Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Enjoy 🖤

~

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the training room as you wiped your sweat-drenched face off. The room was crowded, more than usual, as trainees gathered in small groups, chatting quietly as they ran through drills.

“Come on, I didn’t even hit you!” Your friend, Lex, called from across the mat, her grin wide as she swung her training saber, trying her best to make the saber move effortlessly. Trying, being the hint word.

“Lex, you’re a maniac.” Your other friend, Abby, calls out from your side, her face also covered in beads of sweat. Abby takes deep, dramatic breaths, her back hunched over and hands on her knees as her head falls.

You gave her shoulder a gentle nudge as you passed her, stepping onto the mat.

“You’re getting more and more cocky, Lex. It’s actually becoming quite toxic.” You joke, swinging your own saber around in a quick, fluid motion, mimicking what Lex was attempting to do.

Lex scoffs, watching the way you swiftly twisted the saber in your hand before she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Toxic? Me? I’m the least toxic person here. I’m like... the chamomile tea of this group.”

“Chamomile tea?” Abby repeats, arching a brow as she dusts off her robes. “Lex, you’re more like... a bottle of spice syrup someone accidentally knocked over into their drink. Chaotic and hard to swallow.”

“Wow, rude.” Lex shoots back, feigning offense as she takes a mock swing in Abby’s direction. “If I was so toxic, wouldn’t I have caused more… I don’t know… damage?”

Abby sidesteps easily, throwing her arms wide. “If we’re talking about damage, I’d like to remind you of the time you thought it’d be a great idea to duel Master Purn to ‘test his reflexes.’”

Lex cackles, the sound sharp and unrepentant. “In my defense, his reflexes needed testing. How was I supposed to know he’d use the Force to flip me into the meditation pool?”

You grin, sliding into your own stance and raising your saber, bringing Lex’s attention back to you. “I don’t know, maybe because he’s a Master and you’re... well, you?”

Lex points her saber at you, her grin widening. “Bold talk for someone who got ‘accidentally’ locked in the supply closet last week. Who was behind that again?”

“Oh, definitely an accident,” Abby threw over her shoulder as she walked around the mat, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Totally not orchestrated by someone who thought it’d be hilarious.”

Lex shrugs, clearly unbothered as you both start circling. “Hey, you needed some alone time to reflect. Consider it... a gift.”

You roll your eyes. “Some gift. I was in there so long I memorized the Jedi Code backward.”

“Wow,” Abby says, clapping her hands slowly. “A true scholar emerges. Next thing we know, you’ll be reciting Master Purn’s lectures for fun.”

“Okay, let’s not go that far.” You reply, spinning your saber before faking a quick step towards Lex. She takes the bait and quickly steps back, giving you a small look when she recovers. You grin as you continue, “At least I didn’t blow up the training dummies during practice.”

Lex holds up a hand. “Hey, those dummies had it coming. I was innovating.”

“You overloaded the power cells,” Abby says flatly. “They exploded.”

Lex lunges at you, her saber coming down in a wide arc. You block it easily, the clash of the sabers sending a soft clunk echoing through the room. You push back, stepping into her space as you twist your wrist, forcing her saber downward.

“Come on, Lex, who taught you that move?” you taunt, grinning as she huffs in frustration.

“Give me a minute!” Lex retorts, stepping back and resetting her stance. “I’m just warming up.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” you reply, glancing at Abby, who’s watching with an amused expression.

“Admit it—you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to spice things up.” Lex adds, beginning the circling again.

You follow her lead, as Abby sighs dramatically from the side. “It’s like being friends with a hurricane. A very talkative hurricane.”

“A hurricane with style.” Lex corrects, striking a bogus heroic pose.

The banter was easy, familiar—a rare pocket of normalcy in a routine that had grown more intense with each passing week. You could feel the eyes of the instructors watching from the edges of the room, their silent appraisals heavy with expectations.

It had been four weeks since you snuck out to the Underground with Lex and Abby. After the long and painful solo walk home, you had given the two of them a call to let them know you got back to your room before you let the anxiety of the upcoming trials and tests for graduation overtake and consume your thoughts, pushing down anything to do with that man or that bar.

You knew you were close to graduating, closer than most of the others here, and that only made the pressure more tangible. Every step forward felt like a test of its own, every glance from your instructors a challenge you had to meet.

Starting your training late hadn’t done you any favors either. Most Padawans began their journeys as young children—eight, maybe ten if they were late bloomers. At eighteen, you were among the oldest in the academy, and though your peers shared the same delayed start, the stigma wasn’t easy to ignore. It was a constant reminder that you were running out of time to prove yourself.

Before Lex can make another move, the door to the training room slides open with a sharp hiss, and a mechanical voice erupts in the large space.

“Apologies for the interruption,” the protocol droid states, its metallic tone cutting through the lively chatter of the room and echoing off the tall walls. Its polished bronze exterior gleams under the overhead lights as it strides forward. “Trainee Y/N, you are requested to report to the Council Chamber immediately.”

Silence.

You freeze mid-motion, lowering your saber as every eye in the training room turns toward you. Even Lex and Abby look momentarily stunned, the playful energy dissipating like smoke in the air.

“Uh…” Lex starts, lowering her own saber and glancing at Abby. “What’s this about?”

The droid doesn’t answer, its expressionless face making the moment feel draining.

A few whispers broke out among the other trainees, but they were quickly silenced with a sharp look from the instructors.

You shift uncomfortably, a knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?” you ask, directing the question to the droid.

“I am not privy to the Council’s intentions,” it replies curtly, its head tilting slightly as if to gesture for you to follow. “You are to come with me immediately. No delays.”

Abby takes a step forward, her brows furrowing. “We’ll come too,” Lex offered quickly, Abby nodding in agreement as they both moved toward you.

The droid swivels its head toward Lex but doesn’t answer directly. Instead, it turns back to you. “Only Trainee Y/N is required. Please proceed now.”

Lex steps closer to you, her hand brushing against your arm. “Y/N…” she starts, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain and strangely quiet.

You force a smile, masking your own unease. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” The girls exchanged a worried glance, but they stayed where they were, clearly reluctant to let you go.

You nodded, offering them a small, reassuring smile even as your mind warred. You could feel the collective gaze on you as you followed the protocol droid out of the room. The absence of their warmth feels immediate, almost jarring, as if you’ve stepped into another world entirely.

The door hisses shut behind you, leaving the hum of training sabers and soft murmurs far behind. You’ve walked these hallways a hundred times, but now every detail feels magnified, every shadow stretching farther than it should.

The halls are quieter than you’d expected, the usual foot traffic subdued as you walked in step with the droid. “What’s going on?” you asked after a moment, unable to keep the question from slipping out.

The protocol droid doesn’t stop or slow its pace; its polished exterior shines faintly under the breezeway lights, which is your only form of an answer until its robotic voice speaks up.

“The Council has made a decision regarding your future,” it replies simply, its tone infuriatingly chipper. “How exciting!”

You barely register its response, its tinny enthusiasm clashing with the growing tension in your chest. A decision? Regarding my future? The possibilities churned in your mind as you followed it through the long, polished hallways of the Temple.

The soles of your boots echoed softly against the smooth floor. Each step feels heavier than the last, the sound amplified in your ears like the steady beat of a drum, like each stride was a chance, a choice.

You force yourself to breathe evenly, to concentrate on the familiar surroundings: the intricate carvings lining the walls and the faint scent of incense wafting through the air. The arches and curves loomed larger than usual, their designs etched in stark relief against the soft glow of the lights.

Calm. Control. Focus.

The mantra comes unbidden, but now it felt like trying to hold water in your hands. Your thoughts were as scattered as the low chatter of the trainees you’d just left behind.

The Council’s decision could mean anything—had you done something wrong? The twisting in your stomach tightened with each passing thought as the droid led you around a corner, the Council Chamber doors now in sight.

They appear more daunting than ever; the entangled carvings in the wood glow vaguely, and for some reason this was the first time you had really given it a good look. They seem alive, almost springing with the burden of the decision waiting on the other side.

The droid stops a few paces from the entrance, turning to you with its usual brisk formality. “You may enter. The Council awaits.”

You hesitate, your pulse quickening. For a moment, you think of Lex and Abby, their worried expressions still fresh in your mind. I hope they’re not freaking out too much, you think, a faint smile tugging at your lips before it vanishes.

The heavy doors slid open with the familiar faint hiss, revealing the ominous circular chamber. Your heart rages in your chest as you step inside, the air noticeably cooler.

The semicircle of Council members sits before you, their faces calm but indecipherable. Master Yoda’s small frame is centered among them, barely filling the chair’s width. Beside him, Mace Windu’s gaze scrutinized you with a discreet vigor. Other familiar faces—Obi-wan, Kit Fisto, Plo Koon—flank them, their postures serene and suave while their eyes oozed judgment.

Your steps falter as your eyes catch movement. Seated beside Obi-Wan, arms crossed, is Anakin. His presence was unmistakable, a magnetic pressure that bends the air and shifts the room’s energy, or perhaps just your own. His expression is a collision of smug satisfaction and simmering impatience, the corners of his mouth hinting at something unspeakable.

He wouldn’t be thinking about that right now, would he?

The question roams in your head, but it’s quickly snuffed out by flashes of that night. The scent of bitter blood of the past erupts; you can practically taste it. With a swirl of your tongue, you find it’s not your imagination—the taste of copper is real; you had bit down into your cheeks, the red liquid pooling in your closed mouth.

“Step forward, Y/N,” Master Windu’s voice breaks through the silence, his tone firm but sympathetic as it echoes off the high, windowed chamber walls.

You obey. What else can you do? Taking measured steps, you stand at the center of the room, the Council’s combined stare resting heavily on you. The circle of them feels infinite; their eyes are as oppressive as a black hole—nearly strangling, leaving you choking in its merciless pull.

And then there’s him.

Anakin’s eyes are magnets, pulling, trapping, forcing. Though he says nothing, his peering eyes are impossible to ignore. The memories of those eyes—the appetence, the control—crawl over your skin like insects. You resist the urge to recoil, but every step toward the center of the chamber feels like stepping deeper into his shadow.

Master Yoda begins, his voice low and cracking, as if he were whispering a prophecy. “Decided, your future has been.” His ears twitch slightly as he regards you with wise, ancient eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and ragged.

Decided? Already?

You fight to keep your expression neutral, the words and thoughts racing wildly in your mind.

Acid boils up your throat, dissolving the soft tissue it touches, as if your body is rebelling against the air itself. It takes everything in you to swallow it back down.

Master Windu leans forward, his words unforgiving in their clarity. “Your performance has been exceptional, Y/N. The Council recognizes your dedication and skill, and after much deliberation, we have decided that you are ready to take the next step in your training.”

The phrases landed like a gavel.

Ready. The next step.

You blinked, trying to process what this meant.

“You are to be assigned to a Jedi Master,” Windu continues. “A rare honor, especially considering your age and the limited number of Knights available to train Padawans at this time.”

Your heart convulses—a sudden, erratic spasm of exhilaration and disbelief. This is it. I’ve been chosen. The toll of the moment presses hard against you, grounding your excitement, and the master’s next words only bring the cold reality crashing down even harder, the bile rising back into your throat.

“However,” Windu says, the single word slicing through the fragile shell of your nausea as his voice dips, “it has not been an easy decision.”

Your eyes flicker toward Anakin, a mistake. His jaw tightens, the muscle twitching as he shifts in his seat. His eyes trace you—not with curiosity, no, he knows exactly what’s under your robes. He’s cataloging you, committing every movement to memory. His earlier smugness has curdled into something darker, the edges of frustration sensuous against his expression.

“Suggested, Master Skywalker did,” Yoda said, his tone soft but pointed, “that to him, assigned you be.”

Your gut tightens, a vehement twist of nerves, as your blood pummels through you. Your skin suddenly starts feeling unwelcoming, and each breath is a chore, the air scraping against your lungs—a visceral rejection of the words as they take root in your mind.

“But we’re not entirely in agreement on that.” Windu interjects, his hand rising, gesturing broadly around to each of the Council members.

You barely have time to process what Windu’s words might mean before more movement draws your attention.

Anakin’s fingers flex and uncurl against the armrests of his chair. He leans forward slightly, the tension in his shoulders coiling.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says. His voice was hushed and venomous, carving through the space with a lingering chill. “She belongs with me. You all know that.”

Wait—what did he say?

You glance at him, your eyes widening despite yourself. There’s a moment of silence, a heavy pause as the oxygen is eaten up by electric tension. Anakin’s eyes burn into Windu’s, his anger visible, and Windu returns it with a narrowed gaze.

“The decision has been made, Anakin. Your role now is to focus on the war. Not on training a Padawan.” Master Windu’s voice cuts in, his tone stern and slightly annoyed, like this isn’t the first time he’s had to tell Anakin this.

Anakin doesn’t flinch at the rebuke, but his knuckles whiten as he grips the armrests. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, barely contained fury leaking out in the subtle tremors of his movements. His eyes twist to Yoda’s, “I can do both,” he insists, his voice pointed and more stubborn. “I’m more than capable.”

The Masters exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Capable you are,” Yoda replies, his tone taking on an unyielding undertone to his usual laid-back manner. “Ready, you are not.”

Master Windu’s eyes grow empathetic as he tries to find a middle ground. “Anakin, you know we’re considering another Master for her. One who has more time and is better prepared for this—”

Anakin stiffens in his seat, his head snapping toward Windu. “No,” he roars, his voice sharper this time, his frustration growing and becoming even more obvious to the other Council members. “You’re shipping her off to sit on the sidelines; she’ll never reach her full potential without the guidance of someone willing to—“

“Assigned you are—to Luther Koth. Final it is.” Yoda insists, his voice rising and eyes stabbing daggers into Anakin. The whole room seems riled by his defiance, and the feeling seems to be directed at you.

The room tilts slightly as Yoda’s words sink in.

Luther Koth?

You’ve heard the name in passing, but you’ve never met him. The thought is disorienting, a crack splintering through the precarious balance of your emotions.

“Master Yoda,” Anakin persists, his voice rising slightly, and he half-stands, his body looming like a storm cloud ready to erupt. “you can’t just—”

“Enough, General Skywalker.” Yoda interrupts sharply, his eyes burrowing deeper on Anakin, “Strong in the Force, you are, but in check, your influence must be. Your path in the Republic is not to train Padawans at this time.”

“At this time,” Anakin repeats in a low mock, barely above a whisper, as his expression darkens while looking between the Masters. “This isn’t about my ability to focus; this is about her and her future—”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan’s voice is like a whip crack, startling in its incisiveness. He rises from his seat, his hand raised in a silent command for Anakin to stand down. You glance at Obi-Wan, your heart hammering. His posture broadens and his eyes flash with warning as he continues, “This isn’t the time or place for this argument. You know better.”

Anakin doesn’t back down. His gaze flicks to Obi-Wan, then back to Yoda, his jaw tightening further as if clamping down on whatever he wants to say next.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin snaps, his head swiveling back to Obi. His vexation is evident in every muscle, every twitch. He looks like he’s about to snap. “I’m insisting.”

“No, I’m insisting.” Obi-Wan steps forward, his body angled slightly toward Anakin as if preparing to physically block him from advancing. His voice is low and punctuated as he follows up, “You need to step back. This isn’t about you or her right now.”

Your breath catches as Anakin’s eyes sweep back to you, searing into you with an intensity that feels almost physical. For a moment, the room fades—the Council, the chamber walls, even the low hum of air. All that remains is the haze of his stare and the unspoken promise it carries.

What the hell is he thinking?

“General Skywalker,” Windu cuts in, his voice colder now, expression solidifying into stone as he leans forward, like he too is getting ready to physically stop Anakin. “This discussion is over. You are out of line.”

Anakin straightens to his full height, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths as his cold edge sliced through the room. For a moment, it seems as though he might say something else, his lips parting—but then he stops. His breath hisses through his teeth as he crosses his arms. His rage coils beneath his skin, snarling, seething to break free, primed to explode.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. You’ve seen that look before; you’ve seen it up close. You wish you could disappear into the stone beneath your feet, to be anywhere other than here.

“You’re wrong,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words slam into the room, and they’re thick, as if they were made of lead and everyone was being forced to breathe them in. “All of you.”

For what feels like the longest five seconds of your life, Anakin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, his eyes flickering between the Council members before finally settling on you. The room holds its breath.

And there it is again—that unspoken promise.

Your feet feel numb, like you have a gaping wound and are too far gone; the pins and needles feeling of blood loss. If the Council dismissed you right now, there would be zero chance you could pick up your legs and actually walk. That’s what his gaze did; it made your knees jelly and your spine snap in on itself. You weren’t sure if it was the Force or something deeper, nor did you have time to think about what reasons Anakin’s gaze was so different.

He exhales sharply as he lowers himself back into his seat, the large chair scraping against the floor with a dissonant screech. He rolls his shoulders, relaxing them as if dismissing everything that just happened, brushing the entire encounter off, as if the air didn’t crackle with the residue of it.

It's like he’s discarded the weight of the confrontation like a loose garment—yet there’s no mistaking that it’s still there, a rancid pulse between you all, stifling every breath. The others exchange looks, the tense stillness now broken only by the soft shuffle of robes as they all settle back into their seats.

You want to scream; you want to cuss him out like you should have that night; instead, you break the everlasting silence the rest of the council has been stunned into, your voice surprising even you with the confidence it carries behind it.

“If I may,” you state, not waiting for their full attention as you continue, “I’m honored to be assigned to Master Koth, and I don’t take this recommendation from the Council lightly. I will serve the Republic with everything I have. The stars will bend if those are my orders.”

Shock carves itself into the faces of the Council members, all their eyes dawn in on you. Anakin’s eyes are the harshest; you can feel them burning into the side of your face like twin suns. You keep your focus forward, refusing to turn toward him again.

“Strong words these are. Confidence you show, but prove yourself, you must.” Yoda’s tone carries no reproach, only an obstinate expectation, like the galaxy itself will hold you accountable.

“Indeed,” Master Windu adds, his presence back to the practiced ease that all the generals and masters plaster on their faces. “Serving the Republic is not just a matter of bending stars or showing resolve—it requires understanding, discipline, and the ability to make difficult choices. Master Koth will demand nothing less from you.”

You nod quickly, instinct taking over as you bow your head. “I understand, Masters. I won’t fail.” The words spill out, firm but automatic, and you’ve never been more proud of yourself.

Master Obi-Wan, still recovering from the heated debate, sits forward slightly. His tone softer than the others, but his words carry no less gravitas. “Master Koth is a man of principle and precision. He’s demanding but fair. Under his guidance, you’ll learn to navigate not just the battlefield, but the intricacies of what it means to truly be a Jedi.”

And then, like clockwork, Anakin shifts in his seat. His posture is casual, almost disinterested, but his energy is anything but. His gloved fingers drum once against the armrest before his voice cuts through the Council's focus on you. “She’ll be fine,” he says, his tone deceptively glassy. His eyes flick toward you, and you feel the sting of his stare as he adds, “After all, she’s earned it.”

The words stick to you like barbs, digging into every insecurity you thought you had buried. You didn’t want to think it, didn’t want to have it confirmed that the exact and only reason you’re standing in the middle of the greatest Jedi of this century is because you were a slave for a night.

It’s not praise. Not really.

You feel your heart thud painfully against your ribs, and for a split second, you wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like.

Earned it.

The phrase clings to your thoughts like oil on water. His words weren’t an endorsement; they were a reminder, a branding. A mark that would be with you forever, no matter what path you take.

You hold yourself still, despite your mini heart attack, your lips forcing a polite smile, and the quiet resolve in your chest swells just enough to remind you that you are here for more than just Anakin’s twisted perception of you.

The silence stretches until Master Yoda speaks, his voice cold and drained. “You may go. Prepare for your meeting with Master Koth. Tomorrow, it will be.”

You bow again, a little deeper this time, feeling every eye in the room on you. The finality in Master Yoda’s voice motivates your previously jellied legs into a half jog until the heavy doors close behind you. Even then, you don’t stop, your jog turning into a full sprint. Your arms pump furiously, pushing your body forward.

Earned it. Earned it. Earned it.

His voice— the phrase —is a poltergeist, a haunting in its own right. You try to push it away, but Anakin’s words seem to cling to you, like a shadow you can’t outrun, but you’ll be damned if you won’t try. Your feet put more distance between you and the Council’s chambers, but your mind is still trapped in the middle of it.

As you round a corner, you come face-to-face with your two friends. Nearly toppling over them as their arms secure you, both of them speaking too quickly for your already racing mind to grasp.

“Whoa, slow down, Y/N. What happened?”

“Yeah, are you ok? Did they find out about us sneaking out?”

You want to tell them everything—the drunken spill, the velvet-lined back rooms, the violence, the desire, the new position—but the words never leave your lips.

Tell them! Why are you questioning their intentions? They’ve never betrayed your trust. They’ve never done anything to ever insinuate that they would be anything but forgiving.

“Yeah,” you say, the smile you force out too tight, too strained. “I’m fine. Just… just…”

Tears prick at your eyes, and within seconds both girls are steering you to the dorms, both their arms wrapping tightly around either side of you like a blanket of protection.

The familiar, comforting warmth of their embrace is almost enough to make the tears pour out, but the words still lash at your insides, louder now than before.

Earned it.

Your blood pumps furiously through your veins, pulsing in your ears to the point where your friends voices are muffled, their words a jumble of vibrations. You feel the walls closing in, your lungs shrinking with each breath. But you can’t say it. You can’t tell them everything; can’t shatter what little remains of your dignity. You need to keep it together.

Lex’s voice cuts through the haze, and though her words are soft, they pierce the growing fog around you. “You don’t have to hide it, you know. Whatever happened in there… you don’t have to keep it all in.”

You stiffen, a rush of panic flooding your chest.

How did she know?

But before you can respond, Abby adds, “We’re here for you. Screw them.” Her voice is quieter than Lex’s and holds a hint of humor but is equally concerned.

You find yourself retreating even further inward, madly trying to build barriers, to lock every detail away where they can't see it. Where you can’t feel it. You want to tell them, to let them help, but you can’t bring yourself to. You don't know how to explain the tangled mess inside you.

Your throat feels tight as you give them a small, weak nod, not trusting your voice to sound anything but broken. “I know... thanks, I just... I need some time.”

They guide you to your bed, sitting beside you and just letting the silence fill the space between you.

But even in your safe spot, next to your best friends and a good distance away from any higher up, Anakin’s words continue to reverberate through your mind.

Earned it.

Each time it echoes, it feels like another wound is being sliced into your back, like the physical embodiment of betrayal.

“Whatever’s going on... we’ll figure it out together.” Lex’s hand rests on your shoulder as she shuffles closer to you. You want to believe her. You want to, but you don’t. It’s like your body is trying to protect something, some part of you that’s still... untouched. Maybe it’s your pride, maybe it’s the fear of being completely vulnerable, but either way, the words won’t come out, and you can’t seem to shake the feeling that your life has just been uprooted in the worst way possible.

Instead, you lie back against the bed, your hands gripping the edge of your blanket, and just stare up at the ceiling.

Abby leans in slightly, her face in your view blurring as your eyes unfocus. “We know something’s up. You don’t have to tell us what happened in there, but if you ever want to talk... we’re not going anywhere.”

The words don’t land as they should. They don’t wrap around you the way they always have. They just make you feel heavier, more guilty. It’s almost worse, in some ways—being so close to the answers you can’t bring yourself to give.

Anakin’s words continue to torment your dazed mind, like a private torture session.

I bet he’d love this. Love to know how completely frozen you were. How pathetic.

You turn your head slightly to the side, staring at the wall as if it could give you some reprieve from the chaos in your mind. But it doesn’t.

Earned it.

With every second that passes, that feeling of being trapped deepens. There’s no escape from his voice in your head, no hiding from the truth that it’s now a part of you. But somewhere, deep in the hollow ache in your chest, something else stirs. A sensation, too fresh to name, but oh so familiar.

It’s the flicker of something perilous, something dark and twisted, something that has been waiting for this moment. You try to ignore it, but it's there now, and maybe it always has been, crawling just beneath your feeble ego. It fills the space in your veins that his words froze with a fever that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Earned it.

For the first time, you let yourself wonder if there's truth in it. Not the way Anakin intended, not the way he made you feel small, but a different truth, a truth that’s far more unsettling: What if you did earn it? What if everything that happened—that night, the Council, even this—was a consequence of destiny, true destiny?

What if you were already changed, and you just didn’t know it yet?

You sit up suddenly, the movement enough to make them both jump. The words you've been holding back, the questions, the doubts—they spill from your lips as they form in your mind.

“I don’t think I can be the person I was anymore,” you whisper, not meeting their eyes, because you know if you do, you’ll see the pity. You can’t bear that.

Anakin’s words have taken root in you, not just as a form of self-torture, but as something far more insidious. A seed planted in the fibers that are you , ready to grow into something more dangerous than any of you can imagine.

Something alters. Not in the room. Not in them. But in you. It’s a momentary flicker, a beam of clarity—a glimpse of a hunger that was deeply buried.

You straighten your back, standing abruptly. You feel the energy change, like a charged current is propelling you forward. You turn and face the two of them, their eyes two pairs of shock and confusion as you speak, your voice more confident and certain than ever before.

“But I feel good. Yeah, I feel great.”

Chapter Text

Enjoy 🖤

~

The walk to Master Koth’s office felt like stepping into the future you’d 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. 

You could hear it, the faint churr of success, yet the ground beneath you seemed to be offbeat. You should’ve 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. 

Walking out of one of the common areas and rounding a corner, you’re 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 Anakin’s words hissed in your mind, immutable and absolute.

‘She’ll never see the frontline.‘

You had dismissed it then, chalking it up to his penchant for control, but now as the door is in sight you weren’t so sure. 

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? 

Every training session, every late-night study, every grueling test you’d 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. 

Ironic, isn’t 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 that’s 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 isn’t the time for hesitation.

Jedi didn’t 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. 

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 wasn’t 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 aren’t supposed to care about appearances.

You aren’t supposed to care.

And yet, you can’t 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. 

"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. 

He didn’t move immediately, didn’t 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 this… veiled fervor, like someone who had already seen too much and had no questions left. 

"So, uh... Can I come in?" You began, the silence and his eyes pressing into you, causing words to fly out with little forethought. 

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.

“You may sit.” 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 hadn’t 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. 

Across the room, Master Koth hadn’t 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. 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.

“This arrangement is... unconventional. You understand that, don’t you?”

The utterance of his voice shattered the quiet like a single note in an empty cathedral. He didn’t look up, didn’t pause in his writing.

You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something to say. 

“Uh… sure…?” 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.

“I imagine this isn’t what you were expecting.”

“I... wasn’t sure what to expect,” 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.

“Good,” 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.

“You’ll find,” he began again, his tone slow and almost cynical, “that much of what you imagined about becoming a Padawan will not align with reality.” A pause, deliberate. Then, “The Order does not train us to dream, only to serve. You may want to hold onto that distinction, it may spare you disappointment.”

His words were made of steel, gliding cleanly between armor you hadn’t 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. 

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. 

“We’ll begin with these. Read the first three by tomorrow.”

Their spines are cracked and faded, their titles scrawled in languages you couldn’t even begin to identify. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, the blood draining from your fingers until they felt like hollowed-out husks. You didn’t 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 didn’t, but the weight of them sank into your palms, heavier than they had any right to be. Master Koth’s 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. 

“You’ll adapt,” he said, not kindly, not cruelly. 

Just certain. 

“Eventually.”

Another intentional pause.

A final scratch of ink against paper.

“Or you won’t.”

Chapter Text

Enjoy ~

   Luther Koth’s office wasn’t a grand library or some towering archive of Jedi wisdom. It was small, cluttered, and filled with the dull hum of a man who had long since buried himself in labor that few would ever care about.

You sat at his desk, hunched over the third and final book, your fingers pressing into the brittle edges of its pages as if by force alone you could will the text to make sense.

The first two had been exhausting enough. Accounts of Jedi history, but told through the voices of those who had watched from the sidelines.

A village elder who spoke of the wars Jedi had waged in the name of peace. A merchant who had seen his home burned in a battle between Republic and Separatist forces, both sides wielding lightsabers, neither side caring for the rubble they left behind. It had taken hours to untangle their words, to piece together the meaning through scraps of old dialects and conflicting records. You had done it, though.

Last night, before sleep had dragged you under, you had translated them both.

But this one—the third—was different.

The texts are a mess of ink and strange symbols.

You had tried the same methods that had worked before: cross-referencing, pattern recognition, even gut instinct, but the text refused to bend to your will. Every few sentences, you’d have to stop, search through the scattered volumes beside you, and try to stitch together meaning from half-formed thoughts. It wasn’t working.

And yet, here you were. Drowning in it.

Your fingers flexed against the paper, frustration mounting as you reread the same passage for the third time. Jedi traditions, ancient wars, the betrayals… it was all a twisted game. Nothing was ever as simple as they made it sound.

The Jedi spoke of history with such certainty, as if the past were a clear path leading to the present, but these texts, these forgotten voices, told a different story. A messier one. One that didn’t fit so neatly into the Council’s teachings.

Why am I even reading this?

Master Koth sat across from you, silent as ever, his head bowed over his work. He hadn’t spoken to you since you arrived that morning and hadn’t really acknowledged you beyond a brief glance before returning to whatever meticulous records he was compiling.

You weren’t sure what to make of him yet. There was an intensity to the way he worked, something almost mesmeric; resembling a man reaching for the final piece of evidence that does not exist, his focus unshaken despite the absence of anything to complete.

You tried to ignore the other thing—the way his presence curled around the whole room, a boisterous feeling you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the silent authority he carried, the practiced discipline in every movement, or perhaps it was simpler, some other answer for the way your skin pricked. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t paying attention to you now. His silence was almost oppressive, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. Not yet.

The ink on the pages blurred, the letters writhing and twirling as if a harmonious tune were lulling in the air. You leaned back in the chair, the ache settling deep in your spine from hours of leaning over. This was ridiculous. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you make sense of it like the first two? Why did everything in this damn place feel as if it was out of your control?

Focus. You have to focus.

But the words wouldn’t come.

“You seem distracted,” the quiet ruptured beneath his voice, his tone sharp but not unkind. “You should rest. Come back to it later.”

Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto his for the first time that morning. The space between you felt charged now, taut with tension that hadn’t been there before. Master Koth hadn’t moved much from his place across the desk, both arms poised on either side of his work with his pen still in hand, but his attention was fully on you now.

A ruminative beat of silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, and the sound of it felt thin, it sounded like a lie.

“Then continue.”

Instantly, the scratching sounds of his pen resumed and an invisible drape had fallen between you two. You waited for something; acknowledgment, maybe, or a sign that he had meant to say more, but his focus had already returned to the pages in front of him.

The expression on your face was anything but professional, and your frustration was lurching closer and closer to a full psychotic break. The sharp angle of his brow, the downward tilt of his head, the way his free hand hovered near the edge of the paper like a silent barrier—all clear signs of a man who didn’t want to be spoken to, much less one who wished to teach.

You looked down at the page again, but the words were still a jumble. You sighed sharply. “This text…” you began, trying to keep your voice level, but it came out clipped. “It’s nothing like the others. It doesn’t make sense.”

He didn’t glance up. “Then move on to something else.”

“That’s not helpful,” you muttered under your breath.

“No,” he said, voice smooth yet distracted. “I don’t imagine it would be.”

The sheer indifference of his response made your fingers twitch, the urge to snap the book shut and walk out nearly overwhelming.

“The other two followed a structure,” you tried again, keeping your tone cadenced. “I could track the changes, map out the influences, but this one—” You gestured at the pages, feeling ridiculous even as you did so. “It’s quite literally written as if it’s hiding something.”

Master Koth still didn’t look at you. “Perhaps it is.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, but after serval grueling seconds of wordless scratching it becomes crystal clear he was not going to give you any substantial advice.

He is infuriating.

The room warped and distorted similar to a fever dream you couldn’t shake, and the silence cracked like dry glass, then flattened into a hum. It placed the last building block you needed to turn your frustration into a living, breathing thing. The new resident is now pressed against the inside of your skull, your teeth grind to accommodate the stretch of its unconventional intrusion as your fingertips dig into the crumbling parchment.

You want to break something.

And then—

“There you are.” He quirked, “Am I interrupting something?”

The room changed.

No, shifted.

The walls didn’t move. The air didn’t change temperature.

But the room—the room collapsed.

No sound accompanied it. No astonishing, violent transition, no physical proof that something was different. But it was. He was here.

You are a spasming knot of nerves and dread, yet you forced yourself to stay still. Your body cannot be trusted; it betrays you in its shuddering, in the weakness of your limbs, in the sheer biology of its reaction to him. The mind can build walls, but the body is faithless.

A writhing mass of hot, clammy disgust coils within you.

Is this fear, that is liquefying your gut, making you feel hollow, yet horribly full, as if there were too much of him, forced into the pit of your being? Is this the burn of his fingerprints bruising your neck—is this the savage grind of his hips against yours, is this the suffocating silence, your mind screaming one thing while your body does another? Is this the way your body can’t forget his hands, or how it doesn’t try to? Or is this the inevitable feeling of giving too much away?

Koth had been here before Anakin entered, and he was still here now. But something was wrong. The way he held his pen. The way his copper eyes flicked over his own work as if he was the only one in the room. Nothing had mundanely changed about him yet… something was wrong.

The moment split, a hairline fracture in the world’s logic, and through it, Anakin stepped.

His arrogantly paced footsteps settled into the foundation of the office. He was in no hurry.

"The Council has reassigned her schedule for today, she’s needed on the frontlines.”

The fabric of your reality cracked a little wider.

“Effective immediately."

You couldn’t breathe.

Master Koth didn’t lift his gaze. His hand remained frozen around the pen, an unspoken message that he was choosing to remain in his world, to pretend that nothing had changed. But even as he stared down at his work, his mouth twitched, just the slightest sign that he was aware of the disruption.

"Is that so? You come with orders, I take it?"

Anakin’s lips quirked slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, but there was no warmth in it. He was businesslike—almost too businesslike. Without a word, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of parchment. The paper was thick, well-creased, and bore a distinct wax seal of the Republic.

Koth finally lifted his gaze, but only briefly. The sunken hold beneath his eyes made it look more akin to an afterthought than genuine interest. The paper crackled in the stretch between them as Anakin extended it forward.

Koth took it.

Not eagerly. Not cautiously. Just... absently.

His fingers pressed into the paper, the seal catching faintly in the light. For a moment, there was silence. Anakin didn’t move, didn’t sway. He didn’t need to. He knew what Koth would do.

And he was right.

“Everything seems to be in order.”

Your throat burned, a thick chunk of disbelief swelling just behind your ribs to accompany the acid swelling to your tongue. You stared at Koth, searching, pleading, for some flicker of hesitation, some sign that he would reconsider, that he would wake up from whatever hollow trance he’d buried himself in. Or was it even a trance, was this just who he was, a dissociated forgotten Jedi who lives in his own world?

You blinked. Once. Twice.

"You can't be serious. This is all in order?”

Your voice hit the space between you like a dropped glass. The drawn-out pause afterward only made it worse.

Koth didn’t look up immediately. He pressed his thumb against the parchment’s edge, smoothing it flat.

“I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” The words were steady, matter-of-fact. “It’s in order.”

You stared at him. The moment ached, expanding into something vast and thin, threatening to break, yet stubbornly refusing to end. It should have snapped under the burden of its impossibility, but it didn’t. It just sat there, lodged in your throat resembling something that couldn’t be swallowed.

“No,” you said, voice lower now, as if keeping it controlled might make him listen. You close the coded book, placing it atop the others on Koth’s desk as you stand. “It is not in order.” Your heartbeat kicked and spasmed, a sickly, uneven thing, tripping over itself. And the heat—gods, the heat—slithered after it, slick and unnatural, soaking into your muscles, sticky as spit, cloying like blood. Like hands. Like him.

“It’s not—”

A pause.

Not real? Not right? What were you supposed to say?

This isn’t happening?

Koth didn’t seem to register the unfinished sentence nor the way your eyes demanded attention. Or if he did, he chose not to acknowledge it. He’d already shifted back into his world, his pen scratching softly as he stared down.

“Master Koth, please—”

His hand flicked, a small, precise movement as if brushing away an insect. “Go.”

You opened your mouth, grasping for anything that would make him look up at you. If you spoke again, if you pleaded again, would he just repeat himself? Would he even bother?

Go.

Uniform to a command you would give a stray.

Anakin hadn’t so much as sighed. He watched you instead, head tilted ever so slightly as if committing the exact shape of your resistance to memory. Anakin Skywalker was not a patient man, but he could wear the illusion of patience well.

You swallowed, hard. “That’s not—”

“You’re wasting time.” Anakin’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t dip. “If you want to stand here and debate with him, fine. But soldiers are dying and the council has called for our quick support.”

The breath you’d tried to take snagged.

That’s a lie.

You weren’t needed. You knew that. The war would grind on with or without you, just as it always had. But that wasn’t the point, was it? This wasn’t about the war. It wasn’t about duty, or necessity, or orders.

It was about him.

You could still feel Koth’s presence at the desk, just over your shoulder; could still hear the slow, agonizing drag of his pen. He had already dismissed you. And now, the last and only thing between you and Anakin had crumbled to dust. You wanted to look back at him, wanted to shake him, force him to see what he was doing, what he was letting happen.

But you didn’t.

Because deep down, you knew.

It wouldn’t change anything.

"You’d rather argue with the Council’s decision?" Anakin muses, and there it was—something nearly amused in his tone, but not quite. "I can’t imagine that would go well for you."

You only noticed the bite of your nails when the pain sharpened. A poor replacement for something solid. Something real.

Because this—this—wasn’t real.

Couldn’t be.

And Koth, Koth had already disintegrated.

He wasn’t gone. Not physically. But he may as well have been a fixture. A chair. A table. A comatose object, there for viewing pleasures only. His body existed here, but his mind had flown, far beyond the four walls of this room, far beyond you.

“I— I belong here. I was assigned here.”

Koth exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.

“Things change.”

"Things don’t change like this," you returned.

Scratch. Silence.

"You can stand here all day if you want," Anakin added, mildly. "But I won’t."

You turned back to Anakin to see him at the door, waiting, patiently.

Silence. Scratch.

More damn silence.

You stepped forward, and the world shrank.

Not all at once, no, that would be merciful. It crumpled in increments; a ruin of sensation, and a series of mute failures. You were stepping toward him, but it didn’t feel as if forward movement was taking place.

You were sinking.

The steps you take aren’t your own; they belong to something else, something that doesn’t care what your body wants, what your mind screams. You’re not running. You’re not even trying to fight it. There’s a numbness to it now, the kind that rots you from the inside out, an unheard rebellion against the instinct to recoil, to flee. It’s not courage; it’s nothing as romantic as that. It’s just a twisted form of understanding.

Am I losing my mind?

The last breath you took in Koth’s study tasted identical to dust, but you didn’t mind. Dust, after all, was all that was left in this room.

~~~~~~

The warship groaned.

Metal ribs flexed and sang with each shift of the ship, great iron lungs inhaling deep, exhaling deeper, dragging you and everyone else through the suffocating black of space. The assault ship was clotted with voices, the easygoing murmur of clones exchanging jokes, shifting in their armor. They had nothing to fear. This was just another mission for them.

Another landing. Another fight.

They were at ease, strapped in side-by-side.

But beside you, twin to the low whisper of a whetstone kissing steel sat Anakin. He was leaning back in his seat, long legs stretched out, his posture easy; too easy. As if he knew exactly how much space he occupied. Like he knew that no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, you were aware of him.

The ship was a fusion of sounds, the air hefty with the scent of musk, of ozone, of armor warmed by body heat and the hours of waiting. You focused on that instead; on the steady thrum of the hyperdrive and the jumbled noise of the clones talking amongst themselves.

Anything but him.

“I can practically feel you thinking,” he murmured, his voice just for you.

You refused to turn.

Don’t react.

You knew better than to give him even the slightest hint of any disposition. Anakin thrived on reactions. He could feel them before they fully took shape in your mind, could track every shift in your breath, each flicker of your eyelids. Every hesitant move was a victory.

“Shouldn’t you be focused on the mission instead of me?”

The words came out of your mouth so casually, as if you too weren’t watching for the minute adjustments of his body from the corner of your eye, measuring the distance from his hand to yours on the shared armrest, or the restless bounces of his legs.

A shadow of something ruinous passed over his features, there and gone, smoothed with the kind of grin that suggested he wanted you to notice the transition. “I’m always focused on the mission.” He replied, his head tilting toward you.

You refused to look at him straight on.

The way he watched you, almost as if he was examining a puzzle that he had the last piece to, but was savoring every instant before solving it, made your blood glow. You swallowed down the urge to stir in your seat. Instead, you exhaled, slowly through your nose.

“Hmm,” you murmured, feigned disinterest coating your words. “sounds like you’re distracted.”

He didn’t answer right away, but his lips ticced, the barest hint of regalement.

“I don’t get distracted,” he shared, his voice low, almost purring. It was too mellow, too knowing.

You couldn’t trust it.

“I just know how to handle distractions when they come.”

The double meaning of his words dangled.

Your pulse stuttered.

But you gave him nothing.

From across the seating area, one of the clones—broad-shouldered, a jagged scar carving a pale line from temple to cheekbone—chuckled. “Yeah, General Skywalker’s got nerves of steel. Nothing fazes him.”

The others muttered in agreement, a few exchanging knowing glances. They had seen proof of it firsthand, in battle, in command. On the field, Anakin was unshakable.

You didn't need to hear it. It didn’t matter what they thought. What mattered was that Anakin had made you feel something that shouldn’t have been there. That shouldn't exist.

But here—now—

Here, is something else entirely.

“Oh?” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, mostly to mask the slight uneasiness that threatened your chest. Using your perfected form of communication, sarcasm, you add. “What’s your secret then? Get rid of the distraction before it becomes a problem?”

The moment the words left your lips, you regretted it.

Anakin’s jaw worked slightly, chewing on a thought. "I wouldn’t say ‘get rid of,’" he ventured with a luster of intent in his eyes. "More... guide it. Mold it to fit the situation."

You turned your head slightly, enough to meet his gaze fully.

The flux was subtle, nearly imperceptible to anyone but you, but what had been a flicker of awareness now swelled.

There it was again. That undercurrent.

"So you control things,” you mused, testing the words on your tongue. Your skin prickled, but you made it sound casual. “How impressive."

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Anakin countered, the electricity in his voice gripping around the sonants. “Control is an art. And not everyone can master it.”

You felt the shock of his words, your eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Master? You’ve got a very funny way of looking at things.”

His mouth ticced again, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve learned... that sometimes, to teach someone control, you have to show them what it feels to be out of it.”

Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, daring to draw blood as you averted your gaze to them.

The words slotted themselves somewhere inside you, filling a space you hadn’t realized was vacant.

A calculated move.

That was the thing about Anakin. It was never just words.

It was the way he said them. The way he let them settle, let them combine into you.

Your defenses bristled, fury in your chest winding, the beat at your throat suddenly more noticeable.

“You think you can teach me anything?” You scoffed, keeping your tone light, but his equivoques pressed against a visible nerve. “I’m already learning plenty under Master Koth. Lessons that actually matter.”

Anakin’s chin dips. Not by much, just enough, and that was when you realized—he was playing the long game, moving slowly, waiting for you to notice, waiting for you to come to the conclusion on your own. He was watching an unraveling, and he wouldn’t miss a second of it. “I’m sure you are. But lessons aren’t always ink-covered and painless.”

You blinked at that, slightly thrown off. Your lips parted, a retort brewing as his gaze skimmed the clones, who were still nescient to the vein of frisson between the two of you. Anakin leaned just a fraction closer, his breath skating against the hairs covering your ear. “What I mean to say is… you don’t get to choose when this lesson ends.”

Heat licked up your spine. Your head snaps sharply to his, but his expression has already reverted to that same maddening ease. The conversation around you carried on, clones snickering, their attention flicking between you both as if spectating a match. They weren’t in on the game. Not really. They heard only the surface of your words, the back-and-forth, the teasing edge of it all.

And you—despite everything—you played along.

“You took me away from my lessons.” You snap back.

“You wound me,” he enounced, pressing a hand to his chest as if you had struck him while his grin widened just enough to show the edges of those vexing canines. “I would never take you away from anything… important.”

There was an emphasis on the word important.

The kind of emphasis meant to remind you that he had done just that.

You almost wanted to laugh, but the sound caught. You cross a leg over the other, glancing to the side as if the right angle would give you release from this conversation.

The clones snickered again, some muttering to each other. They were entertained. Oblivious.

Anakin enjoyed this game. He triumphed in it. And maybe you did too, just a little. Maybe you savored throwing stones at him, just to see if he would throw them back. The small, defiant part of you riled, but you kept your shoulders back, forcing a casualness you didn’t feel.

“You could’ve just left me alone.” You whisper, as your fumbling hands find place across your chest; the only form of solace you can give your body. You didn’t want to sound small, yet your hushed tone didn’t make you sound the least bit confident.

Anakin’s eyes tapered on you, and his whisper sounded anything but small.

“I don’t leave things unfinished. And you... You’re far from done.”

The laugh you were holding escaped in a sharp exhale, a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. You pulled your arms tighter across your chest as if physically reinforcing the shield you had placed.

“You think you’re above everything, above everyone.” Your voice came serrated, frustration had honed your voice into something finer than steel, not meant for brute force but for the exacting cut. “It’s not just control that you’ve mastered—manipulating people around you, thinking you can bend them to your will like this—it takes true dedication to master selfishness to this level General.”

“I know exactly how far I can bend you.”

Your nails dug into the fabric of your sleeve, distorting the weave into rippled lines. The clones were still laughing, entertained by the show they didn’t understand.

Of course, he knew how far he could bend you.

Hadn’t he already?

Yet—How dare he?

It wasn’t just frustration that propelled you to speak your next words; it was fate itself. A glowing nerve, one that filled every ending with an orange—no, red—no… a cohesive quintessence of golden promise, where consequences bore no weight, so long as you kept alight.

“Maybe you are the expert at bending people, breaking them, warping them into something else.” A breath, steady and slow. “But tell me, General—who did it to you first?”

You felt the clones' eyes on you, their laughter fading as they finally began to sense the gravity of the exchange. But they didn't know what was really happening. How could they? This was after all just the playful veneer of a Padawan and her General having a spat, right?

Yet for you, it was not the same; a strange cadence in your chest, as if the very air carried a scent of another time—sharp, metallic, and sweet, like crushed herbs taking refuge inside warm resin—freshly smoked spice and velvet lined walls.

Your body was compressed as if it were preparing for something that was both foreordained and irrevocable.

The room held its breath and you held his eyes.

“Below deck. Now.”

Chapter Text

    Enjoy ~

     Your instructors told you war happened on the front lines, in bursts of fire and blood. With screams caught between blaster bolts and the split-second calculus of who would die first. This was a more isolated war. This war followed you down steel hallways and gave instructions in a voice so smooth, you mistook it for mercy.

“Left,” Anakin ordered behind you.

Below your boots, the drone of the ship prospers louder, droids move cargo with clanking limbs, and console panels blink rhythmically along the walls.

You turn.

The stairwell yawns downward, and each step sends a sharp jolt through your feet. The alien metal ridges nibble at your soles, the ship reminding you who it belongs to.

You pass a pair of troopers exchanging low banter, one laughing about something you can’t hear. He glances at you. 

Doesn’t look again.

“Do they know you drag people down here,” you toss over your shoulder, the rungs of your voice catching on the words as they drop, “or am I getting special treatment?”

It stings, but you push it. Your skin is thick enough. 

I can handle this. 

This game you’re playing now, it’s the only one you’ve got left. The trick of dominance. The magical delusion that if you say the right thing, smart enough, keen enough, maybe you can tilt the scales.

“Again,” he announces, his voice chipped. “Left.”

You hesitate.

You don’t know what your foot does next; only that it forgets how to be a foot for a second. Your cadence breaks, and your step glitches. A vessel faltering around its sown chagrin, its dread sewn tight behind the knee.

I don’t have to obey.

You could stop. Here, now.

You could, right?

You could turn and cry out, let the accusations blister up from your throat and scald the walls. You could shatter the neat order of this damned metal cage. You would be unapologetic.

They’d hear you.

But what then?

Would they step in? Tell him what he’s doing is wrong? Draw their blasters? 

No… they wouldn’t. 

You know what name is stitched into the history of this war, of their loyalty.

It isn’t yours.

If they came running, especially if they came running, how would you explain this?

That you followed? That you obeyed, again and again, until your own limbs stopped trusting you?

You don’t have a clean sentence to give them.

There is no bleeding wound to show the medics. No bruised lip to press into a report, nor would there be a soul on this ship that would believe its origin. You don’t have the wording to explain that kind of fear. No description that would fit on a report, no line item that says the silence was a cry. 

I don’t have any proof. 

Deep within your intestines, where the glare of your defiance rests, that sparks it more than anything else.

Your fingers twitch.

You turn.

Behind you, the pause lengthens, and he, of course, fills it.

“You’re scheming,” he begins, almost like it pleases him. “You’re trying to decide what would happen if you stopped walking.” He answers as if he already knows the flavor of your rebellion. Like it’s a delicacy he’s swallowed and dined on for years. 

You flinch, but it’s internal, visceral, gaping, a sliver of memory in the folds of your gut pulling tight like it’s bracing for a blow.

“You want me to tell you?” he asks, his tone delicately barbed. 

You try to breathe. 

Calm. Control. Focus.

But your chest doesn’t expand; it locks. Your ribs feel like scaffolding; you, a building half-destroyed from the inside out.

“Would you like me to describe what happens next?”

The cadence of his song coiled incantations into your skin.

Don’t turn around. Don’t let him see it on my face.

Your throat tightens. Your body does the strange thing it always does in moments like this: Preserve. Conserve. Contain. 

You pull your energy inward, flatten your rage, and tuck your panic into a corner of yourself that doesn’t move. That won’t tremble. 

It won't last. 

“Stop,” he orders, and you freeze mid-step. 

He doesn’t give you time to question it. “Go ahead. Scream. Run. Cause a scene,” he pushes, daring you. You can feel the frigid amusement in his eyes on your back. He's expecting the worst, and wishing for it.

You could cause a scene, you should.

His voice slides back into your ears with menace clotting the letters.

“Before you do,” he adds, and these letters come out darker. A command. “Look around you.” 

You make yourself turn your head, your pulse thumping painfully. Every panel along the wall blinks at a beat you can’t keep track of. The clones, those soldiers who you followed around halls similar to these a thousand times, now stare straight ahead, rounding you on either side and pretending not to notice the two of you stopped in the center of the walkway. The droids drift past without a peek. But then there’s a flicker.

One of the clones. His visor is lifted, face visible; young and very tired. He locks eyes with you as he passes. For a heartbeat, he sees you. Yet, the moment his eyes scan behind you, they jerk away, and he too passes you. And then another.

And another. 

Anakin steps in closer. You can feel it, the change in pressure before his body even brushes near. A new gravity. 

You hear the smirk as he whispers the last words you want to hear.

“They’re afraid of me,” he states, not as a secret but as a low-slung truth.

“Look at them.”

Your eyes move on instinct.

None of theirs meets yours. Not one. The ones that glimpse your way avert just as fast like they’d seen something they weren’t meant to.

“None of them will look me in the eye. They don’t see you,” he says. “Not truly. They’re pretending not to.”

“You could scream,” he starts again, and the sound falls inward, like water down a well with no base. “You could run. But none of them will help you.”

There’s nothing uncertain in it, no trace of doubt, and he waits to let it settle. 

They’re not going to save me.

It’s not a question anymore. It’s reality.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he warns, veiled barbs now pricking. 

He’s tired of pretending I have choices.

“Decide your path.” 

You want to spit an insult back, something bright with venom. But nothing comes. You’re not even sure what language you speak anymore.

There’s rage, but it’s disoriented. 

Fire without a direction.

I don’t have to obey. I can fight back.

But your voice is caught someplace profound, chained next to the vertebrae where your dignity lies. And when you try to conjure the scene, your body turning abruptly, your hands a weapon, throat open, you see a version of yourself that doesn’t move. Not paralysis. Absence.The image slips like a dream dissolving. You see static as if your body’s been erased from the moment.

“I’m not angry,” he murmurs, with that infuriating calm he wears as armor. There’s a smile just beneath like he’s humoring more than denying the idea. “This?” he tells, as if he’s clarifying for your sake. “This isn’t anger.”

“You’ve seen me angry,” he clips in, tone dipping like the stillness before a scream, lullaby-sweet but soured.

You have.

That’s the problem.

You know the distance between this and fury; this is worse.

Because this is control. This is him letting you think he hasn’t already decided how this ends.

You swallow. Or try to. It riddles halfway down.

Behind you, steel boots clatter over metal. A voice crackles through a comm link, blurred and indistinct. From above, there’s a burst of laughter.

Life continues. 

“Four,” he states.

You grip your forearm. Dig your nails in.

He’s taken everything. Every choice. Every shred of control.

He’s stolen it.

“Three.”

You flinch, and something in him catches on it, either his satisfaction or his sorrow. Maybe both. The lines blur so effortlessly now.

The ship thrums around you, boards blinking like false sentinels as if they’re trying to warn you, or watching. A clone passes. Doesn’t glance. Doesn’t blink. 

Anakin steps in again, and the world seems to slope on its axis. 

“Two.”

His voice, there’s a split in it, vulnerability cracking inside him mid-word. Not much and not visible, but there.

Your heart should be faster. It’s not. It’s delayed like it’s listening instead of pumping. You feel your hand fall from your arm. You don’t remember telling it to. It’s the smallest movement. But enough. Enough to halve the suffocating stillness.

He notices. Of course, he notices.

“You think I want to count?” The words spill tighter now, like pressure seeping out of him through a seam he can’t seal. “You think this is the lesson I want to show you?”

“I tried to let you go. I tried to leave you alone. I tried to do the right thing. I tried—”

He cuts himself off, voice snagging on the words like they hurt coming out. The space between you sags, like a bridge too long without repairs. 

You’re too quiet. Too still.

He exhales once, sharply through his nose, as if it costs him. Like you’re costing him.

"This isn’t about punishment," he breathes, voice sliding thinner, more frantic. "It’s not discipline. I’m not training you."

A pair of clones pass across the upper walkway. One taps a comm. The other checks his weapon.
Neither of them looks down.

"This is about keeping you."

He says it plainly as if it should clarify everything. Like it’s enough. 

The word is coming. You can sense it in your bones, vibrating up through durasteel plating, collecting in your spine.

“One—”

Your foot recalls how to move.

Not both. Just one. A twitch forward, like your body’s hauling itself up from a grave.

The word dies on his tongue, unfinished.

The dread inside you feels rehearsed. Your body sets into its marks, each muscle moved by some forgotten script you are bound to, obedience disguised as instinct.

“That’s it.”

It’s a line you’re not certain if he’s telling you, or himself.

Regardless, the words cram your chest with a warmth you won’t dare address. You don’t even consider giving it an ounce of introspection.

You endure a single step, then another, the rhythm falling into place.

“Keep going,” he mutters, and you catch the command returning to his voice. “Not much further.”

He doesn’t rush you again. He watches, content in the knowledge that you’ll do precisely what he’s asked.

I hate this.

The walls ooze indifference, and the air grows denser the farther you go. Saturated with burnt oil and the scent of metal shavings. Overhead lights flash repeatedly as you pass beneath them, sputtering against the recycled air, their dim, sallow light resisting the dark.

A common enemy.

This part of the ship doesn’t feel like the others. No console panels. No shuffling of clones. No droids. Just welded grating, exposed piping, and a low, soulless whine bleeding through the passageways like it’s alive and sobbing.

You can feel it drive into your blood, its pulse in sync with your vibrating heart.

Locked hatches and thick mechanical joints of sealed doors line either side. 

This is where things are stored until they’re needed again. 

Or never.

You speak without turning your head. “Is this where the other distractions all went?”

A pause. The kind you recognize instantly because it means he’s debating with himself.

Anger licks up your throat.

“I’m not your secret to stash away,” you state, harsher now. But your voice doesn’t plug the corridor the way you expect. And then, behind you; half scoff, half exhale. It’s not quite laughter or disbelief, it’s vacant.

“You think I’d hide you?” The words tow behind your steps, as he keeps a steady pace. “That’s not what this is.”

You don’t change your speed, but you listen. Your entire body is on edge to hear his next sentence. It’s infuriating. 

“This place doesn’t matter, it's an unused space where no one else gets to look or guess or laugh about things they don't understand,” he continues, “Why are you acting so immature? You did the hard part for me, now no one will question why you’re bruised and shaking when you walk back in.” 

His voice stretched out past your skin and found the dish of your vertebrae. You keep moving, despite your spine wanting to spring. Wanting to curl.

The hallway feels smaller than it is; it narrows as the main path gives way to a pressure-sealed junction. There are cleaner welds here, newer lights, but still unmarked. Still buried. 

You stop in front of a sealed hatch.

Behind you, his boots halt too. He steps forward, and your head straightens. The moment wrinkled, like time bent a knee to him.

What just happened?

“You want to keep wearing this act of being scared, Y/N? Fine.” 

His hand lifts mid-sentence, skimming the access panel. A low chime responds to his presence, and the hatch opens with a groaning hiss. A ruddy light bleeds out in strips across the floor from the opening to your feet, flowing wider as the door parts. 

“Be afraid that I haven’t changed—that I don’t want to.” He’s closer, and your mind starts to buzz, a familiar numb yet present impression taking over. 

“You want to fear me?” He leans in, his words growing large and reshaping law as you know it. 

“Fear that I’ve stopped pretending I don’t need this, and I won’t do anything to get it.” 

There isn't a second to move before he shoves you forward.

Your body crashes into the threshold with the sound of metal greeting skin. You instinctively try to catch yourself on the chilled floor, hands splayed, knees jarred. 

It isn't clean here. It isn't warm. 

You breathe in: coolant, scorched wiring, and grease. A chemical rot where nothing circulates. 

Above you, a single bulb sways like a body hanging from a noose, casting red lines across the foundation, and humming with a frequency just off enough to bother the teeth in your head.

Your palms sting and your left is slick. Oil or blood, or both. You don’t look.

Your knees ache. Not from the fall, but from the way they stay planted. Your body understands; do not stand. Not yet.

You hate that—hate how natural this all feels.

You shift to sit upright, slower than you want, elbows trembling. Because it’s cold. That’s all. Not fear. Just temperature.

The door hisses closed behind you. Not a slam. A seal.

You keep your eyes trained on the wall.

You already know where he is. He’s an excessive pressure behind your eyes as if he's mapped into your nervous system. Every cell aware.

The silence carries. You expect him to move. To speak again or gloat.

He doesn’t.

Why didn’t I run?

Because you don’t know this ship? No.

Because you had no choice? Closer. But not it.

Because some hideous, blistering part of you wanted to feel him again?

Bingo.

“Is this… what you had planned?”

“Planned?” he echoes, and it’s not really a question. It’s a taste, foam, and corrosion. “No. I tried not to plan this. I gave you space. I let him have you for a while. I tried to be better.”

I let him have you for a while.

The audacity. The ownership buried in the words, offered like a gift.

You swallow down the spike of stomach acid.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he tells, above you, like he’s delivering a eulogy. “I swore I’d keep my distance.”

You hear him strip his gloves off, one finger at a time.

The leather creaks.

“You should’ve heard the promises I made.” His voice files like it's being shaved down to something barely manageable. “To the Council. To P—”

He cuts the name off like it burned him and exhales. Almost a laugh. 

“Didn’t matter.”

Whose name was he about to say, and what promises were made?

You don’t dare look back. Can’t. Because the heat in your gut is already curving into a shameful knot.

I shouldn’t feel this.

I shouldn’t…

But it’s not new, is it? It’s just undeniable now.

You brace, but it doesn’t help.

You feel his knees frame your back. Wide. Grounded. His boots set apart just far enough to box you in; not touching or grazing, but unmistakably there.

His hand, uncovered now, skin warm and wrong, hooks under your chin. 

Your breath stalls.

You don’t lift your head. He does it for you.

Anakin’s arm is wrapped around from behind, elbow locked to his side, using the weight of his stance to tilt your face upward. His body doesn’t press into you but looms just shy of your back.

His cloak is open, parted like a veil around either side of your shoulders. The light wags, slicing the enclosure into bands of shadow and ichor. A gash of light runs along the underside of his jaw, gleaming the faintest stubble on his throat and the hollow just beneath it. 

The sharp line of his nose casts a long cloud over your mouth. His cheekbones, usually elegant, and noble, now jut like cliffs from his skull. Sweat has gathered at his hairline, intertwining a few strands against his temple, darker and wetter than the rest. 

The blood rays daub his eyes like wounds. You see them from beneath, those skyless cyan irises clouded and cracking. His stare is a much greater consequence than his touch. His expression, it’s not wild. It’s worse than wild.

It’s starving.

There it is again. 

You had nearly buried this feeling.

Not submission, obedience comes naturally now. It’s that same muscle-deep urge, wreathed between fleeing and understanding. A soundless, dishonorable abidance you can’t name without flinching.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” his tone has no business being soothing, yet it lathers across the room like honey over warm toast. “But the second they handed you off to him, knowing the bond we share, as if you weren't meant to be at my side—”

You don't need to see his jaw muscles flex; the proximity allows you to feel it in your skull.

From this angle, you capture the movement in the cut of his neck, the hard line twitching just under his skin. It shifts his entire face, sets one cheekbone higher, and darkens the stage of his mouth until he doesn’t look like himself.

Except he does. This is Anakin. This has always been Anakin.

“You thought I forgot about you?”

It’s an arterial laceration, a carefully placed first cut in a creed of oaths. 

“I should’ve.” His voice kinks, the trembling escaping in the small caverns of the syllables. “I should’ve pulled it out by the root. You. Every trace of you.”

The thought had crossed your mind that you’d been a moment. That he’d blinked and let you go. You expected the Council meeting to snap him out of it, shock him back into his right mind.

Maybe that would be the end.

You were exceedingly mistaken.

“You want to know what I’ve been doing while he’s been wasting your time in that archive?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, the guise of patience has depleted. His breath comes once and he speaks again. 

“I’ve been undoing every reason I had not to touch you.”

Your eyes clench shut.

If you see his, words will spill; words you'll regret later.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

Not fast enough.

His grip closes, but doesn't hurt, cause it isn’t meant to. You gasp without sound.

“I said,” he cuts in, closer now, “look at me.”

Your lashes lift.

He’s there.

Not angry. Not yelling.

But gone, his restraint dwindled to ash.

His lips barely move. “There you are, good girl.”

His words shouldn’t land like that. They shouldn’t ease your shoulders.

What is this feeling?

This nuisance that turns shame molten. That eats at the only piece of you that remains sane. Their little whispers in your head turn to screams.

I’m smarter than this, stronger than this, I should claw my way out. 

A Jedi would.

Your actual voice should protest. Your actual limbs should fight. But neither move. You’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid that you aren’t afraid at all.

The next noise is more subtle. Not speech. Not breath. A pruned click. You realize it's his teeth tapping once, against the inside of his lower lip. Unconscious. Edged. Regretful. 

It shouldn’t mean anything. 

It's a sound that doesn't mean anything.

He's been above you for a lifetime. Long enough for the swelter to rise and stay trapped between his body and yours.

You remember that heat. It doesn’t belong in you. It’s not the calm of meditation or the clarity of the Force, it’s a breach. A wrongness curling down in your abdomen. It tugs at your soul like hunger, but not for food, not for peace.

He tips his head the barest degree. The cartilage in his nose creaks, inaudibly, but you see it in the way one nostril flares broader than the other. His lips part again, not to speak. Just to breathe.

When he finally does speak, it’s in the leeway between drags of air. Almost like he doesn’t want you to know which exhale it came from.

“There are things I’ve done,” he whispers, “to try to forget what it felt like to be inside you.” 

The words aren’t thrown. They’re released.

He smiles or tries to.

His grin doesn't lift his face; it’s the kind that drags at one corner, like something is unraveling inside. A single canine glints through the split, catching the blood light just as it breaks across the plane of his face.

“I’ve burned hours in sparring drills I didn’t need. I’ve repeated the Code so many times it doesn’t even sound like words anymore.”

He swallows, listless and dry.

“I’ve meditated for hours,” he continues, “with your voice in my head and my hand wrapped tight around my cock—”

A pause. Not for effect. For composure.

“I can't stop hearing how you sounded when I pushed you open.”

Corruption and manipulation are nonexistent in his voice. That one, that one is a confession.

A truth.

And when your eyes tinge, just slightly, his lashes descend. A racing bead of sweat has made its way down his neck now, catching in the recess where his collarbone disappears beneath his robe.

Anakin’s hand, still tucked tightly beneath your chin, adjusts slightly. Not to lift. To feel. The pad of his thumb shifts to the curve just below your bottom lip, where your skin is delicate. 

He doesn’t press.

You feel the pause in him, waiting, wondering if you’ll cower. You don’t. You know you should. That would be the smart thing to do. The right thing.

Perhaps even the safe thing.

‘Safe’ ceased in meaning to you. If it ever had one, you're not sure. Not when it comes to him.

“Say something,” he murmurs, and though it’s scarce, it isn’t an order. It’s softened like it’s not meant to be heard.

For a split second, you nearly do.

A brilliant and cruel retort. Your tongue is sharpened by years of experience in the great arts of insults. You could cut him down and make space between your skin and his heat. You could remind him of the mission. Of the Order. 

Yet there’s a chunk taking refuge in your throat. 

Lodged behind your teeth and gums; connected to the pits of your stomach. 

I remember how it felt, too. How he sounded.

Silence, at least, lets you pretend this chunk is absent.

But then a darkness dresses behind his voice. 

That strange duality of him; you remember this as well. The speck of vulnerability suppressed under a far more famished appetite.

His thumb rises, tracing the boundary of your lip once, slowly. Your traitorous lips part, but you say nothing. He inhales again, pointed this time like your speechlessness cut him.

“No,” he corrects, voice rougher now. “Don’t.”The two words land with prejudice; one part blessing, the other warning.

He’s telling you not to ruin it. The illusion that you want this, that you always have, could still hold if you stay quiet a moment longer.

“I have few words for how you feel,” he murmurs, head dipping. His nose grazes your temple, not a kiss, but intimate enough to make your skin weep. 

His hold changes.

His hand slides from under your chin, but not without tracing the column of your throat first. It snakes around the front of your throat, palm flat, thumb pressing below your jaw, tilting your head back further.

“You feel like betrayal,” he mutters, closer now, his mouth near your ear, his voice folding into the smooth niche behind your ear and blooming down your nerve endings. 

He's crouched, his knees spread just enough for you to settle between them. Your lungs draw in as his metal hand finds your shoulder and drags. He wrenches you back against his legs, tighter, aligning your body where he wants it.

There’s a reason you trained. A reason you were attentive when the superiors lectured about attachments. You learned to handle the rise of appetite without seeking food, anguish without chasing relief, and loneliness without pursuing touch. You learned discipline in solitude. You listened. You obeyed.

What was all the training for?

With one word from his mouth, it’s all erased. One tip of your head, one breath in your ear, and you’re frayed as if you were never trained, like you were constructed for this instead.

For him.

No—No, that’s not true.

You shouldn’t…

You whisper his name. A diminutive, broken sound. The final trace of your sanity trying to surface before he pulls you under completely. 

“There you are,” he whispers again. “My girl.”

He releases your throat and snakes into your hair, yanking it back, and with his steel hand, he moves your torso, bending it forward just slightly. Just enough to tell your body what comes next.

His thigh presses forward behind you, nudging your knees wider, and anchoring your hips in place. 

You hate the part of yourself that arches into his touch. That embraces the positioning, the claiming. That goes flexible, not in dread, but in readiness.

Your body knows this version of him. Too well.

“You dream about me?” he rasps, again not waiting for an answer. “Because I dream about you. Ruined. Sobbing. Still begging for more.”

Ruined—and your center contracts like it wants the damage.

Sobbing—and your lungs seize, filled with too much air, too little dignity.

Begging—and it settles in your hips with a familiar welcome. 

You let your spine relax. Not because your mind gave in, but because everything else inside you already has. 

He exhales, and it tastes like vindication. 

He knew this part of me before I did.

That makes you physically nauseous.

You despise that your knees haven’t buckled in objection.

You loathe that you're still on them, back against his chest, pliant, pliable, willing.

He pushes his chest against your back, solid. There’s no room to breathe, no space to move. His hand slips down your body, metal fingers slick as they trace the outline of your waist.

You want to move, to fight this.

Instead, you feel your chest snare when he changes positions behind you, his fingers curling tighter in your hair as he tugs your head back to expose the bend of your throat.

“You knew,” he says. “Back in that hall. You knew what this would turn into.”

What you don’t know is if you’re trembling from fear or something else, maybe both, but he senses it. He always senses it. And it only makes him move closer.

“You’re not even bleeding yet, pathetic.”

Your knees scrape the floor as you’re tugged, then shoved, your forearms catching your weight. The angle forces your spine to curve as his hand remains knotted in your hair.

You want to scream. You want to resist, to wail, but you don't. 

The words slip from your lips, faded and flimsy, “I hate you.”

He doesn’t need to answer, the way he drags you back against him with one swift motion tells you everything you need to know. His other hand slides around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh with no intention of letting you go.

“You hate me,” he declares, a breathless, unstable smirk in his voice. His hand wanders lower, pressing firmly into the fabric of your pants, rubbing what’s underneath. “Is this what hate makes you feel?”

The words are a vicious twist, trickling with ridicule and mockery. His metal fingers rub against you in the most intimate, violating way. You tremble at the sensation, disgust swirling in your chest. 

“I hate you,” you breathe, the repetition lurching past your lips before you can stop it. 

You want to believe the statement, to connect to it like a lifeline, but the sum of your body betrays you.

“Liar,” he whispers. 

Click

You don’t feel the phantom limb of compliance, but the moment you see stainless steel in his fist, the world ruptures. His metallic hand glides from your core to the hilt of your saber. 

He holds it out, the polished cylinder’s fresh grip gaping at you with a cheated blood glow. 

Two days. 

Forty-eight hours of owning that thing, and you’d barely looked at it.

Two long days of page-turning and taciturn disappointment. Of pretending the endless archaic words fed you like combat might have. The saber had felt like a prop, a congratulatory relic earned in name only.

You’d shown Lex and Abby like you were shucking back your skin, exposing weeping tissue. Not pridefully. You offered it up like a wound before it scabbed, just to see if they’d flinch. But they hadn’t. They’d lit up, lit you up, their awe adequately drowning the second-guessing, tugging you into the courtyard with bare feet and joy on their lips.

They pulled you into the plaza and called it amazing. Called you amazing.

That was the only time the saber had felt like yours. 

Their splendor pressed into your skin like daylight against a bruise. You could almost believe it then, that this path had been carved for you, not around you, that you were becoming someone to be amazed by.

“Most Padawans sleep with their sabers the first night,” he tells, almost conversational. His hand knots tighter in your hair. You can’t move. Can’t look away. “They light them in the dark. Learn the sound. The weight.”

He lifts it slightly, and the hilt grazes your upper arm. It’s rigid, foreign.

“But not you,” he murmurs. “Too busy pretending to be something else.”

The red bulb overhead flickers once. Anakin stares at your saber, rolling it in his hand. 

His thumb brushes the ignition.

He won't—

Snap-hiss

The green blade splits the room. Not emerald, not jade, a more brutal color, like acid flash-frozen midair. It bleeds green across your thighs, across your knuckles as you brace yourself. The light saturates the crimson in the room, bursts the gloaming into slats.

He brings it near your throat. 

“They make you build them,” he continues, his voice hushed, as if the blade has made him holy. “So you’ll respect the weapon. So it’ll respond to your touch.”

The ignored chunk blocking your airway is gone, replaced by a dryness. The light licks against your collarbone, projecting green sparks in the sweat on your skin.

“I wonder if it will still answer you after this.”

You feel the undeniable pull of it then, the memory of building it, fingers trembling as the components snapped into place. The crystal knew what you didn’t, even then. It had whispered, don’t griff this up. It recognized the fracture in you.

Anakin hums, a bottomless rumble in his throat. The saber’s glow washes neon over the curve of your neck. You can’t swallow. Can’t shift to relieve the ache thriving down your spine.

“Take off your pants.”

You blink. Not at the words, those don’t surprise you anymore, but at the cruel finality of them. 

You don’t budge.

He clicks his tongue and angles the saber. 

The beam kisses the narrow skin of your jaw.

You can smell it burning.

“Now,” he insists.

Your fingers start to move.

You hate how deftly they find the buttons, how easily you pivot your hips to shimmy them down. You hate the sound they make, fabric slinking down your legs, pooling around your knees. 

“You kneel like you've done this before,” he rasps, and you want to hate the words. The depth of it. But you can’t because your own saber is still at your throat, and hate is small in comparison.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong, but because your body is too focused on surviving. Everything else, everything you thought you knew, is nothing.

“I see pieces of myself in you, pieces that need breaking, or maybe… setting free.”

His hips grind into yours, wanting to feel your body's reaction. He delights in what it responds with, tilting his head to see your face better. 

A breath. His voice drops lower, the kind that twines inside you and pulls tight.

“I’m not asking for your permission.” His fingers tighten like a vice, yet strangely reverent. “I’m showing you how to listen. To feel beyond the pain and the fear and the lies.”

His hand abruptly leaves your hair, and your head leans forward from the loss, searing your throat further. Your teeth click down on your cheeks, holding back the yelp in your chest. The copper tange is becoming an all-too-regular taste. 

The droplet of sweat dragging down your temple distracts you momentarily from the ruffling of fabric from behind you as it drools over your lip and falls onto the saber, a small crackle emitting and throwing you disturbingly fast back into reality. 

It isn't until his bare length is rubbing greedily into your folds that a noise flits from your lips. 

Your eyes are fixed on the red walls while your fibers are only aware of the ridges and veins of him, and a delicious, sickening warp inside you. 

This isn’t like last time, and you know it.

It's more.

So much more. 

There isn’t a single thought or memory that exists here. Not now.

The stretch is brutal. He doesn't stutter, not even when your body spasms and bucks under him. When his hips finally hit the curve of your ass, you can barely breathe. 

The floor plunges from beneath you both, a shared weightless pleasure.

You know because, for a moment, his hand goes slack.

The blade dips lower, singeing your clavicle.
You can feel the blisters forming on your skin, yet it, too, like your memories, are lost. Because his cock is thick and throbbing inside you and his body is scalding and damning. And the sounds.

Oh Gods. The sounds.

Low grunts, resounding, carnal.

Whimpers, depleted, pitiful.

Your hips jerk forward as you try to get away, but he only drags you back, pushing in deeper. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, not the way you expect.

Because you're wet.

Your cunt is wet.

Drenched.

It's shameful.

And then, the blade is gone.

Gone from the fresh wounds, gone from your thoughts, and then—

Crash

Glass shatters across the floor.

The lightbulb above is dead.

It's pitch black.

And he's everywhere.

His arms wrap around your waist, and he fucks into you. He fucks you like it's not his cock between your legs, but the truth and the truth is that you love every second.

The pain and fear are gone.

“There is no emotion, there is peace,” His voice rumbles against your neck, so deep you almost mistake it for a growl, but the words he spoke are ones you've memorized yourself. “Say it,” he demands.

Your mind scrapes at fog, desperate to obey, desperate not to. It takes all the willpower you have to push the words out.

“There is no emotion, there is peace,” you echo, as he pushes further, his hips hitting forcefully and rapid, each one jolting you. 

“Say the rest."

You find it. You make yourself find it.

"There is no ignorance, there is knowledge."

"Say the rest."

Your words are barely coherent, the last few words broken and disjointed as he pounds harder.

"There is no passion, there is serenity."

"Say the rest!"

“There is no chaos, the—”

His cock hits inside you, sending a bolt through your spine, and you can't hold back the wail that escapes.

I could die from the humiliation alone.

He chuckles, pridefully.

"What was that?” he goads. “What were you saying?"

You don't need light to know the expression on his face, the satisfied grimace, the gleam of his blue eyes.

You're not sure how you haven't shattered yet, but you can feel it.

Building.

"T-There is no chaos, there is harmony."

There’s a rhythm to the desperation now, a music in the way the body can still move, still dance, even when it thinks it can't. Your hips rock, and you can't tell if you're doing it consciously. Are you doing that? You don’t know. 

You don’t know.

"Say the rest." He groans through his teeth. It’s not appealing. It’s not performative. It’s a man who’s too far gone to care.

"There is no death, there is the Force."

Your voice breaks, and you're almost certain that you've fallen apart, but no, no, the pressure is still building.

You don't notice the tears. They're a reflex. A chemical response to stress.

"There you go," he murmurs, a deformed gentleness in his tone. "That's it."

His thumb catches the tear at the rim of your jaw, dragging it down in a motion so soft it feels like a caress, then he slides it to his mouth and curls his tongue around it. 

“You don’t have to understand. Just stay.”

The tears aren't stopping, salt-streaked mixing with the moans that rive out of you, each one more dismal than the last.

He doesn't seem to mind if anything, he seems to treasure it, the way your walls are clamping down on him, the way the noises are becoming manic.

“Say it, say you will stay.” he pants, “Tell me you will stay.”

You try. But what comes out is garbled, unmade. Your mouth is a ruin, your voice a trembling gasp of syllable soup. 

His thrusts are punishing, searching your body for the answer your tongue can’t form.

"Maker—" he grunts, "come on, Y/N."

You're already gone.

Your body shudders violently against him, and your mouth opens, but there are no words, just wreckage. 

Just ruined breath.

He doesn’t wait. He drives harder, chasing the answer your body is giving.

But your voice finds you, just as the pressure peaks. It's not a whisper or a scream this time. Not a sob or a plea, no, a plea would be braver. It would beg. This is not that. 

“I will,” you state, and his mouth is on yours before the word finishes.

Not a kiss. Not even close.

His lips crash into you, tongue slipping inside your mouth, tasting the vow.

He doesn’t have to ask if you meant it.

Your body is honest, always.

You're not sure who came first, him or you, but your orgasm is still pulsing when his releases, his length twitching as it empties deep inside you, so hard that you can feel each rope of his cum shoot into you, filling you up.

He slumps into you with a hiss. A man emptied, not of passion—of need. You feel it, too. Not just the spill of him inside you, but the silence that follows. The awful, tender silence.

His breath scalds the side of your neck, mouth parted against your skin.

You expect shame.

I want shame.

A clean and penalizing feeling. It doesn’t come. A much crueler fate presents itself. A frantic calm. Like descending into a lake and deciding not to swim.

His metal hand drags along your waist, a possessive line, and then flattens low over your stomach. You swallow, but your throat’s scraped of any healthy tissue. Your lips are open, but they hold no protest behind them.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your shoulder. “Just once.” 

Every muscle is tight and trembling, but your control is rotted. Thought and will have slipped behind you. You aren’t deciding to speak. Your mouth simply moves.

“I will stay, Master.” 

The title falls off your tongue in a daze, drugged.

His breath hitches along your shoulder, and there’s a moment where everything feels even, serene before the next wave hits you. 

“You are… the perfect distraction.”

Perfect.

A word that means he sees you as equal, more than equal; you exist in the one place he’s still human.

You break.

Not with sound, you’ve run out. You break in the tranquility. In the way your body seizes and stays. In the way you remain full of him, unmoving, undone, and thoroughly, irreversibly his. 

Chapter Text

Enjoy 🖤

~

 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. You’ve 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. You’re sitting, but you don’t 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 you’ve both already chosen a side.

Perfect.

Perfect distraction.

That’s what he titled you with.

That was only an hour ago—maybe less. Time drips itself in glutted intervals, and the exposed nerves inside you thrash for a pattern to stitch themselves to. There’s an invisible line, running from the base of the blade’s hilt up through your bones. Without it, you’d slump over and collapse into the plating below.

You count the rib bones Anakin touched and the ones he didn’t; all of them wail.

I will stay, Master.

It replays scrambled. Reversed and inside out. You hear your voice declaring it yet you can’t tell if it was forced or relief.

Your neck stings.

Contain, you think. Con—

The intercom crackles overhead.

“Drop zone approaching. All units report to your deployment positions.”

Your eyes snap open.

The ship mourns back into being—weeping coolant lines and hissing pressurized magnetic currents.

The ships alive again and demands your presence.

Obedience lifts you to your feet, the dead limb at your side tapping against your hip as you reenter reality.

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.

It should be chaotic, but it’s not.

One clone, helmet in hand, braid caught behind his ear, glances your way. His eyes snag on the burn across your neck.

“Guess Skywalker didn’t hold back,” he mutters to the clone beside him. Not loud enough for rebuke, but loud enough for you to hear. The carterized 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 don’t see his face at first—only the slope of his shoulders and the leisurely set of his stance. One hand braces against the wall, the other on his hip. He’s 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.

He has the same cadence he had when you watched him through a holotransmission three years ago. Anakin had sang 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? I’ve never seen it up close. Strategizing? Pretending I’m not here?

No. He knows I’m here.

It’s a test. Another game.

Or you dreamed it all.

No. The charred skin on my neck disagrees, and muscles are aching I didn’t know existed.

Anakin gestures to a quadrant on the map and one of them mirrors the gesture. The clone must have said a joke because it drew a chorus of chuckles.

Anakin, he’s—

You don’t 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 him… 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: “... heavy sweep from the south ridge. They’re cut off here.” The clones nod. One offers a comment and points to a blue cluster on the map. The group chuckles.

Everyone is calm.

And you’re… what?

Upright? Somehow.

Your gaze catches on the gunships before dropping to your boots. Scratched durasteel, crusted oil, and your laces aren’t even. They weren’t a few hours ago, but it matters now.

You bend down to fix them.

As if it helps.

You hear your name.

Your spine flinches—but it wasn’t him. Just a clone calling out orders down the line.

You stand, finding him again.

He’s barely moved. Arms crossed over his chest. The muscles in his throat work around a deliberate swallow, the moisture requiring your audience.

His mouth is—

—Stop—Contain—

The holomap flashes, strobing blue and white across his jaw. His mouth keeps moving with orders and coordinates, but it’s all vapor. Meaningless. Because he’s looking at you now—at your neck.

You don’t move beyond a twitch. The specter pressure on your throat isn’t a memory, it’s present and incessant. And your mind, useless thing, rips his voice out of the Force. Not the one he’s 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 hips—you feel his words.

“Focus, Y/N.”

“I am.”

“Not enough. I know when your mind is drifting.”

“And you are perfectly centered?”

“I can still feel you. So yes, I’m centered.”

You reach for anger, but it laughs at you. What you grab instead is lethargic. You want to cover the mark, claw it until it’s a gruesome hole of jarred pearlescent blue cartilage.

His eyes drag to meet yours. And gods, it’s a war all over again. There’s a narrowing at the corners of his eyes—a pinprick of… pride?

Or hunger.

Or control.

Maybe that’s 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: “—aim 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 with—”
His voice doubles back to the filtered distortion of a general who once seemed genuine.

He’s making war sound effortless again.

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 don’t 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. “You all know the plan. Keep your eyes open and don't get shot.”

How is he so… composed?

You nearly choke when a flashing red washes the inside of the dropship.

That color again.

“You should pay attention, padawan.“

His voice infiltrates; warping into your mind as if he’s said it right behind your ear.

“Yesterday’s mission, we went in blind. I was scattered. But now?”

His gaze flicks toward you through the blinking red.

“You should be proud, you’re the reason this one’s already won.”

Your mind doesn’t 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 you’ve 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 vinegar—anger? 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 don’t hold you. The axis of your saber's hilt at your side is the only spine you have left. There’s 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 Koth’s 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 you’ve 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 haven’t moved in…how long? You don’t 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 else’s nostalgia that's too sweet for a day like this. It’s not yours, so it has to be his.

The clone’s jaw hit your shoulder when he fell.

That’s 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 should’ve been—that’s yours.

A line of officers disperses from the center of the hangar, their boots muted across the metal. A clone pats another’s 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 don’t 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.

It’s not a chip of armor or shrapnel. It’s—

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 fall—so he must be close. And, right on cue; there he is. Framed, red-lit inside your periphery.

“Don’t,” you warn, without turning. Your voice is hoarse and foreign; maybe it’s the dead clones.

“Don’t do that Jedi thing where you blanket it in purpose and protocol. Just—”

His voice cuts in, low. “Just what?”

One moment Anakin is a distant presence, and the next he’s a reflection. Scissors-blades lick through fabric and replace both your speech.

Where did he get those?

In the mirror, he’s 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.

You’re a soldier now. Supposed to handle much worse.

You press harder. The world tunnels before detonating.

“Just get out,” you rasp, your nausea daring to rise. “Get out. Get out. Get—”

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.

There’s 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.

“You’re going into shock,” he mutters.

“Don’t say it like that.” You gag, voice splitting.

“Makes it sound less heroic.”

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 doesn’t stutter. There’s 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 arcs—around his hip, waist, and ribs.

“Give it to me,” he says.

You scoff. “What, my hand?”

“Your weight.”

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 bandage seeps through your back; tagging against your shirt. His hand moves from your wrist to the underside of yours—bearing 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, and mingles with the blasterfire that lives in his sweat just as the tweezers slip in, and pain obliterates his harrowing incense. White fractures bloom behind your eyelids, the first fragment leaving your body with a wet click. It’s 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 more—the 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 this—cutting 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 didn’t want this.

The clones' dying groans still bounce around the curves of your brain.

I’m not a Jedi.

Not a soldier.

Not anything.

Anakin’s voice grazes the crown of your head, through the downward spiral you’re on.

“Say it, then.” The statement sounds like an order.

A thousand barbed insults come forward, only one survives your teeth. “That you brought me here to die.”

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.

“You think I—”

“I watched you keep walking,” you whisper. Your forehead stays huddled to his pulse, hearing it hammer as you attempt to swallow the taste of ash. “I watched you keep walking while I held his body in my arms.”

“You want to do this now?”

You do. You don’t. You do.

“He died on me. I was holding him, and you—”

“He was dead before he hit the ground.”

His words must have rearranged themselves on the way out of his mouth, they’re vicious to your ears. His eyes are already on you when you unfurl, shadowed but still unbearably blue. That impossible, crystalline blue that’s always colder the closer he gets.

“You don’t know that.” You force out, your tongue swollen around the words.

Multiple fragments rattle to the floor. You pinch your eyes shut at the noise.

It isn’t fair.

A fool’s 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 another’s remains out of your flesh as if it were just another task, or suture his own without so much as a hiss.

“I do know that,” he insists, his voice strained in a way that tells you he's running on borrowed fumes. “And if I had hesitated—if I’d paused to think—every one of us would’ve died.”

Your skin is packed, lungs raw and full of someone else’s blood, and it’s his fault.

It’s always his fault.

“Is that what you wanted? For everyone to die while you clung to one soldier you couldn’t save?”

“Stop.”

"You want an apology? From me? I should’ve stopped everything for your tears—is that it?”

You don’t have the strength to keep your anger at bay and lingering on the clone’s death will end you. So you seize on another wound.

“Why did you bring me here?” The question rips out of you and he doesn’t stutter.

“I thought I made that pretty clear.”

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 don’t question where the wrapping came from. Your entire world narrows to him.

“Tell me—”

“I don’t trust anyone else with you.”

A brittle laugh escapes you, mostly hysteric.

“With me? Or of me?” Your jaw ticks while you fight the impulse to drive your elbow into his stitched side. “Why here—and not next to Master Koth?”

A moment passes, and his silence is enough.
This was never about your safety or the needs of war. It’s about control. It always has been. And control despises witnesses.

“I didn’t bring you here to lose you,” he says finally, his tone stripped of fury and any salve. “If I wanted that, you’d be dead. You’re here because there’s nowhere else you should be.”

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 clone’s, of that boy’s, open, trusting eyes flashes—that last fixed look finding yours as his chest fell—and beneath that memory, a different understanding rises: if you do nothing now, if you cede this moment, whatever’s 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.

“Mercy,” your heart, alight with damaged pride, convulses your teeth. “That's the word you’re trying to describe.”

“Mercy?” His mouth curves, denial warping it. “What a strange word to hang on me.” His head tilts, gaze dragging to your mouth. There’s a line between restraint and indulgence you watch him balance on.

It makes the anger so much harder to hold.

“Has anyone taught you what love is, Y/N?”

Love?

Love belonged to parents, and to myths buried under temple creed, not for soldiers or Jedi’s or whoever you are.

You don’t answer.

“True love,” he begins in your silence, the words too rich for the mouth it’s exiting, “decides for you. You don’t get to think or prepare. It chooses you—and it never lets go.”

Scorched ash returns to your tongue.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you say, with no craft or clever undertone. “It doesn’t make sense.”

He exhales through his nose, an impatient, weary sound you’ve come to learn is irritation before his voice drops. “It’s not meant to.”

“Then—take it back.”

He lets out a dry huff. “That’s not how it works.”

“So lovers? Is that what we are?”

“Say it again.” His hand tightens at your thigh; deciding whether to be cruel or crueler. “See what happens.”

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. You’d 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 isn’t love or hate then what is it?

“You’ve been hounding me with words made for common people ever since we met.” You snap, harsher than expected, and his eyes fix on yours. The stillness itself is another kind of grip, but it’s not tight enough to hold your breath any longer.

“You want to know what I see, General? It isn’t wisdom or generosity. All I hear clearly are your threats. Your voice and your words—“ Anger hisses out, half-delirious. “You won’t leave me alone, you won’t let me die, you won’t let me live—”

Your laugh breaks, too lofty and cracked.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m sick? Then what does that make you?”

Hysteria churns hotter, making each inhale grind.

“Don’t twist this back on me. I didn’t ask for this.” 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 shoulder’s 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.

“I’m not your soldier, and I’ll never be your Padawan. I belong next to Master Koth.”

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.

“Try again.”

Like drills. Like a game.

Your heart batters, every muscle braced for flight. “Let me go, Anakin.”

He leans closer, cutting your plea in half. “No.”

Your chest heaves as fury comes frothing and full of smothered courage. You want Anakin ruined—split open like the boy was split in your arms, skull collapsing, and teeth dislodged with gums spraying fresh crimson. You want to bite through Anakin’s 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 blood—his, yours, anyone’s. It doesn’t care whose.

This is what your predecessors warned of, the way hate spreads so easily.

‘Your veins drum against bone, and your muscles tear from their moorings,’ They had said—but 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 he’s slotting a conduit back into place.

It’s not enough—wait.

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 body’s 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.

He’s made himself into a portrait in one, singular lazy stroke—and it stops you, as all amazing art does.

Stand! Stand! The chance to run is now—the door is right there.

He meets you through crimson-brushed lashes with that cocky look that reworks his whole face. “Finished?” he murmurs, the word licked with obscene pride.

Your mouth opens and closes. There’s no reply that doesn’t turn into sobbing or more violence.

You hadn’t picked a side that night, with Abby and Lex. You’d 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 you’ve 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 him—a 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 don’t 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.

“Remove your hands.”

“You don’t want that.”

“I want off your lap. I want to leave.”

The grin on his lips grows as his eyes flick to the door, then back. “Then stand.” His voice falls back into naming coordinates and dictating strategies. “The door hasn’t moved.”

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 shouldn’t be —a wound is just a wound— but the color begins to mutilate the fragile laws inside you, the ones he’s already scratched out and rewritten.

“You heard me,” he taunts, “Stand.”

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 you’re back where you started.

“You’re restraining me.”

“If I meant to restrain you, you’d know.” His voice doesn’t rise. “You’re in shock.”

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.

“You’re insufferable.”

“No. I’m right,” he says, certainty plastered where other men's shame would be.

That’s almost honorable.

“There is nothing right about you.”

“There’s everything right about me,” Zero boasts, only more absolute certainty, which makes it so much worse. “And I always seem to be right about you.”

That’s what drives you mad.

Mad is generous.

“You’re impossible.”

His expression doesn’t veer as his voice cools. “You prefer me this way.”

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.

“Arrogant?”

“Accurate.”

Your nails dig into his shoulder, desperate for any kind of leverage. “I don’t want whatever this is.”

“You do.”

“I do no—”

“You do,” he proclaims again, relentlessly. “You don’t want a body count, that’s all.”

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.

“I’m not a piece of property or object you can claim. You don’t get to own me.”

“Ownership is for droids. You’re not a droid.” His crystal eyes travel, cruelly slow. “You are far more dangerous than that. You can disobey—and still, you don’t.”

What do I say to that?

“Maker, you love hearing yourself.”

“Maker,” he returns, with a dull tick of amusement, “so do you.”

He's not wrong. You’ve always enjoyed the click of clarity, especially now, considering it’s been missing since the club, but who doesn’t? Clarity is a soundless, tasteless narcotic.

His palm spreads over your thigh, not squeezing down, just reaffirming that your body is still atop him.

“You want off me?” His voice curls, low. He’s offering a substitute for clarity that reeks of iron.

I want to stay until you break in a way that will free me. I want….

“Say it,” he adds.

“Say what?”

“That you froze.” He doesn’t move when your eyes question him. “Admit it—and we’ll move on.”

Your pride works around the word, and memory struts in with an uninvited altruism: the tremble in the boy’s broken body, the way his chest tried to lift, the gurgling that couldn't have been speech and still begged you to answer. You can’t remember the last time you exhaled without shaking. Most likely, it was then.

The crimson on Anakin’s face has thickened into a lacquer, sealing a formal signature. You want to revel in the pride that it’s 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.

“I held him,” your voice cracks out. It’s a fact you can carry without vomiting and one he can't say is untrue.

“You did,” he replies—and for once, his voice changes. Softer. “And then you stood, and followed every order I gave.”

Arguing with the chronology will do nothing.

Telling him about the seconds that weren’t seconds but hours, how time turned to tar instead of water, will only lead to fat, pitiful tears.

“Stop using today to build this,” you fume, head dipping in a gesture to both of you. “I was hideous. My movements were sloppy. Today doesn’t count.”

“It counts,” his saw-toothed attention that split you open the first night continues slicing now. He moves—not out of reach but deeper into you and the urge to rip yourself off him capsulizes into a single swallow.

“I need you to stop,” you whisper, leaving the sentence suspended, as vast and senseless as today has been.

His stare flicks briefly to your mouth, before returning. “I tried,” he mimics your hush, and the way his voice is, it isn’t a gesture for pity. “You know I did.”

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 didn’t consent to yanks your body.

“Try again,” your breath hits his lips, “please.”

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 should’ve been more specific. Please could mean anything—please 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.

I’m out of tricks.

You take your new vocabulary—mercy, perfect, earned, love—and 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 that’s 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. It’s 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.

You’ve blamed your body for mutiny since the very first night, and every night since, like it’s a separate entity. You didn’t chime in on Abby and Lex’s debate because the idea of love frightened you—because it meant you wanted it.

You flirt with the idea of hitting him again, but you’re 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.

“Today counts,” His voice keeps its shutter, like he’s reciting scripts. “It counts more than any day you’ve lived. Today I saw your rage steady your hand better than peace ever will.”

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.

“Do you know how rare it is for obedience to win over grief?” He holds none of the grandeur he uses on clones or the Council; it’s private, and obscenely personal. “Do you know how few I’ve seen do it? How few could?”

“You think I want you for your pretty face? For what’s between your legs? Or your clumsy twirls with a saber?” He huffs out a small chuckle as your shirt lifts higher, the sear on your shoulder tugging the cloth as it passes over. “No. I save you because you obey, even as your soul revolts.”

Your throat swells with muted insults as he pulls the shirt over your head. He drops it aside without looking—a discarded meat-suit—and you’re left bare from the waist up, save for the thin wrap binding your chest.

“You think this pain is yours alone?” 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.

“Do you know how many commanders I’ve buried because they mistook stubbornness for courage?” His voice dips lower, human hand finding your thigh once more, quickly climbing to your naked hip. “How many rotted on nameless worlds because the council is too blind, too afraid, to send me?”

He continues, each word punctuated with the smooth trace of his thumb across your hip, grazing the lower band of your pants.

“I know better. Better than the council.” He tightens, bringing you back to his lips. “I 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 just—you are more than that, little one. You have so much power—”

Power.

“I thought I was just an outlet—the perfect distraction.”

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 unfolds his crimson lips.

“A beautiful face,” he repeats, “but just an outlet.” His fingers keep their tracings along your hip, patiently. “You remembered.”

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,” he states, “I’ll be there. If you want to be owned, I’ll be there. And if you want the anger, fear, and stubbornness taken out of you—” his voice seems to catch, for a breath, “—I will be there.”

His pupils dilate as they canvas your face and his tone never puts on the Generals' attire he’s worn several times throughout this argument; it’s a much glassier suit. “And when you crawl back to your lectures in Master Koth’s hollow cave once this ship lands, I won’t follow.”

Compassion, if that’s 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.

’If you want to be used, I’ll be there. If you want to be owned, I’ll be there.’

A vow? A cursing?

Regardless, there’s no intention of release.

There’s no version where he isn’t waiting and him genuinely stopping is impossible now—he’s proven that.

It’s an endless cage.

“Even when I walk away,” You give, voice wrecked, “you’ll still be there.”

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.

“I will never love you, Y/N.”

He whispers, finally, with the softest lull he's ever managed. “Not 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 won’t. Run,” His eyes, those feverish blue orbs, lower to your mouth. “And I will bring you back. Do you understand me?”

No, no I don’t.

“Why lie to me?” The question leaks out quieter than you intended, making you shift your weight.

You watch his shoulders slack and realize he’s been wearing armor this entire conversation, only now is he stripping the pieces off. “You asked me to try again. This is what it looks like.”

You feel your own chest constrict as he divulges.“I tried after the club, after the council meeting, and I’m trying again now—in here. Softer than you deserve.”

He’s suffering from the pressure that’s 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.

“‘Trying again’ is supposed to mean progress,” you push out, your voice as brittle as the parchments back in Master Koth's office. “It’s not supposed to be… more of the same.”

Across the room, behind you, the open medkit lifts from the sink and glides toward the two of you.

“You’re asking for something that isn’t real.”

He releases you, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic and a fresh roll of gauze from the now grounded medkit by his side.

“A world where I don’t want you.”

That’s… not what I’m 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 Abby’s daydreams. I know I want a world without red. I want to be bored again…

Right?

“You’re still in shock.” He observes, with his factual lilt.

He’s absolutely right. The tremor in your hands against his shoulders is a frantic Morse code of today’s 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 nose—pressing them against the crooked cartilage.

“Feel that?” He murmurs, almost proud. “You did that.”

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.

“I won’t apologize for it,” he utters against you, his hot air skating your fingerprints. “Not for taking you. Not for wanting you. They taught you to sever and starve yourself of anything that doesn't serve them. I’m only…” A deep breath, his chest rising and grazing your elbow, “…giving you a feast.”

You trace the blood to his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. It’s 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.

“Do you enjoy seeing me bleed for you, little one?”

The question—the vibrations it sends crawling up your spine. His crimson. The pressure from his confined length—it all melts together until you can’t 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.

He—Maker, he enjoys this.

The entire world is shrunken to the washroom’s unforgiving spotlight on his face and the foreign heat inside his cheeks. His pupils have blown, swallowing the blue until they’re 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 can’t 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. There’s no balance here, only the rhythm of two people who don’t know how to stop colliding with each other, and in it, clarity takes place.

The club was the only time I let myself want.

You’ve been choking yourself on silence, gargling routines, and idolizing restraint until your ribs eroded from the effort of holding it all in.

So that’s why they sang when he touched them.

Your mind travels—back through the cargo bay’s 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 then—this.

This rot infecting you—this fatal acclimation.

Years and years and years and more years.

“You’ve starved yourself long enough, let me feed you.”

Red cracks back into the edges of your vision with his words—splintering itself through the seams of the room, the walls, into him—his eyes, his throat.

Contain—No—No—I want to want.

The color isn’t signaling danger or warnings anymore.

That’s the difference between before and now.

Before, you’d flinch—Preserve. Conserve. Contain.—

Now, you lean in.