving the wounded god back into the wall with ease, the mask is off, and it’s too easy to split Dream’s cheek open, to break his nose, to try and break him open, even as Tommy’s knuckles break and bleed. Until he is exhausted. He feels a hand on his shoulder and shakes them off. Maybe Tubbo could’ve stopped him, but these people know for that very reason there’s nothing they can do.

And Dream doesn’t stop laughing, wiping the blood from his face. Utterly at ease. Utterly victorious.

Tommy wants to stop caring. He wants to tear him apart until there’s nothing left, but how can he not ask?

His voice shakes, half rage half pain. “What’s so funny, dickhead? Y-You think I won’t fucking kill you?! You made my life a living hell! I’m gonna do what you did, Dream. I’m not pulling any punches. I have no mercy for you.” Dream is still just grinning, struggling to sit up, wincing. Tommy hates that. Dream isn’t allowed to pity himself and still act like he can win. “I’m not done with you!”

Dream shrugs, slumped against the wall. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Tommy. You’re all alone now. Do you think I care if you beat me to death? If you act out your little revenge fantasy, giving back every hit I ever gave you, is that gonna change the fact that I still won? Really? You’re really gonna kill me? You’re gonna get rid of your best friend?”

Tommy ignores the ripples of disagreement and confusion behind him, blood pounding in his ears. Salt in an open wound.

“Wait!” Dream only screams when Tommy comes at him with the axe, out for blood. Tommy doesn’t stop, the axe coming down a bit too far to the left, taking a chunk out of his arm. Tommy won’t miss again. “I can bring him back!”

Tommy freezes, the axe still raised. Silence, this moment suspended by a delicate thread. Tommy wants to dare to hope. He knows it will only hurt. “Keep talking if you want to live.”

“Schlatt gave me a book. What did you think was in it?” Dream is still so smug, so sure, even as it becomes more apparent he’s bleeding out, his words unsteady and harsh as his breathing grows unsteady. “So, I could bring Tubbo back. I could bring Wilbur back too– whoever. But I won’t,” Dream grins, a terrifying mimic of his mask, blood bubbling up between his lips from Tommy finally returning a beating. “But I know you won’t kill me now. You’re gonna let me go because I’m your only chance.”

Everything is frozen in a moment. Tommy cannot pretend this is a decision to be made and not an immovable verdict. As always, Dream took away his choice.

You’re gonna get rid of your best friend?

Tommy screams as he brings the axe down one more time. It hits the wall beside Dream’s head before clattering to the floor.

Tommy breaks down. Because he’s right. Tommy somehow both has nothing left to lose and Dream still has a hold over him. He can’t breathe, he stumbles back and it feels like the room is tilting around him. You’re gonna let me go. He can’t let Dream be out there– He’ll never rest again. Dream, no matter what he says, will spend every living moment figuring out how best to hurt him again. Worse still– how could he do that to Tubbo?! Let his murderer walk free and triumphant when he had him– Tommy had him, on the ground begging for his life. Some part of him also believes that Dream has no intention of ever bringing Tubbo back. Dream has finally found a way to trap Tommy in his own personal hell. As long as Tubbo stays dead, Tommy never recovers.

But how can he risk it?

If he kills Dream now he’ll never stop being haunted by him, by the thought that he let his best friend die one more time.

“You’re not going anywhere, Dream.” Sam spoke up first. All eyes turned to him. “We put him in the prison.” Sam does not patronize. He does not avoid Tommy because he’s fragile, he looks him head on and waits. This is his decision to make.

“C-Can… can you do that?” Tommy doesn’t have hope, exactly, he can’t have hope anymore, but there is a potential for relief. At least the promise that he can mourn without being tormented further. The thought that Tubbo’s killer didn’t get to walk.

“I helped design that prison, I know it inside and out, you can’t–”

“So you know it’s inescapable,” Sam is cold. Unbelievably so. All of his compassion and kindness and pity is on the floor behind him in a pool of blood.

Dream says nothing. It almost looks like he’s afraid.

Tommy has Dream cornered, has his life in his hands as Dream had lorded over him so many times before, and he feels nothing. He is done. He turns back and the crowd parts for him. Ranboo is still just staring at Tubbo’s body, but he steps away. Tommy falls to his knees beside him. There’s so much blood. Tubbo’s eyes are still open, glazed over, blank. And all Tommy can do is hold him.

He doesn’t hear the soft, anxious voices behind him. He doesn’t hear as Sapnap asks urgently for a health potion, a desperate bid to keep Dream alive as blood continues to flow from his many wounds. He doesn’t see as they discover the museum, as their disgust grows. Bad’s horror at the cage waiting for Skeppy almost makes him seem like his old self.

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Tommy snaps. Tubbo is growing cold in his arms and Tommy can only hold him, hugging him close in death because it’s better than letting go forever.

“You’re hurt.” Quackity kneels down beside him. “We should get a health pot’ for you too.”

“Just– Just get away from me!” Tommy knows they only want to help. He doesn’t want their help. He doesn’t want to move and he certainly can’t bring himself to let go.

“Tommy. You don’t want to stay down here. I–” Sam coughs as he gets choked up. He knows he has to keep it together right now but that doesn’t make it any easier. “I’ll take him home.”

“Sam, no. I’m sorry but you can’t. You need to help me with him,” Sapnap keeps a hand on Dream’s shoulder, pinning him to the blackstone as his wounds slowly stitched shut, the health potion doing its work.

Sam clearly didn’t feel happy about this, staring down at Tommy cradling Tubbo with a lump in his throat. He drained the ocean with that boy. He couldn’t be dead. Not when there was so much more to do.

“We can’t leave him down here,” Sam still didn’t move.

“We’ll get him home,” Quackity promised. He kept a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Tommy… you’ve got to let go.”

Tommy just holds on tighter, willing Tubbo to just move, to hug him back, to seep some warmth and life back into him. Nothing changes. Nothing will change. Tommy cannot let go.

“You don’t want to leave him down here, Tommy. We’ll take care of him. I promise,” Quackity presses on. He doesn’t know how. Tubbo had been his president– He’d been his friend. Quackity was supposed to look out for him. “Please, Tommy. Don’t–” Quackity’s voice shakes. “Don’t stay down here. Don’t keep him down here with Dream’s other trophies.”

That’s what makes Tommy let go, what forces him to pull away, Tubbo falling from his hold limply. Tommy can’t catch his breath, he bites down on his knuckles to stifle a wail rising up against his bidding and instead he gags, tasting Tubbo’s blood on his hands.

Tommy doesn’t resist as someone pulls him to his feet, an arm around his shoulder. He can feel wool against his cheek. He glances up to see Puffy keeping him steady.

“We’ll walk you home, Tommy.”

Tommy allows himself to be all but carried to the portal. Niki looks like she wants to say something. Niki, who had burned the L’Mantree, who had fought in the revolution beside him and Tubbo, who had stood beside them and watched the sun set, who had promised they would stick together, Niki, who had protected him, Niki, who had wanted to kill him. Instead she just steps out of the way. Tommy looks over his shoulder to see Dream ascending on the platform, Sam, Bad, and Sapnap guarding him. Dream is staring back at him. For a man in chains, he still looks like he’s won. Tommy looks down. Quackity and Jack Manifold are picking up Tubbo. Ranboo has given his cloak to cover the body. He could pretend it wasn’t him. Pretend that underneath that cloth was someone else’s best friend. A worthless delusion.

“Ranboo, you should go home.” Jack tells the other kid. “You don’t have to see this.”

“No. No, I’m good.” His voice shakes and no one believes him. “I… I don’t want to be alone right now…”

Tommy doesn’t even think about the discs. He walks right past the fanatical shrines and the enderchests and all of it. He just lets Puffy guide him, Eret just ahead of them, leading the way as they enter the Nether, leaving the others behind to finish trying to cope with the damage Dream has left them with.

It is a slow and silent procession. They cross the bridge over the lava, the radiating heat makes his skin uncomfortably warm. Looking over the edge comes with a pang of familiarity. Tommy feels numb. He’s not going to jump, but he doesn’t know what he is going to do either.

They reach the main portal and cross back over into the mainlands. Here, his guides hesitate.

“Tommy, do you want to go home?” Eret’s voice is so gentle. Somehow it makes the ache in Tommy’s chest worse. They continue when Tommy remains silent. “You can stay at mine. As long as you like. If you want to be left alone you can do that there, there’s enough room.”

Tommy says nothing.

“How about we head to your house, okay?” Puffy offers. “And if you want to turn around we can. Or we can stop at my place. It’s right across the way.” They don’t push him to make a choice, just give him time to answer.

“I didn’t do that, you know,” Tommy says hoarsely, staring ahead at the remains of the community house. “He admitted it. He didn’t think I’d make it out to tell anyone.” Tommy still can’t quite believe that he made it out. That he isn’t going to be hurt any moment, locked away in some terrible cell with only Dream to visit... Maybe it didn’t matter, Dream’s confession. “Not like anyone believes me anyway and…” Tommy almost said and Tubbo isn’t here to back me up. That would be too much for him to bear. He’s holding on by a thread right now as is.

“Okay. Okay, we believe you, Tommy,” Puffy looks to Eret, hoping they might have any idea of how to console the kid between them. Eret just doesn’t know. All they know is they need to help Tommy get home. They need to keep him safe. Even if neither of them were sure how to protect him from the cruelty that had already happened.

Tommy freezes as they move down the prime path. He sees a particular tree. A jukebox. A bench.

“I–I– can’t do this,” Tommy finally speaks, stumbling back. “Oh– Fuck– I can’t do this–”

“Okay, okay,” Eret tries to calm him, voice so calm and soothing and maybe even helpful in any situation but this one. “It’s alright, Tommy. Come on.” They took over for Puffy, keeping a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and guiding him towards the mushroom down the hill. Puffy moves ahead, opening the door.

Puffy stows her armor in a nearby chest, Eret taking theirs off in suit out of politeness. No one expects Tommy to do anything polite on a good day, let alone now.

“Just sit down anywhere. Let me get you a health pot’,” Puffy begins to rummage. “God knows you need it…”

Tommy absentmindedly brushes against the wound on his forehead. That wasn’t even from you trying to save Tubbo. That’s from after he was dead. He got you to back off with a slap. Some fucking hero you are. You didn’t save your best friend ‘cause he hit you once. You’ve been taking worse hits before now. You gave up on him. Why’d you give up? Tommy wanted to pretend the voice in his head didn’t sound like Wilbur.

“Tommy?” Eret gently took his hand away from the wound. “You’re making it bleed again.”

Tommy hadn’t even noticed as he’d made the pain worse. His hands were shaking. Tubbo’s blood still hadn’t fully dried, so his skin felt sticky and weighted.

“This should help with that,” Puffy hands him a glass bottle. When Tommy doesn’t take it, she presses it into his hands. Her hands are warm. They’re clean, unlike his.

Eret speaks when he still doesn’t respond. “Please, Tommy. Drink it. It’ll help. You’re hurt.”

Tommy drinks. It tastes too sweet, but also hot, like spiced oranges. It’s familiar. Tommy takes a deep breath as far too many wounds slowly heal. It is not a painless process, feeling cuts and bruises and deeper wounds stitching together, but the relief that follows is jarring. Tommy hadn’t realized how much pain he had been in until it slowly ebbed away. That’s nice. You get clean scars and Tubbo gets an open grave.

Tommy wants to throw the bottle against the wall. He wants something to break. He wants to squeeze his hand into a fist and feel the glass shatter and tear into newly healed skin. To cover Tubbo’s blood with his own. He doesn’t move.

He knows Puffy and Eret are staring at him, Puffy shifting from foot to foot and Eret sitting close beside him. He is impossibly far from caring. He doesn’t care what they do. He wishes he didn’t care about anything.

He doesn’t know why Eret and Puffy are doing this. He didn’t think it would be them. Then again, he didn’t think it would have to be anyone. Tommy wants to say ”Eret, I can’t deal with you right now. All I can think about is that Tubbo’s first death is your fault.” To say: ”Why are you even here, Puffy? Why aren’t my actual friends here? Why’re they the ones with the body?” He doesn’t say any of this. He doesn’t believe that misdirected anger in his chest.

Nor does he say ”I just want to hug Wilbur. And I hate that I want to hug Wilbur because he left me in all this.”

That one is easier to take as truth.

Eret speaks softly. “Puffy, do you think you could bring me some water?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Are you good..?” Puffy didn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence.

“I’ve got him,” Eret said. They sound so sure. So steady. Tommy could see why someone might believe them.

Tommy says nothing, just sits there in silence, letting the pair of them exist around him, the grief threatening to swallow him whole. He doesn’t know how to deal with this kind of pain so he looks for the one thing he can do. He remembers Wilbur when he was still kind. Wilbur telling him, in all of his anger at the world, holding onto his shoulders, grounding him, count back from ten and if you haven’t calmed down, you can do what you want. It had just barely managed to keep him out of a fight on more than one occasion. This isn’t anger.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

But what else can he do?

He’s still covered in blood. Why is that easier to think about the nauseating scent of copper, to think about how his whole body is heavy with an exhaustion potions cannot cure, than to think about–

Seven. Six.

This calmed his anger. Why isn’t it working now? What is grief but anger unhinged? It’s not grief. It cannot be grief. Grief means he isn’t getting him back.

Five.

Tommy has no one. He had thought his friends should be there with him, but who would that be? Ranboo? Quackity? Sam? Niki? He is utterly alone and he is going to stay alone because Dream will hold Tubbo over him until he’s dead.

Five.

Or until Tommy isn’t fun anymore. Because if what Dream said is true, there isn’t a way out for him. Tommy can’t even kill himself properly. Dream will just bring him back so their game can continue.

Five. Four. Three.

What will he have to give up to have Tubbo back? He hates knowing that he would do anything to get him back if he believed it would actually work. He hates knowing that Dream knows this too. Tommy idly swatted away the pang of guilt that came with the reminder that he had yet to think of resurrecting Wilbur.

Three. Two.

Tubbo is dead.

He is actually, properly dead. His body remained, Tommy knew, he had held him in his arms, but the fact that he wouldn’t appear, sentient and alive at his last spawn–

Three. Two–

Tubbo is going to rot. That’s what corpses did. Schlatt had a funeral. Tommy honestly isn’t sure what happened to Wilbur, he’d been too focused on coping with the crater around them, too focused on helping Tubbo–

Three. Two. One.

He’s still angry. If whatever this agony is could be counted as anger. Wilbur had told him to count back from ten and if after that he was still going to run ahead with whatever reckless ambition he had in mind, Wilbur wouldn’t stop him.

He had nowhere to go from here. Nothing to plan or do. He was sinking deeper into his own head but all of these thoughts wouldn’t stop bleeding him dry. The only thing left to do is plan a funeral.

God, Tommy is going to be sick.

He didn’t know where Tubbo would want to be buried. It never came up. Tommy hadn’t even planned for what to do if Dream had killed him like he’d expected to happen, he had made his peace and assumed those he left behind would figure out what to do with him. He hadn’t planned that far ahead. He isn’t sure what he wants from them. If it would hurt more or less if they bring his body to Snowchester. If he’s prepared to deal with his body being brought to his home. He’s not. He’s not prepared for any of this.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

He can’t think about this anymore. He can’t think at all. He wants to scream. He wants to hit something. He wants to tear everything apart until there’s nothing left. This world’s audacity to continue on without Tubbo condemns it to his wrath. He doesn’t move. Despite all of these terrible thoughts chasing him, it’s like the adrenaline hasn’t died yet. It hasn’t fully hit him that his best friend isn’t coming back. All of these dark thoughts on corpses and funerals and sacrifice feel superficial. Hypothetical. Because if Tommy is still here and breathing and hurting, Tubbo cannot be dead.

Puffy returns with a bucket of warm water.

“Tommy? Do you want to wash up?” Puffy asks.

Tommy shrugs. He can’t bring himself to move. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to move ever again.

Eret got to their feet, kneeling down in front of him and taking the basin from Puffy. They took the rag and loosely held onto Tommy’s hand should he choose to pull away. They began to wash the blood off. Puffy sat beside him, taking Eret’s place and putting her arm around him. They didn’t ask anything of him, but they didn’t abandon him either. Tommy felt a lump in his throat as he just stared, Eret slowly and methodically washing away the blood and pain of the last hours. The water is pink and Tommy’s hands do not look like his own. They look so fragile as the blood is taken from his fingernails, bruised and split knuckles healed by the potion enough to scab. They look like hands that were made for more than violence. Maybe the blood on his hands is the only truth in all of this. Puffy is warm and her arm around him is better than a blanket. The tension finally begins to leave his shoulders, adrenaline fading after so many hours, and instead is replaced by the heaviness of sorrow, of exhaustion, of sobs rising in his chest.

Neither of them acknowledge it. Puffy just keeps her arm around him, keeps him grounded as Eret gently wipes the blood and the tears from his cheeks. Neither of them give any indication of the bitterness they feel rise as more fresh scars are revealed, open wounds until very recently, but a potion cannot hide this evidence of cruelty and malice. They keep that anger to themselves. Now is not the time.

Eret and Puffy are too gentle. They’re too kind and too separate from the violence still roaring inside of him. Tommy could do nothing to contain the sobs shaking in his chest as he falls forward, clinging to Eret, hugging them tightly because they’re the closest thing to better times he has. Eret is not taken aback or startled, or at least they’re careful not to show it. They just hug back, letting him weep into their shoulder. Eret is the last original member of L’Manberg he has left. He never thought it would come to this.

“I want to go home,” Tommy finally speaks. He couldn’t be bothered to feel embarrassed for soaking Eret’s shirt in tears.

“We’ll go with you,” Puffy offers.

Tommy elaborates. “I dunno how to. I don’t want to–” He’s choking on his words. “I don’t want to walk past–” Tommy closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Okay,” Puffy nods. “You don’t have to.”

“If you want to go home, Tommy. We’ll walk with you. We’ll– We could take the long way. Whatever you need,” Eret adds.

“No… It won’t make a difference…” Tommy stares at his shoes. There’s blood on them too. “If I try and pussy out just– make me keeping going, alright?”

Puffy and Eret exchange looks.

“...sure, Tommy. If that’s what you want,” Puffy heads to the door again.

Tommy keeps his head down. It feels only natural after so much time spent trying to make himself smaller. He can hear Wilbur scolding him for it, posture. He recognizes every shift in the prime path. He knows when the bench is there. His heart is racing, like somehow a location can hurt him. Puffy keeps a hand on his shoulder. Eret walks on his left side, blocking his view.

Then they are in the gentle dark of his home. Tommy looks up and it’s like he’s looking at something dead and rotten.

A double chest with a sign reading, saved for history purposes.

“Tommy?” Eret notices his horror. “What is it?”

“Get rid of it. I–I need to get rid of it– This chest– I don’t care what’s in it– Someone please just–” Tommy isn’t sure if this is fear or anger. He doesn’t know if the difference matters.

“Sure, okay, Tommy. I’ve got it, don’t worry. Why– Why don’t you just change into different clothes?” Puffy says quickly. “Go back into your room until I’m done with this?”

Tommy nodded, unable to look back as he enters the coolness of his bedroom, the stone walls a better reflection of his state of being. He hears Eret and Puffy speaking quietly in his front room. He ignores them. His hands are clean of blood, his clothes are not. He needs to cut out any reminder he can. Still, he hesitates when taking off his armor. It takes proper effort for him to convince himself that he’s safe enough to do so. Maybe he doesn’t even convince himself of that.

Time passes strangely for him now, but there is no rush. Eret and Puffy stay. That’s all they do. That’s enough. Tommy jumps like a firework has gone off when there’s a knock at the door. He’s clean of blood and now has fresh clothes, but he’s still acting like he’s in a warzone. How will he ever feel safe again? Who is he kidding– He hasn’t felt safe since before his exile.

“Niki,” Puffy is surprised upon opening his front door.

“Hey,” Niki sounds like she’s been crying. “I– He’s here, right? I just need to see him.”

Puffy hesitates. “Yes, he’s here. But we’ve been trying to give him some time. It’s–“ Puffy doesn’t know what it is. How she can quantify the horrors of the past hours and Tommy’s dire state because of it?

“I understand, I just thought he might… I have something for him.”

“Give me a second, Niki,” Puffy turns back to Tommy, leaning on Eret’s shoulder.

He doesn’t have any furniture up here so they sit on the floor. The room smells like summer. His front room always smells like the earth, tightly packed dirt walls and the doors often left open, it’s warm. It makes him think of bees. He doesn’t want to think of bees.

“Tommy? Niki has something for you,” Puffy said, giving him the chance to protest or send her away. She took Tommy sitting up and making eye contact as the closest thing to a concise ‘yes’ she would be getting. She nods Niki inside.

“H-Hey,” Niki is consumed by trepidation. She doesn’t know if she should be here.

Niki wants to say “I am so sorry for what I almost did. I wish I’d come to my senses before things got this bad.” But Tommy has been through enough without her confessing to a cruel plot. Tommy is not perfect. He has hurt people, he’s been cruel, he’s been careless, but he’s also 16. And he’s tried to do so much good too. Niki still can’t forgive herself for somehow forgetting that Tommy is just a kid. A kid who has suffered and lost so much. Niki lost her best friend. Tommy lost his brother. How could she have put any of that anger on him?

Niki remembers the way her heart stopped when Tubbo went down at the festival, the relief that he had another life left. And now she has nothing left but guilt. She lost Wilbur, she lost Tubbo, Jack is losing himself, she can’t lose anyone else.

Niki says none of this, only proceeds with her justification for being here. “I… I took these from the… from the place. I thought you might want them back…” Niki has two discs in her hands. Cat. Mellohi.

Tommy stares. There is no sense of relief or triumph or even longing. Just a nauseous anger he found difficult to bury.

“I– I want you all to leave now. Please. I need you gone,” Tommy got to his feet, staring at the objects in Niki’s hands like they were something evil, something cruel mocking him in his grief.

“Do you… do you want me to leave them here..?” Niki is frozen, even as Eret and Puffy head towards the door.

Tommy forces himself to look away. “Put them somewhere I can’t see them. If I can see them I’m gonna break them. And I–” Tommy inhales shakily. “I can’t do that.”

“Tommy… if you need anything, I can help you,” are Eret’s parting words. “I know you can’t– I don’t expect you to–” Their voice shakes, as they hover between two apologies, one for recent tragedy, one for a past none of them can change. “Just… Look after yourself.”

Puffy pats his arm gently before making her leave, “I’m just down the road.” She turns to Niki. “I think… I think we’d better talk.”

Niki looks back to Tommy, frozen in the middle of the room. She carefully places the discs in a chest by the door. “Goodbye, Tommy.”

Tommy spares her a glance, forcing a nod of acknowledgement. It was the best he could do.

Then he’s alone. It’s like the discs are playing, sitting in a chest, unmoving, yet somehow they’re so loud. Almost as loud as the blood pounding in his ears. Tommy had been taken care of and worried about and protected. He hates it. And he can’t bring himself to move. All he can think about is this anger rising up in his chest. He needs to hurt something. He needs to tear and break everything around him. Where is his pain? Why has it not torn the very world apart? L’Manberg burned and that dark, violent end, stormy skies and explosions cutting through the air, it was fitting. More so because he had Tubbo’s hand to hold. He returned home from the war, and nothing has changed, despite everything having changed. He feels all that pain contained within himself, rising up in his throat like bile. He needs to let it escape before it burns him up from the inside out.

So Tommy screams at the cruel, unforgiving familiarity of home and punches the wall, pain shuddering up his arm, but that pain felt right. Not good, but as close to good as he had any hope of getting. He tears chests down to the floor, their contents scattering, and once there is nothing left undisturbed he tears into the walls. Exhaustion meant nothing. The dirt under his fingernails hurt less than the blood, until finally he’s gasping for breath, his head pressed against the cool dirt of the wall, pockets of earth disturbed by furious hands clawing, trying to change something.

He topples another chest, two shining black objects sliding out onto the floor with whatever other junk he had stored there. His home has grown dark around him, but they gleam in the faint moonlight through the windows of the doors. Tommy feels blinding hot anger rise up inside of him as he grabs them and lets that anger go free–

Then Tommy is staring at broken shards of vinyl on the ground, adrenaline still pounding through him. He’s shaking. He can hear his own heartbeat and trembling breaths in the emptiness of his home. Silence has never been so loud. Tommy falls to his knees, reaching out, his skin a pale sickly white in the moonlight, dirt underneath his fingernails, as he tries to pick up the broken pieces.

“Oh fuck… No, no no– What have I done…” Tommy barely speaks, the words hoarse but too loud. He holds onto the pieces like they’re something precious. Worse– He knows they aren’t. There is no catharsis in their destruction, only a deeper grief. Because the discs only ever mattered because they weren’t just his. They were his and Tubbo’s. Tommy drops the shards and pushes himself away, backing himself into a corner as his breathing grows more labored and panicked and yet again sobs rise up in his chest. He curls into a ball, doing nothing to quiet himself as there’s no one here to hear him.

He whispers into the dark, words too familiar. “I’m alone.”

#dream smp fanfic #/roleplay #fanfic #writing #Please give me feedback I beg of thee #shippers can die by my blade #my writing #dsmp #c!tommy #tommyinnit

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