Palpatine: Sneezes

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

- Rebels Wolffe x reader “somewhere only we know”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

- x Reader “hit me (like you mean it)”❤️

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.

She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.

Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.

“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”

“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.

Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”

“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.

R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.

Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”

“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”

C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”

“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”

GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.

The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.

She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.

This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.

Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.

Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”

She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.

The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.

The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”

GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”

“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”

Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.

GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”

The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”

R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.

“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”

She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”

R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.

They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.

The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.

“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”

Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.

And for now, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.

“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”

“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”

R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.

“Oh no,” GH muttered.

The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.

“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”

“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”

R7 let out a smug breep-breep.

“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”

The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”

Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”

“And Anakin?”

“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”

“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”

The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”

“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.

“I’m right here,” the senator said.

“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.

“And?”

R7 beeped proudly.

They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.

⸻

The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.

She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.

It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.

Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.

He stopped short. So did she.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.

“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.

“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.

“Healing. You notice things like that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.

Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.

Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”

She tilted her head. “About?”

His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”

A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.

Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.

“What—?”

They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.

Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.

“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”

“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”

R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.

Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”

“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”

Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”

R7 flashed red for just a second.

Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”

Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.

Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”

“He’s got issues.”

Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”

She didn’t argue.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“When you’re ready… come find me.”

And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.

R7 beeped once. She looked down.

“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”

R7 whirred indignantly.

“…But thanks.”

⸻

The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.

Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.

“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”

The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”

She blinked. “You cooked?”

“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”

She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.

Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.

That is, until GH-9 spoke again.

“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”

“GH,” she groaned, standing.

“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”

She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.

He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.

She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”

R7 beeped again, very pointedly.

“Not tonight.”

She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”

“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”

“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”

She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”

“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”

“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”

“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”

Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”

R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

What Remains

Captain Rex x Reader

Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.

⸻

You’d found the distress signal by accident.

A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

But you weren’t most people.

And the frequency?

It was clone code.

You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.

Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.

And then you heard him.

At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.

“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”

Static.

“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”

More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.

“I don’t wanna die like this…”

Your heart stopped.

You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.

“Rex!”

Then you heard it.

Closer now.

“Please…somebody…I—”

His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.

And finally—you found him.

Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.

His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.

“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”

Your heart shattered.

You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”

You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”

Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.

“Hurts…”

“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”

You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.

He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.

But now?

Now he was just a man.

Bleeding. Scared. Alone.

You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.

“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”

You closed your eyes.

“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”

⸻

He woke up in pieces.

A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.

And your voice.

He could hear you before he could turn his head.

“I know you’re awake, Rex.”

He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.

“How long?”

“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”

He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”

You closed your book. “Of course I did.”

He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”

There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.

You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.

But he wasn’t now.

He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.

“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.

You said nothing. Let him go on.

“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”

You reached for his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”

“You’re not.”

He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”

He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”

You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”

You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.

“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.

His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”

You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.

He was shaking.

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

You wrapped your arm around him.

He didn’t say anything after that.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:

“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”

And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.

Yeah you could say I’m doing numbers on tumblr. And that numbers? One

(click for better quality)

me?? drawing angsty clone wars art?? in this economy?? more likely than you’d think.

(sorta-redraw of this thing from a year ago)

this is the peak of my artistic career

Commander Cody x Queen Reader

The scent of smoke and metal still clung to the air as your heels echoed down the marbled hallway of your battered palace. The ornate glass windows had been blasted out, replaced with ragged holes and jagged edges. Sunlight streamed through in fractured patterns, landing across the gold embroidery of your gown and the heavy sapphires around your neck. The dress was too fine for war, too stiff for practicality—but you wore it anyway.

You were Queen.

And queens did not cower in simple cloth.

You now stood unmoving at the top of the grand staircase, the full weight of your crown pressing into your brow. You wore gold today. Not out of vanity, but strategy. A queen in splendor inspires hope. Even in ruin.

"Your Majesty," came the low voice of your advisor, hurrying behind you, "the Republic forces have landed. General Kenobi himself leads them, along with the 212th."

You nodded once, expression like carved obsidian. "Take me to them."

_ _ _

Obi-Wan Kenobi looked every bit the seasoned general, robes dusty from landing, beard trimmed despite the chaos. At his side stood a clone in white and orange armor, helmet tucked under one arm. He stood straight-backed and still, as if carved from the same stone as your palace columns.

You descended the steps slowly, every movement deliberate. You knew how to command a room. You knew how to wield silence as a weapon.

"General Kenobi," you greeted coolly.

He bowed. "Your Majesty. We regret the delay. The 212th is ready to assist."

Your gaze drifted to the commander. Younger than the general. Sharper somehow. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable.

"And who are you?"

"Commander Cody, ma'am," he said, voice clipped and precise. "At your service."

You took a moment, letting your silence test him. He didn't shift. He didn't waver. Good.

"I'm not interested in pleasantries, Commander. The Separatists hold my people hostage in the east quarter. If you're here to help, do it. If not, get out of my city."

Cody inclined his head, neither offended nor intimidated. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, clearly amused. "I believe you'll find Commander Cody is quite... efficient."

You turned, the gems on your gown glittering with every step. "Then I expect results."

_ _ _

You watched the battle unfold from a tower overlooking the eastern district, eyes tracking orange and white armor sweeping through the rubble like fire. Commander Cody moved like he was born for it—blaster ready, tactics sharp, calm under fire.

You found yourself watching him more than the battlefield.

It wasn't just attraction. No, you'd been courted before. Dignitaries. Princes. Senators. But none of them understood war. None of them had bled for something greater. None of them had stood unmoved when you raised your voice.

He had.

Later, he found you in the ruined throne room, maps and war reports strewn across a cracked obsidian table. You didn't look up as he entered, but you felt him pause. Watching you.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

You arched a brow. "Because I'm young?"

"Because you're beautiful," he said bluntly. "And still more terrifying than most warlords I've met."

A slow, dangerous smile touched your lips. "Careful, Commander. That sounded almost like admiration."

He stepped closer. "It was."

"We leave at dawn," he said quietly.

You nodded. "You've done well."

He gave a faint smile. "So have you."

There was silence, the kind that hangs just before a storm—or a kiss. You stood close. Closer than duty allowed. Your hand brushed against his arm as you passed him, deliberately slow.

"I'm not the type to wait around, Commander," you said softly. "But I remember loyalty."

And with that, you left him standing in the ruins of a palace he helped save—his heart torn between orders and the ghost of your perfume.

_ _ _

Night blanketed the capital in quiet shades of blue and silver. The fires had died down. The people slept. The palace—scarred but standing—breathed silence through its stone corridors.

You stood alone on the balcony of your private quarters, the city below wrapped in darkness. A wind brushed through your hair, catching on the delicate sapphire pins at your temples. You weren't in ceremonial silk tonight—just a velvet robe, deep indigo, soft against your skin. Lighter. Easier to breathe in.

"You should be resting," came his voice behind you, low and steady.

You didn't turn. "So should you."

Cody stepped forward, stopping beside you, eyes scanning the skyline. He looked out of place here—so sharp and war-worn against the softness of your world—but somehow, he belonged.

"They'll be fine without me for a few hours," he said.

You let the silence stretch. Then: "It wasn't just my people they came for. The Separatists wanted to break me. Make an example of this world. Of me."

Cody glanced at you, surprised by the honesty in your voice. Your chin was still high, your spine still regal—but your voice was softer now. Human.

"I've never been this close to losing everything," you murmured.

He didn't offer pity. He didn't rush in with hollow reassurances. He just stood beside you, letting your words exist without judgment.

"You didn't lose," he said finally.

You turned to look at him, his face half-lit by moonlight. You studied him—creased brow, quiet strength, the scar at his temple. Not beautiful, not polished. But real.

"You leave at dawn," you said.

He nodded. "We've been reassigned. New system. New war."

You looked down, then away. "Will I see you again?"

The question slipped out before you could cage it. A raw thread of vulnerability woven into your otherwise unshakable voice.

Cody didn't hesitate. "If there's a path back here, I'll take it."

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through his blacks.

"Then go with honor," you whispered. "And come back with your heart still yours."

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. "Why mine?"

"Because..." You hesitated, just for a breath. "You're the first man who's ever looked at me and didn't see just a crown."

His jaw tightened, barely. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then, slowly—carefully—he reached up, cupping your face with a gloved hand.

"Then I hope when I come back..." he murmured, voice low, "you'll still be wearing it."

You leaned in before you could think twice. Your lips met his—soft, sure, but brief. A kiss meant to linger.

It wasn't passion. It wasn't fire.

It was a promise.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his for just a moment longer.

"Until next time, Commander," you whispered.

"Until next time... Your Majesty."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the quiet night, the war, and the stars.

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

Dominoes fall, but no one ever tells you what happens to the last one. Lyrics from: Wait for Me - Hadestown (2:47-3:11) ...with a little lyric change at the end. Beep beep, emotional damage truck coming through! Also this is the result of my WIP featured on my Last Line Challenge.