๐ฎ๐๐๐๐ถ๐๐: The red returns, and this time, itโs a darker shade.
๐ฉ๐๐๐๐: Well hello, hello! I thought this chapter would be simple. It wasnโt. It took me apart several times and put me back together before it finally felt right. Thank you for waiting, for reading, and for still being here. You all make it worth coming back to.
Banners by @cafekitsune !
Enjoy๐ค
Calm. Control. Focus.
Preserve. Conserve. Contain.
Contain. Contain. Contain.
Am I calm? Am I containing?
Perfect, he said.
The word has stayed behind, leaving a sour aftertaste in the roof of your mouth. Youโve been thinking it, or whispering it, your mouth skips the distinction between speech and thought now.
Containment. That was the mission. The entire purpose of this day. The two words loop behind your eyes, a system error flashing in your skull: containperfectCONTAINperfectcontain.
Your boots are on. You know because your ankles ache in them. Youโre sitting, but you donโt remember lowering yourself. The bulkhead is cold at your back, knees half-open, saber where it belongs but angled a degree too low. Betrayal leaks through the inches between you and the weapon, both of you pointed away from one another like youโve both already chosen a side.
Perfect.
Perfect distraction.
Thatโs what he titled you with.
That was only an hour agoโmaybe less. Time drips itself in glutted intervals, and the exposed nerves inside you thrash for a pattern to stitch themselves to. Thereโs an invisible line, running from the base of the bladeโs hilt up through your bones. Without it, youโd slump over and collapse into the plating below.
You count the rib bones Anakin touched and the ones he didnโt; all of them wail.
I will stay, Master.
It replays scrambled. Reversed and inside out. You hear your voice declaring it yet you canโt tell if it was forced or relief.
Your neck stings.
Contain, you think. Conโ
The intercom crackles overhead.
โDrop zone approaching. All units report to your deployment positions.โ
Your eyes snap open.
Reality mourns back into being with weeping coolant lines and hissing pressurized magnetic currents.
The shipโs alive again and demands your presence.
Obedience lifts you to your feet, the dead limb at your side tapping against your hip as you stagger through the metal corridors.
It should be chaotic, but itโs not.
Clones rush in and out of formation, locking weapons to their bodies and checking gear. The gunships screech awake, one crying out as it shifts position, while bay doors yawn like mechanical mouths. The scent of grease and plastoid armor drills your sinuses as you move forward, leaving another hole in your mind.
One clone, helmet in hand, braid caught behind his ear, glances your way. His eyes snag on the burn across your neck.
โGuess Skywalker didnโt hold back,โ he mutters to the clone beside him. Not loud enough for rebuke, but loud enough for you to hear. The caurterized wound burns hotter beneath the laughter, both men passing.
They think it was a sparring calamity. Let them.
Your muscles remember the motion: one foot, then the other.
Deserved. Earned.
You donโt see his face at firstโonly the slope of his shoulders and the leisurely set of his stance. One hand braces against the wall, the other on his hip. Heโs speaking over the flickering holomap in front of him, reaching out to gesture across it.
Clones slip past you in seamless rhythm, flooding around him, as your feet plant to the floor beneath you.
He looks the same as he did before.
The same cadence he had three years ago, when you watched him in training through a holotransmission. Anakin had sung out of the static-ridden speakers, briefing about the war, the many advancements, and wins the Republic was accomplishing. Even through fuzzy memos, your attention always snagged on his shoulders.
Rot-slick bile rocks your gut as questions race faster than stomach acid ever could.
Is this his battle face? Iโve never seen it up close. Strategizing? Pretending Iโm not here?
No. He knows Iโm here.
Itโs a test. Another game.
Or you dreamed it all.
No. The charred skin on my neck disagrees, and muscles are aching I didnโt know existed.
Anakin gestures to a quadrant on the map and one of them mirrors the gesture. The clone must have told a joke because it draws a chorus of chuckles.
Anakin, heโsโ
You donโt know this version of him. But you do.
He looked like this when he taught a class on orbital tactics, when you were a year younger and more starved for purpose than anything else. You memorized the way he stood in front of the class, hands clasped behind his back, body fluid with loose confidence in each step.
Anakin didn't trip over words the way the other generals did. War, in his mouth, became simple tactics and toys, not ending lives. As if no one ever bled, and soiled themselves in fear, or screamed for their mother as the light fled their body.
If this is himโฆ Then who just hurt me?
Another man is living in the skin of Anakin, burrowed deep and well-fed. You think you might see his outline, hiding just above the collar of his robe.
You catch just the tail end of a sentence: โ... heavy sweep from the south ridge. Theyโre cut off here.โ The clones nod. One offers a comment and points to a blue cluster on the map. The group chuckles.
Everyone is calm.
And youโreโฆ what?
Upright? Somehow.
Your gaze catches on the gunships before dropping to your boots. Scratched durasteel, crusted oil, and your laces arenโt even. They werenโt a few hours ago, but it matters now. You bend down to fix them.
As if it helps.
You hear your name.
Your spine flinchesโbut it wasnโt him. Just a clone calling out orders down the line.
You stand, finding him again.
Heโs barely moved. Arms crossed over his chest. The muscles in his throat work around a deliberate swallow as if the moisture required your audience.
His mouth isโ
โStopโContainโ
The holomap flashes, strobing blue and white across his jaw. His mouth keeps moving with orders and coordinates, but itโs all vapor. Meaningless. Because heโs looking at you nowโat your neck.
You donโt move beyond a twitch. The specter pressure on your throat isnโt a memory, itโs present and incessant. And your mind, useless thing, rips his voice out of the Force. Not the one heโs using now, barking coordinates and drawing strategy into lines of glowing hues.
Your wailing ribs hear it. Your cracked lips. Your scarred neck, your bruised hipsโyou feel his words.
โFocus, Y/N.โ
โI am.โ
โNot enough. I know when your mind is drifting.โ
โAnd you are perfectly centered?โ
โI can still feel you. So yes, Iโm centered.โ
You reach for anger, but it laughs at you. What you grab instead is lethargic. You want to cover the mark, claw it until itโs a gruesome hole of jarred pearlescent blue cartilage.
His eyes drag to meet yours. And gods, itโs a war all over again. Thereโs a narrowing at the corners of his eyesโa pinprick ofโฆ pride?
Or hunger.
Or control.
Maybe thatโs all he is. Whatever dual personality he has, it prefers possession to creed.
His voice recovers at a deafening rate, as if the lapse never happened: โโaim right above the fuel cells as we approach. Taking out the last of the transports is our first priority but not the most important. Once we make our way to the forward command center, and reconvene withโโ
His voice doubles back to the filtered distortion of a general who once seemed genuine.
Heโs making war sound effortless again.
You stare at the back of his head until your eyes blur and fall. Thereโs blood under your fingernails and your palms are half-crescent crime scenes.
Your feet move to the dropship because Anakin does. Stale metal underfoot, like the floor of a medical wing. The handgrips are overhead, swaying from the force of its engines spooling.
He stands across from you, his body pitching the way practiced bodies do. Voices drone together, muffled by helmets and readiness while the clones fill in, sliding into their places. One behind you murmurs about the drop altitude in a fatigued tone. Another responds but you donโt catch the words, only the sound of familiarity.
The hatch closes and all sound condenses to the low howl of gears. You feel each gust in your chest as if it were bullied to fit in.
Anakin grasps the overhead bar, his mouth close to the comm at his wrist. โYou all know the plan. Keep your eyes open and don't get shot.โ
How is he soโฆ composed?
You nearly choke when a flashing red washes the inside of the dropship.
That color again.
โYou should pay attention, padawan.โ
His voice infiltrates; warping into your mind as if heโs said it right behind your ear.
โYesterdayโs mission, we went in blind. I was scattered. But now?โ
His gaze flicks toward you through the blinking red.
โYou should be proud, youโre the reason this oneโs already won.โ
Your mind doesnโt spiral, as spiraling would require motion.
This is stasis.
Your back teeth clack from the lift off before your stomach rolls, the ship tilting nose-down. Your core locks, and knees bow. A bead of sickly sweat rolls down your back, and you realize youโve been holding your breath. You draw in air so sharp it stings your lungs.
In through the nose, out through the teeth.
Again.
You taste vinegarโanger? Fear? Shame?
Anakin speaks into the coms again; it swims beneath the ocean of blood, muffled and clotted.
What did he say?
Your heels press against the metal floor, but your feet donโt hold you. The axis of your saber's hilt at your side is the only spine you have left. Thereโs no room left inside you for anything but the will to get through this mission and back to the, now appetizing, redundancy that awaits in Kothโs study.
Contain. Contain.
Perfect.
The sound of war doesn't end when the battle does, it just gets tired. The wounded keep making the same cinched cries with less air inside them, their screams thinning into red.
Everything is red.
The hangar bellows around you, a carousel youโve fallen off. Techs shout. Droids roll by. Medics split armor, talk rapidly, and pinch arteries closed with clamps that start clean but end drowned in red.
You havenโt moved inโฆhow long? You donโt remember getting back to the hangar. The mission ended. You think it ended.
You can taste one, a memory, purple skies, and burnt ration bars. Someone elseโs nostalgia that's too sweet for a day like this. Itโs not yours, so it has to be his.
The cloneโs jaw hit your shoulder when he fell.
Thatโs what you remember.
Not his name or the callout he gave before he threw himself forward. Slick, warm cartilage on your collar as he slumped against you while black smoke and blood poured from where his mouth shouldโve beenโthatโs yours.
A line of officers disperses from the center of the hangar, their boots muted across the metal. A clone pats anotherโs shoulder. The debriefing must be over.
Your howling feet carry you down the service corridor, past rows of lazily stacked gear crates, and into the washroom behind the hangar's second bay. The shivering black walls line the washroom, lit by strips of white light above the row of mirrors and sinks.
You stagger to the sink and lean forward, palms up. Rusty blood pools in the lines of your hands, sunken in the crescents of your nails.
I donโt feel like a Jedi.
Pink swirls in the basin from your hands as water hisses out of the faucet. The silence in your head is sudden and it makes your breath shake.
You watch the blood spin down the drain, before a jagged sting breaks your peace. You wince, looking closer as you rub your thumb along the edge. It snags so you dig at it.
Itโs not a chip of armor or shrapnel. Itโsโ
You blink.
Again.
Again.
Chunks of mandible. Tiny pieces of the clone's jaw and skull, are inside you.
Your lips seal as you scrape in air.
Gravity clutches behind your knees, refusing to let you fallโso he must be close. And, right on cue; there he is. Framed, red-lit inside your periphery.
โDonโt,โ you warn, without turning. Your voice is hoarse and foreign; maybe itโs the dead clones. โDonโt do that Jedi thing where you blanket it in purpose and protocol. Justโโ
His voice cuts in, low. โJust what?โ
One moment Anakin is a distant presence, and the next heโs a reflection. Scissors-blades lick through fabric and replace both your speech.
Where did he get those?
In the mirror, heโs soaked black and his tunic clings to an open wound. It slips from his torso as his saber lands on the sink's edge with a dull knock. Then his trousers drop enough to uncover the full wound: a yawning diagonal seam carved from navel to hipbone.
You steal small glances, regretting it.
His lean abdomen flexes when he breathes, the scar tissue tugging. Dried blood veins his hip, like rusty vines. The muscles spasm when he leans forward, trading the scissors for a sterile packet out of the medkit sitting inside the basin that he must have brought with him.
A thick old scar bisects the curve of his ribcage, raised and about an inch wide.
You pretend not to stare, digging with your nail again, trying to pinch out the shards. Your fingertips slip and scrape but none budge.
Ridiculous.
Youโre a soldier now. Supposed to handle much worse.
You press harder. The world tunnels before detonating.
โJust get out,โ you rasp, your nausea daring to rise. โGet out. Get out. Getโโ
You, again, try to steady, but your heart has transferred to the bones in your palm. They drum with throbbing, bruising pulses. Your opposite arm roasts where a bolt grazed the tricep.
Thereโs too much happening.
Your nails slip and you probe harder this time, until your body jolts. Sound ricochets off the walls before you recognize that it came from your mouth.
โYouโre going into shock,โ he mutters.
โDonโt say it like that.โ You gag, voice splitting. โMakes it sound less heroic.โ
You glance toward his mirror.
His eyes are pinned to his open wound, a needle clenched in his bare blood-streaked fingers. It moves almost like a magnet to metal, his muscles jolting beneath each puncture, but he doesnโt stutter. Thereโs zero pain on his face, only concentration as a row of neat sutures glints, sealing his flesh in a mirrored shimmer.
That surely hurts.
You count eight stitches before your stomach pitches again.
He lays a pad of mesh over the seams, binding himself in practiced arcsโaround his hip, waist, and ribs.
โGive it to me,โ he says.
You scoff. โWhat, my hand?โ
โYour weight.โ
The sink blurs immediately as your knees give. You drop together, causing a swell of vertigo, as his arm hooks you from behind, locking across your ribs, while the other catches your wrist before you can hit the floor.
His knees drag up to bracket your hips, and he draws your body closer into the curve of him. Heat from his wound seeps through your back; the bandage tags against your shirt. His hand moves from your wrist to the underside of yoursโbearing the bloodbath that is your palm.
You glance down and catch the shimmer of silver tweezers in his hand at your waist.
How did he know to grab those?
It doesn't matter.
Your legs are too irate to run, and your chest is way too full to argue; so you shut your eyes and tip the side of your head to his collarbone. Antiseptic rises from his wrappings, mingling with the blasterfire that lives in his sweat.
The tweezers slip in, and pain obliterates his incense. White fractures bloom behind your eyelids as the first fragment leaves your body with a wet click. Itโs not giant or broad but it lands on the floor with a sound that could quiet a planet. No piece that small should damage your ego this much.
The tweezers realign, angling toward the next shard. There are many moreโthe bones of the hand are puny and selfish, there are simply too many places to hide inside them. He works surgically, his hands stable on your quivering one.
He must be used to thisโcutting people open, and taking what never belonged.
No, this is pure thrill for him.
The respect of it. The control. The way a body slackens when he holds it.
Stop it.
This is not that.
This is medicine.
This is just survival.
But your mind sneers.
He brought me here. I didnโt want this.
The clones' dying groans still bounce around the curves of your brain.
Iโm not a Jedi.
Not a soldier.
Not anything.
Anakinโs voice grazes the crown of your head, through the downward spiral youโre on.
โSay it, then.โ The statement sounds like an order.
A thousand barbed insults come forward, only one survives your teeth. โThat you brought me here to die.โ
You halfway expect silence, but his fingers stop, tweezers clasped midair. Everything either burns or aches but no injury compares to the incessant pause between you two.
The gods of silence perch at the edge of their thrones; watching their imminent fall nearing.
โYou think Iโโ
โI watched you keep walking,โ you whisper. Your forehead stays huddled to his pulse, hearing it hammer as you attempt to swallow the taste of ash. โI watched you keep walking while I held his body in my arms.โ
โYou want to do this now?โ
You do. You donโt. You do.
โHe died on me. I was holding him, and youโโ
โHe was dead before he hit the ground.โ
His words must have rearranged themselves on the way out of his mouth, theyโre vicious to your ears. His eyes are already on you when you unfurl, shadowed but still unbearably blue. That impossible, crystalline blue thatโs always colder the closer he gets.
โYou donโt know that.โ You force out, your tongue swollen around the words.
Multiple fragments rattle to the floor. You pinch your eyes shut at the noise.
It isnโt fair.
A foolโs complaint. The thought arrives childish in its laughable naivety but lands completely honest in the indisputable clarity.
Nothing about this is fair.
Not the war. Not the men bred to fight and die. Nor the twisted dynamic between you and the Jedi caging you. Certainly not the faint way Anakin can harvest anotherโs remains out of your flesh as if it were just another task, or suture his own without so much as a hiss.
โI do know that,โ he insists, his voice strained in a way that tells you he's running on borrowed fumes. โAnd if I had hesitatedโif Iโd paused to thinkโevery one of us wouldโve died.โ
Your skin is packed, lungs raw and full of someone elseโs blood, and itโs his fault.
Itโs always his fault.
โIs that what you wanted? For everyone to die while you clung to one soldier you couldnโt save?โ
โStop.โ
"You want an apology? From me? I shouldโve stopped everything for your tearsโis that it?โ
You donโt have the strength to keep your anger at bay and lingering on the cloneโs death will end you. So you seize on another wound.
โWhy did you bring me here?โ The question rips out of you and he doesnโt stutter.
โI thought I made that pretty clear.โ
He plucks the final shard free. Fresh blood wells, running in thin streams down your wrist before he wraps the wound, tying the end off so quick it looks thoughtless but the knot sits right where it should. You hardly notice the growing sting under it, and you donโt question where the wrapping came from. Your entire world narrows to him.
โTell meโโ
โI donโt trust anyone else with you.โ
A brittle laugh escapes you, mostly hysteric.
โWith me? Or of me?โ Your jaw ticks while you fight the impulse to drive your elbow into his stitched side. โWhy hereโand not next to Master Koth?โ
A moment passes, and his silence is enough.
This was never about your safety or the needs of war. Itโs about control. It always has been. And control despises witnesses.
โI didnโt bring you here to lose you,โ he says finally, his tone stripped of fury and any salve. โIf I wanted that, youโd be dead. Youโre here because thereโs nowhere else you should be.โ
The one truth calls for a flash of guilt; he could have killed you in the undercity, or left you behind in the field today and no one would have questioned it.
The memory of that cloneโs, of that boyโs, open, trusting eyes flashesโthat last fixed look finding yours as his chest fellโand beneath that memory, a different understanding rises: if you do nothing now, if you cede this moment, whateverโs left of you will be written in stone.
I won't let that happen.
You twist, climbing him before your smarter half can stop you, pressing into his lap. Your thighs tighten around him until your knees bite the grated floor. Your bandaged palm wedges between you, while his metal hand follows, like he had been waiting for this turn, before it finds place on his bare shoulder.
โMercy,โ your heart, alight with damaged pride, convulses your teeth. โThat's the word youโre trying to describe.โ
โMercy?โ His mouth curves, denial warping it. โWhat a strange word to hang on me.โ His head tilts, gaze dragging to your mouth. Thereโs a line between restraint and indulgence you watch him balance on.
It makes the anger so much harder to hold.
โHas anyone taught you what love is, Y/N?โ
Love?
Love belonged to parents, and to myths buried under temple creeds, not for soldiers or Jediโs or whoever you are.
You donโt answer.
โTrue love,โ he begins in your silence, the words too rich for the mouth itโs exiting, โdecides for you. You donโt get to think or prepare. It chooses youโand it never lets go.โ
Scorched ash returns to your tongue.
โI donโt know what to do with that,โ you say, with no craft or clever undertone. โIt doesnโt make sense.โ
He exhales through his nose, an impatient, weary sound youโve come to learn is irritation before his voice drops. โItโs not meant to.โ
โThenโtake it back.โ
He lets out a dry huff. โThatโs not how it works.โ
โSo lovers? Is that what we are?โ
โSay it again.โ His hand tightens at your thigh; deciding whether to be cruel or crueler. โSee what happens.โ
You want to run but your body locks, knees squeezing at his sides.
Abby once pressed her cheek into the flimsy mattress of your shared dorm, eyes sunny as she whispered that love meant being chosen. Lex laughed so hard she nearly rolled off her bunk, spitting that no one ever got chosen, only used. Youโd stayed silent, staring at the ceiling, telling yourself that Abby just needed discipline, and that Lex was always bitter. You never questioned why your own thoughts fizzled at the topic. Now, the memory saturates into his warning.
If this isnโt love or hate then what is it?
โYouโve been hounding me with words made for common people ever since we met.โ You snap, harsher than expected, and his eyes fix on yours. The stillness itself is another kind of grip, but itโs not tight enough to hold your breath any longer.
โYou want to know what I see, General? It isnโt wisdom or generosity. All I hear clearly are your threats. Your voice and your wordsโโ Anger hisses out, half-delirious. โYou wonโt leave me alone, you wonโt let me die, you wonโt let me liveโโ
Your laugh breaks, too lofty and cracked.
โYouโre sick.โ
โIโm sick? Then what does that make you?โ
Hysteria churns hotter, making each inhale grind. โDonโt twist this back on me. I didnโt ask for this.โ The force of your speech leaves you shaking. Your palm beats, the bandage seeping through the cloth, leaving your grip on his shoulder to turn slick. Your right shoulderโs worse. The blaster-graze is an unwrapped sob, pain lancing every time you move, like the bolt is inside you. You taste charred meat.
Mine. My flesh is burning.
โIโm not your soldier, and Iโll never be your Padawan. I belong next to Master Koth.โ
You lunge to stand, meaning to climb off. His hands climb, gripping your thighs down and your knees slam into the plating with a sharp pang.
โTry again.โ
Like drills. Like a game.
Your heart batters, every muscle braced for flight. โLet me go, Anakin.โ
He leans closer, cutting your plea in half. โNo.โ
Your chest heaves as fury comes frothing and full of smothered courage. You want Anakin ruinedโsplit open like the boy was split in your arms, skull collapsing, and teeth dislodged with gums spraying fresh crimson. You want to bite through Anakinโs sweat-ridden cheeks until his gums fold and spray. You want him begging, the great Skywalker brought to his knees not by Sith or Separatist but by you; a girl too old, too late, too broken.
Fury wants bloodโhis, yours, anyoneโs. It doesnโt care whose.
This is what your predecessors warned of, the way hate spreads so easily.
โYour veins drum against bone, and your muscles tear from their moorings,โ They had saidโbut they were wrong.
A splenetic glow builds and bursts until your own body becomes hostile territory. Your head cracks forward before reason can stop it, your hold on his shoulder anchoring the strike. His nose folds under your brow with a crunch wet enough to temporarily satisfy the fury in your chest. His grunt runs against your mouth as blood mists across your face. A prismatic explosion follows behind, pain blooming across your forehead, making the whole room tilt.
Worth it.
When you try to stand again, seething, the dizziness leaves your body off balance and nauseated. You torque your hips and he corrects you without hesitation, as if heโs slotting a conduit back into place.
Itโs not enoughโwait.
His grip on your right thigh slips away, and in that instant you see freedom. Sangre drips in crooked creeks from his nose, like someone turned the bodyโs faucet on and forgot to close it. The back of his hand drags under it, revealing his proud grin, and smearing the red over his bruised cheekbone.
Heโs made himself into a portrait in one, singular lazy strokeโand it stops you, as all amazing art does.
Stand! Stand! The chance to run is nowโthe door is right there.
He meets you through crimson-brushed lashes with that cocky look that reworks his whole face. โFinished?โ he murmurs, the word licked with obscene pride.
Your mouth opens and closes. Thereโs no reply that doesnโt turn into sobbing or more violence.
You hadnโt picked a side that night, with Abby and Lex. Youโd pretended neutrality was adulthood, letting the two drone on till the sun rose. But now your eyes fall on the liquid leaking from his nose as if youโve seen a ghost, and neutrality shows itself for what it is: a lie.
Neither of them knew what they were talking about.
Call it disbelief or ignorance that keeps you from moving, either way, striking him and still being in one piece is paralyzing all on its own.
You barely remember his lifted hand until it tightens. His fingers sequence back down on your thighs, and a hum opens in himโa resonant note that cycles deeper than his throat. He shifts beneath you, a slow roll of muscle grinding your straddled body closer. Every motion is synced between his hands and hips, as if he could fuse you to him right here.
I know exactly where this is going if I donโt stop it.
A thought tries to surface and you shove it down. Another rises and you pack it lower. You bite your tongue until the sting punishes the wicked thoughts away.
โRemove your hands.โ
โYou donโt want that.โ
โI want off your lap. I want to leave.โ
The grin on his lips grows as his eyes flick to the door, then back. โThen stand.โ His voice falls back into naming coordinates and dictating strategies. โThe door hasnโt moved.โ
The slight tilt of his head causes a fresh bead, painting a light arc down the drying smear as it finds his lip. The color is promising and foul and, Maker help you, absolutely captivating. It shouldnโt be โa wound is just a woundโ but the color begins to mutilate the fragile laws inside you, the ones heโs already scratched out and rewritten.
โYou heard me,โ he taunts, โStand.โ
The washroom is the old hymn of fluorescent fatigue and blackened steel grating. The blood is an outlaw stanza written over it.
Your body lists forward; his hands correct a degree and youโre back where you started.
โYouโre restraining me.โ
โIf I meant to restrain you, youโd know.โ His voice doesnโt rise. โYouโre in shock.โ
Shock. There has to be a more honorable word to explain this.
There is a version of him that closes his hands around your throat and calls it teaching. There is also a version of you that lets him.
Maybe I should be thanking this version for the semantic upgrade.
โYouโre insufferable.โ
โNo. Iโm right,โ he says, certainty plastered where other men's shame would be.
Thatโs almost honorable.
โThere is nothing right about you.โ
โThereโs everything right about me,โ Zero boasts, only more absolute certainty, which makes it so much worse. โAnd I always seem to be right about you.โ
Thatโs what drives you mad.
Mad is generous.
โYouโre impossible.โ
His expression doesnโt veer as his voice cools. โYou prefer me this way.โ
Perhaps entitlement comes with the title Chosen One; he wears it well. You saw him at the holomap before the mission, how the clones leaned into the gravity of him. Your own legs had answered his stride like a habit. Pathetic. You want to be immune to him.
โArrogant?โ
โAccurate.โ
Your nails dig into his shoulder, desperate for any kind of leverage. โI donโt want whatever this is.โ
โYou do.โ
โI do noโโ
โYou do,โ he proclaims again, relentlessly. โYou donโt want a body count, thatโs all.โ
The truth supports your stomach's growing illness, while your ears crave the comfort of any kind of lie. The urge to obnoxiously cackle and give him your infection is tempting, but you swallow it. The laugh follows the coppery bile down while your tongue brushes the cut you gave it earlier.
โIโm not a piece of property or object you can claim. You donโt get to own me.โ
โOwnership is for droids. Youโre not a droid.โ His crystal eyes travel, cruelly slow. โYou are far more dangerous than that. You can disobeyโand still, you donโt.โ
What do I say to that?
โMaker, you love hearing yourself.โ
โMaker,โ he returns, with a dull tick of amusement, โso do you.โ
He's not wrong. Youโve always enjoyed the click of clarity, especially now, considering itโs been missing since the club, but who doesnโt? Clarity is a soundless, tasteless narcotic.
His palm spreads over your thigh, not squeezing down, just reaffirming that your body is still atop him.
โYou want off me?โ His voice curls, low. Heโs offering a substitute for clarity that reeks of iron.
I want to stay until you break in a way that will free me. I wantโฆ.
โSay it,โ he adds.
โSay what?โ
โThat you froze.โ He doesnโt move when your eyes question him. โAdmit itโand weโll move on.โ
Your pride works around the word, and memory struts in with an uninvited altruism: the tremble in the boyโs broken body, the way his chest tried to lift, the gurgling that couldn't have been speech and still begged you to answer. You canโt remember the last time you exhaled without shaking. Most likely, it was then.
The crimson on Anakinโs face has thickened into a lacquer, sealing a formal signature. You want to revel in the pride that itโs your signature drying across his face, but the part of you that respects art refuses any satisfaction.
How could I take credit for this mastery? This is all his doing.
There are worse admissions, but you seem to be collecting them all tonight.
โI held him,โ your voice cracks out. Itโs a fact you can carry without vomiting and one he can't say is untrue.
โYou did,โ he repliesโand for once, his voice changes. Softer. โAnd then you stood, and followed every order I gave.โ
Arguing with the chronology will do nothing. Telling him about the seconds that werenโt seconds but hours, how time turned to tar instead of water, will only lead to fat, pitiful tears.
โStop using today to build this,โ you fume, head dipping in a gesture to both of you. โI was hideous. My movements were sloppy. Today doesnโt count.โ
โIt counts,โ his saw-toothed attention that split you open the first night continues slicing now. He movesโnot out of reach but deeper into you. The urge to rip yourself off him capsulizes into a single swallow.
โI need you to stop,โ you whisper, leaving the sentence suspended, as vast and senseless as today has been.
His stare flicks briefly to your mouth, before returning. โI tried,โ he mimics your hush, and the way his voice is, it isnโt a gesture for pity. โYou know I did.โ
His right hand slides up your thigh, palm finding the crevice where your hip meets thigh, and his other follows. The stutter in your breath is small enough to hide inside, but your chest takes it as an order to align. Your back straightens, knees firm, and a bracing you didnโt consent to yanks your body.
โTry again,โ your breath hits his lips, โplease.โ
He hears your please and answers in plain pulses that rub your clothed heat. His grip tightens by a hair, and his hips give a short grind that he reins in immediately. You feel the misstep and want to ignore it.
I shouldโve been more specific. Please could mean anythingโplease don't kill me. Please stop touching me. Please leave me alone. Please fill me.
Every road you took bent back on itself and any further one will do the same.
Even my pleas loop back.
Iโm out of tricks.
You take your new vocabularyโmercy, perfect, earned, loveโand set them on the floor between you. Older phrases stir and die with them. There is no emotion. There is peace. In that hallowed carcass, it becomes obvious that these creeds were made in a time long before Anakin, and thatโs exactly why they hold no merit here.
Your mouth parts, planning to say the ultimate argument-ending comeback that would end this whole farce, before the room begins to pivot and his hands shift up. They drag the hem of your shirt higher on your back, until the pads of his fingers run against your bare skin. Itโs the tipping his touch always gives and the direction is never evident, till you hit the bottom.
He rubs circles into your spine, and you are... powerless. Exhausted.
Youโve blamed your body for mutiny since the very first night, and every night since, like itโs a separate entity. You didnโt chime in on Abby and Lexโs debate because the idea of love frightened youโbecause it meant you wanted it.
You flirt with the idea of hitting him again, but youโre too tired of broken things to fight and too furious to leave. That same cowardice stops you now. Yes, you are a coward. An undeserving coward. But no amount of foresight or reflection or calculation can prepare anyone for the all-knowing, all-powerful, Anakin Skywalker.
โToday counts,โ His voice keeps its shutter, like heโs reciting scripts. โIt counts more than any day youโve lived. Today I saw your rage steady your hand better than peace ever will.โ
His praise braids with his fingers as he raises your shirt past your waist. The fabric sticks where blood and sweat have glued it to your skin, peeling free in draws that feel more forceful than tearing would.
โDo you know how rare it is for obedience to win over grief?โ He holds none of the grandeur he uses on clones or the Council; itโs private, and obscenely personal. โDo you know how few Iโve seen do it? How few could?โ
โYou think I want you for your pretty face? For whatโs between your legs? Or your clumsy twirls with a saber?โ He huffs out a small chuckle as your shirt lifts higher, the sear on your shoulder tugging the cloth as it passes over. โNo. I save you because you obey, even as your soul revolts.โ
Your throat swells with muted insults as he pulls the shirt over your head. He drops it aside without lookingโa discarded meat-suitโand youโre left bare from the waist up, save for the thin wrap binding your chest.
โYou think this pain is yours alone?โ He asks, not skipping a beat, as his hold migrates. Gold fingertips scrape against the small of your back, pulling you forward until your palms find the old terrain of his shoulders, and his arousal presses against you again.
โDo you know how many commanders Iโve buried because they mistook stubbornness for courage?โ His voice dips lower, human hand finding your thigh once more, quickly climbing to your naked hip. โHow many rotted on nameless worlds because the council is too blind, too afraid, to send me?โ
He continues, each word punctuated with the smooth trace of his thumb across your hip, grazing the lower band of your pants.
โI know better. Better than the council.โ He tightens, bringing you back to his lips. โI know what a soldier can take and what they can't. You, Y/N, can take more than any of them. You're not just a Padawan. Not justโyou are more than that, little one. You have so much powerโโ
Power.
โI thought I was just an outletโthe perfect distraction.โ
They escape you the same way they had him weeks ago but instead of his profane growl, you confessed them. It makes him pause before an indulgent grin darkens his crimson lips.
โA beautiful face,โ he repeats, โbut just an outlet.โ His fingers keep their tracings along your hip, patiently. โYou remembered.โ
His head tilts, and you find each wrinkle the new angle allows beside his eyes, daring for a hint of compassion behind those cerulean disks.
"If you want to be used,โ he states, โIโll be there. If you want to be owned, Iโll be there. And if you want the anger, fear, and stubbornness taken out of youโโ his voice seems to catch, for a breath, โโI will be there.โ
His pupils dilate as they canvas your face and his tone never puts on the Generals' attire heโs worn several times throughout this argument; itโs a much glassier suit. โAnd when you crawl back to your lectures in Master Kothโs hollow cave once this ship lands, I wonโt follow.โ
Compassion, if thatโs what this is, at last.
The lights blink their indifferent white eyes as the ventilation jeers in a bruising laughter. Inside this theatre of mechanical derision, his offer takes on a literal form, making rings of sound that encase the two of you.
โIf you want to be used, Iโll be there. If you want to be owned, Iโll be there.โ
A vow? A cursing?
Regardless, thereโs no intention of release.
Thereโs no version where he isnโt waiting and him genuinely stopping is impossible nowโheโs proven that.
Itโs an endless cage.
โEven when I walk away,โ You give, voice wrecked, โyouโll still be there.โ
His grin fizzles and he lets out an exhausted breath, leaning back. He studies your face again, the furrow of your brow down to your pinched mouth, with an appreciation that feels centuries too late for this conversation.
โI will never love you, Y/N.โ
He whispers, finally, with the softest lull he's ever managed. โNot the way you imagine. But I will give you more than what safety or sanity can. You can't ask me to leave you. Because I wonโt. Run,โ His eyes, those feverish blue orbs, lower to your mouth. โAnd I will bring you back. Do you understand me?โ
No, no I donโt.
โWhy lie to me?โ The question leaks out quieter than you intended, making you shift your weight.
You watch his shoulders slack and realize heโs been wearing armor this entire conversation, only now is he stripping the pieces off. โYou asked me to try again. This is what it looks like.โ
You feel your own chest constrict as he divulges. โI tried after the club, after the council meeting, and Iโm trying again nowโin here. Softer than you deserve.โ
Heโs suffering from the pressure thatโs been building too.
The blood on his nose has slowed to a weep, leaving thick ruby lines from his bridge to his chin. The sight, so violent and genuine, makes you unconsciously catalog it in its new state.
โโTrying againโ is supposed to mean progress,โ you push out, your voice as brittle as the parchments back in Master Koth's office. โItโs not supposed to beโฆ more of the same.โ
Across the room, behind you, the open medkit lifts from the sink and glides toward the two of you.
โYouโre asking for something that isnโt real.โ
He releases you, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic and a fresh roll of gauze from the now grounded medkit by his side.
โA world where I donโt want you.โ
Thatโsโฆ not what Iโm asking for.
Or is it?
Do I want him to want me?
I want the Temple. I want to study dusty books. I want to debate philosophy with Lex and listen to Abbyโs daydreams. I know I want a world without red. I want to be bored againโฆ
Right?
โYouโre still in shock.โ He observes, with his factual lilt.
Heโs absolutely right. The tremor in your hands against his shoulders is a frantic Morse code of todayโs toll. When you start to pull away, his hand intercepts yours mid-flight, dropping the gauze and antiseptic. Gently, he guides your trembling fingers to the bridge of his noseโpressing them against the crooked cartilage.
โFeel that?โ He murmurs, almost proud. โYou did that.โ
You feel the swollen ridge, the kick beneath the nascent bruise, and the sticky tack of drying blood. His hand falls away, leaving your fingers stranded on the cracked wound until your hand falls, fingertips absentmindedly trailing lower.
โI wonโt apologize for it,โ he utters against you, his hot air skating your fingerprints. โNot for taking you. Not for wanting you. They taught you to sever and starve yourself of anything that doesn't serve them. Iโm onlyโฆโ A deep breath, his chest rising and grazing your elbow, โโฆgiving you a feast.โ
You trace the blood to his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. Itโs oddly secret, the sensation of cooled blood on his flesh, and the way his head trustingly tilts back, exposing his neck.
Power. This is power.
โDo you enjoy seeing me bleed for you, little one?โ
The questionโthe vibrations it sends crawling up your spine. His crimson. The pressure from his confined lengthโit all melts together until you canโt tell where revulsion ends and curiosity begins.
You are a ship with a dead engine, coasting in the debris field of your own making. He is the only star left in your sky. A black hole, but a star nonetheless.
His metal hand returns, resting over yours, and he leans forward until your thumb hovers over his lips. Twin pools drown you while his tongue draws the tip of your thumb past his lips, your other fingers folding naturally to cup his jaw.
HeโMaker, he enjoys this.
The entire world is shrunken to the washroomโs unforgiving spotlight on his face and the foreign heat inside his cheeks. His pupils have blown, swallowing the blue until theyโre no different from impact craters as he hums around your thumb, and the noise dances between your hips.
Gravity cracks your jaw, leaving your lip parted once again.
I canโt feel my knees.
Your thumb slips out, shiny and wet, resting along the curve of his plump bottom lip as an ugly yet candid equality blossoms within the lassitude you two have sown. Thereโs no balance here, only the rhythm of two people who donโt know how to stop colliding with each other, and in it, clarity takes place.
The club was the only time I let myself want.
Youโve been choking yourself on silence, gargling routines, and idolizing restraint until your ribs eroded from the effort of holding it all in.
So thatโs why they sang when he touched them.
Your mind travelsโback through the cargo bayโs metal, through the endless nights spent in freezing dorms. You see the mess hall, your friends across from you, all forcing the same tasteless paste down. You feel the pop in your knuckles from gripping a training saber too tight.
Then faster, spooling forward through the many compact dorms and cold sheets, you see yourself standing before destiny itself; tall, damning.
And thenโthis.
This rot infecting youโthis fatal acclimation.
Years and years and years and more years.
โYouโve starved yourself long enough, let me feed you.โ
Red cracks back into the edges of your vision with his wordsโsplintering itself through the seams of the room, the walls, into himโhis eyes, his throat.
The color isnโt signaling danger or warnings anymore.
๐ฎ๐๐๐๐ถ๐๐: Read. Learn. Understand. It is not a command, nor a kindness. The door is still open. You could leave. But you wonโt.
๐ฉ๐๐๐๐: This oneโs a bit shorter, but donโt worry, the next chapter will be a longer read. As always, any tips, advice, or kind words in the comments are greatly appreciated. ๐ฅฐ
P.S. The guy in the first picture is my idea of Luther Koth.โบ๏ธ
As always, banners done by @cafekitsune !
Enjoy ๐ค
The walk to Master Kothโs office felt like stepping into the future youโd been imagining for so long. The sun seemed brighter, the air smoother, as if the universe itself recognized the monumental shift in your life and enhanced every detail.ย
You could hear it, the faint churr of success, yet the ground beneath you seemed to be offbeat. You shouldโve felt exhilarated, filled with the same feelings you had when it all finally clicked last night. Instead, the magnified rays on your cheeks, the mixed chatter of people, and the pure oxygen in your lungs caused a subtle tinge, a disconnect from the universe's gracious gift.ย
Walking out of one of the common areas and rounding a corner, youโre met with a long staircase. The polished stones gleamed tauntingly, worn smooth by years of passage, and it even seemed indifferent to your arrival.
One step at a time, you ascend the mountain of prejudice stone, reaching a demure, unmarked door that might be a portal to greatness or tedium. This was the start of something new, but what exactly had you started? The memory of Anakinโs words hissed in your mind, immutable and absolute.
โSheโll never see the frontline.โ
You had dismissed it then, chalking it up to his penchant for control, but now as the door is in sight you werenโt so sure.ย
You reach up but pause, your hand hovering just shy of the wood. A pang of self-awareness hits you, like the snap of a tether stretched too tight, or a crisp backhanded sting to the cheek.
How many decisions had led to this moment?ย
Every training session, every late-night study, every grueling test youโd barely scraped by, they all lead you straight here, to a plain door that looked like it belonged to an afterthought, a threshold that mocked you with its ordinarity.ย
Ironic, isnโt it? Calling a mirror a door, when what stares back at you is neither an ending nor a beginning, just a reflection of the cost. Stripped of ceremony, stripped of worth, until all thatโs left is the hollow familiarity of getting exactly what you wanted, exactly the wrong way.
You adjust your posture, straightening your robes, and force yourself to exhale these twisted thoughts.
This wasnโt the time for hesitation.ย
Jedi didnโt hesitate. You were a Jedi. Or, at least, you were trying to be.
Your knuckles still, faltering slightly before you ball your hand into a fist and rap on the door, sharp, purposeful, and way louder than you had meant.ย
The smell hits you first as the door creaks open, old, aged paper, and something else, faintly sour like the room had been sealed away from the living for far too long. You were still taking it in when your gaze landed on him, and every thought in your head came to a disturbingly quick halt.
His skin had an unusual clarity to it, luminous but not unnatural, like it had been kissed by a lifetime of sleepless nights rather than sunlight and his hair, a light brown, fell in loose waves that framed his face in a way that felt frustratingly witting. But it wasnโt his hair or his skin that struck you most, it was the angular cut of his features, as though someone had chiseled him by hand. His cheekbones were rawly defined, throwing shadows across his face, while the line of his jaw was softened only by the faintest hint of stubble.
His eyes were the trap. Large and dark, each iris flecked with gold, as though fragments of a star had shattered and lodged themselves deep within. They were tired but not apathetic, not dead; they were exhausted. Beneath his right eye, a pink scar had made a home, adding an unexpected asymmetry, making his beauty feel... human, less sculptured.
Jedi arenโt supposed to care about appearances.
You arenโt supposed to care.
And yet, you canโt think of any proper thoughts.
He blinks at you, his expression neither welcoming nor dismissive. There was a peculiar vacancy to him, something almost meditative.
"You're Y/N," he said, and the sound of your name fell from his lips, as though it were the first time it had ever been spoken correctly. His voice was a dulcet murmur but with an edge of precision like every word he spoke had been carefully pre-picked. It carried a faint accent, the syllables falling like drops of water, lilting and crisp, but with a warmth that rounded each word.ย
"I am," you managed, the words sticking for just a moment too long. Your heartbeat sped up, followed by a strange flutter in your chest.ย
He didnโt move immediately, didnโt offer his hand or any motion of formal introduction. He stood with one hand on the door, blocking your entry, while his eyes observed you with thisโฆ veiled fervor, like someone who had already seen too much and had no questions left.ย
"So, uh... Can I come in?" You began, the silence and his eyes pressing into you, causing words to fly out with little forethought.ย
He tilted his head ever so slightly, that same cloaked intensity in his stare as if the answer you were looking for was already written somewhere in the air between you. It was more like he was testing a theory, one he had long ago confirmed, yet he still felt compelled to look.
โYou may sit.โ He said finally, the elusive yet stark vibration of his words made the previous silence seem planned. He adjusts his robe with a lazy shrug, letting the fabric gather higher over his broad shoulders, before turning and moving deeper into the room.
It was a mess, but not the frantic kind. No, this was an intentional disorder; a beautiful chaos. The air smelled of ink and dust, a stale mixture of human neglect. The shelves sagged under the weight of books, their edges curling and yellowing with age, while maps and charts hung from the walls at odd angles, marked with hurried notations in handwriting so jagged it looked angry.
And then you noticed the bed, or what passed for one. In the far corner, a low, makeshift cot was crammed into a small alcove. Blankets were tossed over a frame, the sheets still rumpled as if he had just left it moments ago. The sight of it makes your gut drop. It was becoming nauseatingly clear that your next years as a Padawan would be a never-ending study session and not about any kind of physical, combat training or adventure.
The floor is littered with various documents, some marked with jagged red lines, others are crumpled in what might have been frustration, or merely neglect. A few of them bore different markings, black slashes underlined urgent phrases, bold markings that screamed urgency, yet they too lay discarded like scraps. You try to step carefully, avoiding the documents, as though stepping on one might shatter the fragile stability of the space.
Taking the seat he had gestured to, you sank into it. It felt as unwelcoming as the rest of the room; hardwood, straight-backed, with a cushion that felt like it hadnโt been replaced in decades. Despite the tightening in your bones, you force yourself to sit tall, drawing on the posture you had been trained to maintain. But your propriety only made you feel more out of place. This room, this man, this moment, it all felt wrong. This was not the future you had envisioned, and the gap between naive expectation and reality wedged beneath your ribs, a feeling that dragged you down even as it rooted you in place.ย
Across the room, Master Koth hadnโt so much as glanced up, already absorbed in the papers spread across his desk.
The sound was endless, his pen, a rhythmic scratching punctuated only by the soft rustle of a page being turned. Hours passed without a word and eventually, your modesty dimmed, you outright stared at him as he worked, taking him in.ย His hands, long, elegant fingers dusted with ink splatter, moved as though the act of writing was an extension of his breath. For a moment, it felt as if you were intruding on something sacred.
โThis arrangement is... unconventional. You understand that, donโt you?โย
The utterance of his voice shattered the quiet like a single note in an empty cathedral. He didnโt look up, didnโt pause in his writing.
You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something to say.ย
โUhโฆ sureโฆ?โ You shift, your posture wavering for a moment before your arms find place on the armrests, and you straighten back out.
He tilts his head slightly, still focusing on the papers in front of him.
โI imagine this isnโt what you were expecting.โ
โI... wasnโt sure what to expect,โ you say, your voice steadier than you felt. That earned you a glance, brief but burrowing, sticking you in place while assorting and discarding you in a single sweep.
โGood,โ he murmured, more to himself than to you. He set the pen down with care as he leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking in protest, and finally his full attention fell on you. The shift exposed a faint scar under his chin, curling to the back of his throat. Your gaze caught on it, drawn to the raised, pink edges. It was an old wound, years healed. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes traced its path, scanning every new fragment of him the motion would reveal.
โYouโll find,โ he began again, his tone slow and almost cynical, โthat much of what you imagined about becoming a Padawan will not align with reality.โ A pause, deliberate. Then, โThe Order does not train us to dream, only to serve. You may want to hold onto that distinction, it may spare you disappointment.โ
His words were made of steel, gliding cleanly between armor you hadnโt known you were wearing. Your head nodded, unsure whether he expected agreement or silence. There was no challenge in his tone, no arrogance, just an unshakable certainty that made arguing seem pointless.ย
He gestured toward the precarious stack of books teetering on the edge of his desk, again without any turn of his eyes, as if even acknowledging the assignment was beneath him.ย
โWeโll begin with these. Read the first three by tomorrow.โ
Their spines are cracked and faded, their titles scrawled in languages you couldnโt even begin to identify. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, the blood draining from your fingers until they felt like hollowed-out husks. You didnโt have a hatred for studying, you loved to read. Loved the way words could take shape in your mind, and transform into something more than scribbles on a page. But there was something about this that crawled through you, a sickening cinch that spread like poison. Not just the books. Not just the room. The feeling was so new it remained nameless, as you scooped the books off the edge. Your fingers hesitate before closing around them, light at first, as though they might burn. They didnโt, but the weight of them sank into your palms, heavier than they had any right to be.
Master Kothโs eyes had fallen back to his work, dismissing you without words, and the longer you stood there, the smaller you felt, as if the room itself were absorbing you. You turned toward the door, but his voice stopped you just before you could take a second step.ย
โYouโll adapt,โ he said, not kindly, not cruelly.ย
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