#good for you if you're still reading this lmao

[reactionimagesdaily]

Reaction images aside, how are you holding up?

Aww, thanks for asking. :P

To be honest, I'm probably doing better than most. I'm a healthy cishet white man who lives in the UK, so I don't have nearly as much to worry about as I know a lot of people do. (Also hey, I'm enjoying the new Dragon Age game, so that's been nice.) But I also know what kind of ramifications this election is bound to have, both inside the US and beyond.

(I mean, the world's biggest democracy is getting overtly more hostile and authoriarian in real time (y'know. again), and I know on this side of the pond we've got some real brain donors who'd love to see something similar happen here. I'm worried about what Trump could do once he's back in charge, and I'm worried about what might happen to my own country, with it's 'special relationship' to the US, as a result. And I'm not alone in that.

All this on a fuckin' Wednesday...)

Anyway, I had a longer thing written out here about the concept of orthopraxis (just while I was trying to get my thoughts in order, lmao) but the core of what I want to say is this:

I think we're about to see an uptick in people being shitty

I'm going to counter that by doing un-shitty things

What do I mean by un-shitty things? Well, I've been meaning to participate in Amnesty International's 'Write For Rights' campaign for months - I just fired off my first email today. I've already donated to causes supporting Gaza in the past, but now I'm also planning to write to my local MP about how annoyed I am that my country is still culpable in genocide. Make my voice heard, you know? I also want to keep making art that people enjoy, because I think that's important. And I'm going to buy another commission from an artist I like, because they could probably use something good in their life right now. And... to be honest, I'm not sure what else I'll do yet. When I figure it out, though, I'll try and actually do it.

Maybe for you, un-shitty things mean something smaller scale. Hugging your loved ones for longer, or giving that loose change you always carry around to the next homeless person you see. That's good too. Maybe it's something larger in scale, and that's awesome! But to anyone who's reading this, I'd definitely recommend doing something that not only feels good, but is also TANGIBLE. Not only does doing feel good, but it means that you're improving someone else's life, in however small a way. Which, y'know. Net positive, innit.

(Yes, I'm aware this is basically the 'when you see someone being so mean it inspires you to be kinder meme', lmao. No, I don't really care.)

You asked me how I'm holding up? Well, the first thing I'd like to do is respond to your question in kind: how are you holding up? In a general sense? In specific ways? Hopes, anxieties, plans?

And the next thing I'm going to do is tell you that I'm more than holding up.

I'm locking in.

[ak319]

i hope this one is different so you dont think it's repetitive... arthur become jealous whenever (teen?) reader show affection/politeness to the members of van der linde gang!! she is so kind and caring, it's like arthur gave all of his positive emotions to her.

i hope you're not too overwhelmed <3

(AN: It was fun to write this, lmao, and I'm good, thanks for asking! <3<3)

Warnings: Not incest, strictly platonic, fluff

Arthur stretched, savoring the cool evening breeze as he woke from his afternoon nap. Rubbing his eyes, he scanned the camp, noticing some of the boys lounging around, and then his gaze fell on you. You were nestled beside Hosea, who was explaining something, gesturing with a worn book in hand. The two of you looked deep in conversation, and Arthur’s jaw tightened just a touch.

Of course. You and Hosea with those endless stories.

Arthur strolled over, trying to keep his voice casual. “(Y/n)... my coffee?”

You looked up, blinking as if you’d just noticed him. “It’s in the pot.”

“So?”

“So… go get it?” You turned back to Hosea without a second thought, the two of you picking up right where you left off, as if Arthur wasn’t even there.

Arthur’s mouth opened in slight disbelief. So he’s gotta get it himself now? Is that how it is? He clearly saw you serving one to Hosea before he went to nap.

He stomped over to the coffee pot, pouring a little too forcefully, spilling half of it over the side. Huffing, he took a bitter sip, casting a sidelong glare at you and Hosea. You were still engrossed, nodding eagerly as Hosea continued his storytelling, clearly delighted by the attention.

You, Hosea, and those books. Why didn’t you tell him stories like that, like when you were little, always rambling on about what you’d read or about anything? He couldn’t help thinking, Maybe if he’d acted interested back then…Even now, both of you barely chatted ever since settling here.

Determined to stake his claim, he grabbed a chair, dragging it loudly across the ground until he was right in front of you both. He plopped down with his coffee, not budging.

You and Hosea paused, exchanging a look as Arthur sat there, arms crossed, expression defiant. He took a loud sip, smirking a bit. “What? Go on, I’m only listenin’. ”

Hosea chuckled, giving you a gentle nudge to continue, but Arthur’s smirk softened as he watched you. He wasn’t about to let anyone else claim his spot as the one you looked up to, even if he had to work for it sometimes.

⋆⋆⋆

“Charles, here, I bought it,” you said, holding out a small glass bottle.

Charles put down his dagger, inspecting the vial with a pleased nod. “Hm, thanks, (Y/n). This’ll be really helpful. I'll be sure to use it.”

Before Charles could say much else, Arthur’s gun clattered down onto the table, his gaze zeroed in on the bottle in his hand. “Woah, woah, what is that?”

You folded your arms, already anticipating his reaction. “It’s rosemary oil. It’s good for hair, you know? I use it too, and Charles was complaining about hair fall. You should use it too Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyebrow shot up, his lips pressing together as he rolled his eyes and resumed cleaning his gun. Hair oil? Really? He bit back a scoff, the faint irritation simmering in his expression. The things you’d done for Charles lately, you were really taking him being your 'other brother' thing too seriously, acting like he was the camp’s best friend and personal confidant. More like 'other better brother' at this point.

"My hair's fine." He pouted which was subtle enough for both of you to miss.

Maybe you thought Charles was better than him somehow. Was it because of his hair? Arthur’s eyes flicked over to Charles’s neatly braided locks and he bristled, pushing away that little jab of jealousy. Those braids were another evidence of your craft and experiments on him.

“By the way, Charles-" you started.

Arthur snapped up, feigning nonchalance as he muttered, “What’re you askin’ him now, huh? Got another herbal concoction to fuss over or a new hairstyle?”

“Actually,” you continued, ignoring his tone, “I was thinking Charles could teach me some tracking. Thought it’d be useful when you sometimes take me to hunt.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly. He tried to play it cool, returning to his gun, but not before muttering, “Right… and just let me know when you’re done with all that ‘learnin’. Don’t need you forgettin’ your real chores now, got it?” You huffed slightly in reply, embarrassed and stomped away. He seemed to love bringing up your damn chores.

⋆⋆⋆

You peeked through the tent flap, hesitating slightly before stepping in. Arthur lay back on his cot, one knee propped up as he casually read through his journal. The sight of him looking so calm made your stomach twist just a bit, this wasn’t the look of someone who called you in for a friendly chat.

“Arthur… you called?” you asked cautiously, stepping inside.

He didn’t even look up, but you could sense the tension in his posture. “What is up with what I heard?”

You chuckled nervously, playing innocent. “Heard what?”

Finally, he glanced at you, setting his journal aside. "Feeding Kieran. An O’Driscoll, for God’s sake, and a captive one at that. You think that’s a good idea? Are you nuts?!”

You folded your arms, barely batting an eye. “What, we’re just gonna starve him to death in camp? That’s a great plan,” you said, throwing a glance toward Dutch’s tent with an exaggerated scowl.

Arthur caught the look, his gaze hardening. "Hey, don’t go blaming Dutch for making sense. You think Kieran’s just some stray dog? He’s a danger, and feeding him, treating him like… like one of us, it just ain’t wise.”

"But Mary- Beth did it too, why didn't-"

"I don't care what she did! I am talkin' to you right now! Also, she only gave him water while you served a damn feast to his ass. So, you...listen to me. Got it?" Not your fault that you cooked well and wanted everyone to have a taste. Poor guy was dying out there just from the smell of it.

“But why?” you retorted, the fire in your voice undeniable. “You’re all acting like he’s gonna break loose and take us all down with a spoon. He’s tied up. He's a person, Arthur, not a monster. And maybe, just maybe, if everyone here wasn’t so fast to turn people into enemies, half of this mess wouldn’t even exist! This isn't what mother taught us, Arthur.”

Arthur’s expression shifted from anger to something deeper, like a storm passing over. “Don't bring her into this! This is a different life from what we came from, why do you keep insisting upon those memories?” His voice softened but kept its edge. “And that big heart of yours? It’ll get you hurt if you’re not careful. I don’t want to be pulling you outta trouble because you’re tryin’ to see the good in a damn O’Driscoll. Now, are we clear?”

You stared back at him, the defiance slipping just a little as you noticed the strain in his eyes. Beneath his anger was worry, and for a moment, you softened too.

“Fine, fine, I made a mistake, apparently, and I’ll stay clear of him,” you mumbled. Being human here seems to be a crime.

⋆⋆⋆

You walked into the camp’s small, makeshift office, the familiar smell of paper and ink in the air. Strauss was hunched over a pile of bills and coins, his glasses perched precariously on his nose as he jotted down figures. His furrowed brow and concentration didn’t go unnoticed.

"Hey, Strauss," you called out softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, adjusting his glasses as a small smile appeared on his face. “Ah, (Y/n), good to see you. Just trying to get these numbers in order, but it’s a bit too much for one pair of hands.”

You moved closer, casually offering your assistance. “Mind if I help?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’d be willing to help count all this?”

“Sure,” you replied, already rolling up your sleeves. “Looks like you’ve got a lot on your hands.”

Strauss chuckled softly, clearly appreciative. “I suppose that’s why I always need help with these things. It’s too much to do alone, even for someone as meticulous as me.”

You settled next to him, carefully picking up a stack of bills and sorting them by denomination. The coins came next, their jingling noise filling the air as you organized them into neat little piles. Strauss watched, impressed by how quickly and efficiently you worked, and before long, everything was sorted and ready to be counted.

“By my word, (Y/n), you’ve done this faster than I could’ve hoped,” he said, adjusting his glasses again, his tone warm with praise. “It’s quite clear you have an eye for details.”

You smiled, grateful for the compliment. “I’ve had some practice.”

Strauss leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Then, with a slight flourish, he pulled a few bills from the pile and handed them to you. “As a token of my appreciation, take this,” he said, his voice warm. “A few dollars for your help. I think you’ve earned it.”

"No, no , please, no need for this. Thank you, though."

"C'mon, kid, like I said you earned it or just think of it as a gift."

You kept politely declining him but he forced the cash in your hand and the flap of the tent suddenly opened, and Arthur stepped inside, his boots thudding loudly against the floor as his eyes immediately narrowed at the scene.

Ugh.

"You givin' her a loan or something, Strauss?" He threw you a sharp look. You were well aware that he didn't appreciate you asking others for things.

"It’s not like that!" you snapped, already feeling your frustration building. “I helped him, that’s all. I didn’t ask for anything, Arthur. I wasn’t even about to take it!”

Arthur’s expression didn’t soften. In one swift motion, he turned back to the desk, and without a second thought, he placed the money you had been holding, still in your hand, back onto the table. He dropped it with a bit more force than necessary, the sound of it clinking harshly against the wood "Well, like I said, no need," he muttered, his voice polite but edged with an authority that suggested he just wanted to end the conversation. “Let’s go.”

You stumbled slightly as he nudged you toward the door. "You takin' handouts from him? Don't I give you enough pocket money already?" Arthur’s voice was tight with disapproval as he guided you out of the small room, his fingers almost too firm on your arm.

You shook your head, refusing to let the tension get the best of you. "Oh my God, he was just being nice, you damn well know I am not like that!" you muttered, glancing back at Strauss, who had returned to his work, probably already regretting offering you anything at all. "I didn’t ask for anything."

Arthur huffed, his mood sour. “And never do. I don’t trust that man with money.” He gave you a quick, pointed look as he nudged you forward, his steps quick and purposeful. “Go do somethin' else. Get out of here, kid. I don’t want to see you dealin’ with him.”

You bit back the sharp retort that formed on your lips. Instead, you let out a sigh, recognizing the stubbornness in your brother’s tone. “Fine. I’m going. Jeez,” you muttered, feeling a little put out as you walked away, already knowing this conversation wasn’t going to be the last of it.

⋆⋆⋆

Arthur nearly choked as he took another bite of the stew, his throat burning with the intense heat. He quickly grabbed his canteen, taking a few desperate gulps, trying to quench the fiery sensation that was assaulting him. What the hell was this? He wiped his mouth, glaring at the bowl like it personally offended him. What the fuck…

His hand slammed the canteen back down onto the table, and he stomped over to Pearson’s cooking station, frustration bubbling up inside him. “Why the hell is this so spicy?!”

Pearson looked up with a nonchalant grin, clearly unbothered by Arthur’s indignation. “It is? I think it’s scrumptious. Plus, (Y/N) cooked it, some Mexican recipe. Javier was feeling a little down today, so I thought I’d let her make it for him...cheer him up a bit.”

Javier, huh? Arthur’s blood began to simmer with something far more heated than the stew he just choked down. His jaw tightened as he turned on his heel and stormed towards you, who was happily swinging under the tree, carefree and unaware of the storm brewing in your brother’s chest.

"If he’s sad, does that mean you get to give me an ulcer?!" Arthur’s voice cracked like thunder, cutting through the air. “What, did you pour the whole damn bottle of chilies in this thing?”

You rolled your eyes without missing a beat and kept swinging like a kid, not even bothering to look at him as you kicked your legs lazily, enjoying the gentle breeze. “You’re being dramatic. Everyone licked their fingers clean. Even Molly liked it."

Arthur’s face contorted with disbelief as he approached you, the irritation in his veins flaring up like wildfire. Everyone? Of course. Everyone loved what you made. How could they not? You were sweet, and everything you did, even if it caused chaos, seemed to be met with nothing but approval. It’s a strange cycle, really, if you think about it. You’ve got this sweetness about you that makes it impossible for anyone to complain, even when you’re walking all over boundaries, like cooking up some wild, fiery dish for Javier. No one says a word, not even when you turn the camp upside down, because they’re all too afraid of making you upset, or worse, 'messing with Arthur's sister'.

And that’s when it gets tricky for him. All this unspoken leniency has slowly given you free rein, a field to roam in, and it’s hurting him in ways he can’t even explain. It's like you've unknowingly got the upper hand, and every little thing you do chips away at his patience, even when you’re just being you.

His lips curled into a hard, annoyed frown, and he leaned in close, voice low and harsh. “You listen here, brat," he growled, irritation lacing every word. "I’ve had a long day, and I damn well deserve a proper meal when I come back.”

Before you could even respond, Javier appeared from behind, sensing the rising tension between you two. He flashed a grin and confidently strolled over, his voice smooth and cheerful as he clapped his hands together. “Ah, but hermano Arthur,” Javier teased in his thick accent, completely unfazed by the tension. “Maybe it is not the food that is the problem, hmm? Maybe it’s your taste buds that need some...adjusting.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his temper threatening to snap. He was about to retaliate when Javier continued, his voice warm and inviting.

“No no,” Javier continued, ignoring Arthur’s scowl entirely. “(Y/N)'s cooking is the best here. Nobody can do it quite like she can.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head, but part of you could feel the tension between them rise, even if it wasn’t entirely apparent to you, "Oh , it's nothing really."

As Arthur glared at you, his frustration mounting with every word that left your mouth, Javier, ever the peacekeeper and always with a grin on his face, flashed his usual cheeky smile, and before either of you could say anything, he burst into song, his deep voice carrying through the air with effortless charm. The dulcet tone of the guitar was sweet to you, yet bitter to Arthur.

“Oh, (Y/N), who brings the light,

To the fire, and to the night,

His voice was smooth, almost theatrical as he continued, completely ignoring the scowl Arthur was throwing his way.

“The stew you make, so full of spice,

Turns every frown to something nice,

And though it burns, we can’t resist,

The magic in your tender twist...”

Arthur muttered under his breath. "You better stop singing before I lose my damn mind," he grumbled, but his voice was laced with an unmistakable irritation that he couldn’t quite hide, even if he tried.

Javier finished his song with a flourish, giving you a playful wink as he stepped back, clearly proud of his impromptu performance. “And that, mi amiga, is a little song of thanks,” he said, his grin wide, while he sauntered away while Arthur bore daggers at his back.

Arthur turned back to you, arms folded tightly over his chest as he narrowed his eyes. “Was that all a silly prank of yours or something?” he asked, his tone stiff with a mix of irritation and jealousy.

You, however, couldn’t hold back the laughter. The ridiculousness of it all was just too much. You burst into a guffaw, your shoulders shaking with amusement, and the sound was enough to disarm Arthur, just a little.

You looked up at him, barely able to contain your grin. “Depends…” you teased, still giggling, making it worse for Arthur.

Arthur’s scowl deepened, but only for a moment. When he saw that sparkle in your eyes and how you couldn’t stop smiling, he felt a soft tug at his heart. "Kid, you’re a menace for real," he muttered, the words half-hearted, even though he was secretly relieved to see you happy in this new life.

[bisnes-socks]

Terve! Would you consider doing a Mic Mac write up? I would be so interested to read it! When I first found Jere I listened to CCC and Party, and then I went to search things on him and the Mic Mac video was one of the first I listened to. I think I was in love after this. Kiitos!

Sure i can! Click right through ->

Mic Mac is early 2000's nostalgia to the max. I'm not sure how common knowledge it is with international fans, what Mic Mac actually is, so i'll go over it briefly.

Mic Mac, sometimes styled as MicMac, was a finnish clothing brand (not to be confused with a french luxury fashion brand of the same name). Mic Mac clothes were particularly popular with young people and teens. They became popular in the 70's and remained super popular with all young people until the 80's. In the 90's Mic Mac became more associated with hip hop inspired fashion, as they were the only local brand that managed to really score with their loose fit baggy jeans etc. They were still popular in the early 2000's especially with hip hop kids. Mic Mac closed down in the 2010's.

So the fact that he talks about Mic Mac loose fit clothes, and then all of the sound effects in the beginning of the song, like landline phones and dial-up internet, it all immediately takes us to like the turn of the century, maybe like 1999 or 2000 at the earliest, 2005 or 2006 at the very latest. So his childhood from maybe 6 or 7-ish to about 12 or 13-ish..? Immediate nostalgia!

He uses some clever language in this song. I want to give an example from the first verse: "olin merkillinen enkä esimerkillinen" meaning "i was weird, not exemplary". But as you can see, merkillinen (weird) and esimerkillinen (exemplary) are quite similar words in finnish. in fact they are built around the same root word: merkki. merkki means sign (a sign like a symbol or a sign like "give me a sign". not a street sign).

If you break down the word merkillinen, it actually means "with signs", but in practice means odd, weird or strange. Now, esimerkki has that same word in it, merkki, but it's a compound word: esi + merkki. Esi is a prefix that means pre or fore. so if you break down esimerkki, it means "fore sign" or "pre sign", but the meaning of the word in practice is example. And as i said, esimerkillinen, which would literally translate to "with fore signs", means exemplary.

So, he gets a very clever bar, being able to rhyme merkillinen with (esi)merkillinen, and getting a looot of information across like that.

In the first verse he also uses a word you might come across in his other work too: morkkis. His song Morgan means the same thing, morgan is a slang word for morkkis, which is short for moraalikrapula, meaning a moral hangover. Not sure if that term exists outside finland, but a moral hangover is feeling ashamed and not at all good about something stupid. Usually it's to do with drinking: you have both a physical hangover from drinking, and a moral hangover over the amount you drank and also doing dumb shit while drunk. But morkkis can be used quite flexibly to talk about other things you're ashamed of and recognise as being stupid things to do - as in this case, trying smoking as a kid. Again, a simple word but very informative, once you know what it means!

The chorus about the clothes and the whole second verse of him describing himself as someone intentionally annoying bigger boys, getting into fights and doing stupid shit like setting his friend on fire for a trick of some sort, stealing pokemon cards etc.- all of this is paving the way to understanding songs like Takavoltti. I so know this type too, i knew boys exactly like this when i was a kid lmao. But he's telling us he's always been mischievous, wild and a little bit crazy - and in this song he says the apple didn't fall far from the tree, saying his dad is like that too.

So i think Mic Mac is probably one of the more personal songs of his, those key songs to understanding the character. Mic Mac is all about him remembering the past, and i guess Takavoltti is like.. how did the crazy little boy from Mic Mac cope with everything that happened to him.

All in all, Mic Mac to me is a very sweet, very nostalgic song, that paints a lot of vivid pictures about Käärijä - or maybe Jere - as a person.

Let me know if there is anything specific in the song or any other song you'd like to know about, any questions or anything 💚

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Hey, no worries! I understand life gets in the way sometimes, haha. Sorry to hear you're feeling under the weather, Maia! ❤️‍🩹 But hey, always a good excuse to curl up and do a bit of reading, at least~

I love that there's a clone grapevine and no one is safe from it. From the shinies all the way up to Fox, everyone's going to hear about what they've done!

Yessss. I took a bit of inspiration from things my brother told our family about during his time in the service. They called their rumor mill the "PNN", or Private News Network. (I was 🤏this🤏close to calling it the 'Clone News Network' in the fic!) Using a rumor mill felt like the perfect way to start the fic and explain how Wolffe would have heard about what happened on Coruscant.

Some inspiration for meeting Fox in a diner was taken from @the-bad-batch-baroness's heart-aching and amazing Where's Mommy? series; the idea for it being Dex's Diner in particular came a bit later in the pipeline.

But it became the perfect setting the more research I put into this fic for so many reasons.

Canonically speaking [depending on the sources used], Dex's Diner made for a good meeting spot for criminals because Dex is welcoming and doesn't believe in intruding in other people's business. (He's also got his own criminal past, so, who's he to judge?) FLO promising Wolffe no one would know what he was there for was very deliberate. It essentially ensured the discussion would never disrupt or change canon.

Pointing out that Dex is a Besalisk would become the PERFECT way to bring up not just Pong Krell, but the other (in)famous instance that Fives had a blaster turned on him by his own brothers. (Something that, again using the C.N.N., Wolffe would have likely heard about at some point or another.)

FLO scanning Wolffe was not intended to be dystopian, but I completely understand why it reads that way! Somewhere in my research I did into the WA-7s said they had facial-recognition software to identify regular patrons. I felt that was something Wolffe would likely be aware of and would fit perfectly into his hypervigilant nature. (Which would make him more likely to reflect on the style of the diner and the way things change around him all the time!)

And the unease. Every little fact about Fives' death would have caused Wolffe unease no matter what. But put him somewhere that is not affiliated with the GAR (or the Jedi) in any way, and it will be the perfect breeding ground for doubt and uncertainty to grow unchecked if Wolffe isn't careful. Coupled with the fact he hasn't seen Fox in a while?

You're right that Fox would be able to tell just how shaken, how stressed out Wolffe would be over this, no matter how much time they've been apart, too. No matter how little time they've been given to work together.

Even if Fox was tired. And I mean really tired.

I imagine (headcanon?) that after killing Fives, Fox would have thrown himself hard into Guard-work in order to avoid dwelling [read as: second guessing] on his call he had to make that night. The order he was given by Palpatine amounted to "ARC trooper Fives is a fugitive. He's armed and dangerous." and he had to act on his own authority from that point. And we know the rest from there.

But we'll still say it was Palpatine who made that call, because he's easier to blame. (Between the chip and his training, Fox never truly had a choice.) The Chancellor certainly won't need to know why he can't get ahold of the Marshal Commander for an hour or two while he and Wolffe get that nap.

Force knows they need it.

Woof. This took a couple hours to write on-and-off because I had so much (sorry lmao!) I wanted to share about what went into this fic; and I am incredibly honored to hear that you enjoyed it not just once, but twice. That means a lot, truly. 🩷

Hey Frost 💙! Happy 200 Followers 🥳!!

For the event I would love to submit an idea! What about an angsty Wolffe confronting Fox after he shoots Fives 👀?

Congrats!

The Tragedy of Level 1325 [Commander Wolffe Fic]

Warnings and Information: Clones killing their own kin is always an awful occurrence, more often than not a rare and accidental thing. So when Commander Wolffe catches wind of what happened on Level 1325, he meets with the other canine-themed Commander to get answers. And none of them will be easy to get, or, to hear. Set after the Clone Wars season six episode “Orders”. Lots of angst and heavy stuff in this one, folks! Heavy references/allusions to Fives’ death. Heavy references/allusions to canon-typical death, violence and injury. Reference to Pong Krell. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Minimal Mando’a. Narrative and stylistic use of italics.  **This is not a cloneship/clonecest fic. Tag it as such and you will find yourself blocked.**

Word count: 4,287

How fast word travels in the GAR is both a blessing and burden. 

Regardless of the distance, time of day, or paint color, brothers will hear what the others have gotten up to in-between their conquest to defeat the Confederacy of Independent Systems. A rookie’s foolish notion to prank his superiors that ends with him earning himself a month’s worth of latrine duty. The terrible pick-up lines learned from holomags (and their success, or lack thereof) used on other patrons of 79’s. Brave charges lead out of killboxes and ambushes.

Clones turning on their own kin - that bitter pill was hard to stomach. 

Commander Wolffe found himself choking down one such pill upon hearing the events of the night before. 

It didn’t make a difference how many times he consulted the datafile in front of him, the mingling of horror and disbelief settled just as heavily in his heart each time. The primary commander of the Coruscant Guard had been the one behind the blaster used to end a Clone’s life on Level 1325, and it had not been an accident either. This was not another case of some sleemo stealing and wearing a Clone’s full kit; it had been, without question, a brother. 

Clones were less uniform than many nat-borns would like to believe. They may look the same from the texture of their hair, to their face-shape, and the warm-brown skin, but that’s often as far as the similarities go. They found their originality in names, speech-patterns, scarring, the way hair was cut (or bleached or dyed or styled), the addition and location of injected ink. There were the occasional (minor) aberrations, too, of course; like the brothers who ended up ocean-eyed, or blond. 

(They at least knew where the blondeness came from; a dormant echo in the genetics of the man who served as the master mold for the Grand Army.)

Not to mention the paint, and the patterns. The paint job was perhaps the biggest, most important piece of their individualism (at least externally). Those working in tandem with the soldiers relied quite heavily on the personalization to their second skins when first introduced. 

So when the datafile in Wolffe’s hands tells him the armor worn by the dead trooper was not his own, a sense of confusion as well as a wave of mild horror washes over the flint gray commander. The deceased was one of the 501st Legion’s cobalt crusaders, yet the ARC trooper had been killed in an unpainted, second skin that had been stolen from another. 

Why?

So many why-s.

When asking if his brother would agree to meet with him, it had taken some convincing. Fox’s agreement ultimately came with conditions, which were thankfully simple. Find somewhere in CoCo Town - as he was due to patrol that near that sector in a few hours time - and find some caf that didn’t taste like droid oil. 

There, Commander Fox would attempt to provide as many answers to Wolffe’s questions as he could. 

Though he couldn’t promise there’d be answers for all of them.

Entering the eighth eatery, Wolffe tries putting a little more trust in this diner’s advertising than each of the establishments he tried earlier. ‘Best food this side of the Senate District!’ A tagline like that would have to do a lot of heavy lifting for a greasy diner in a dilapidated industrial area. 

Inside, the diner has been furnished with several deep booths with shiny red seats as well as a long countertop that offers a glimpse into the kitchen through a narrow viewport. The decor is a mix of chrome and neon. While it’s perhaps not what Wolffe would call his favorite style, he had to give whoever ran the place credit for a cohesive, and constant, theme. 

This place looks like it hasn’t changed in years. Too often, Wolffe finds once-favorite establishments rehauling their menus, revamping the theme, gutting whatever charm the place had between his deployments. It’s a damn shame. Corsucant changes too quickly top-side; all of it fueled on someone else’s pursestrings, no doubt. 

Noticing his arrival, a WA-7 waitress droid, idly chatting with a pre-dawn client, pardons herself to welcome the prospective customer. Assuming he’ll be subjected to a facial recognition scan, Wolffe holds himself in near-militant attention until the droid speaks. 

“Welcome to Dex’s Diner! What can I get for you, hon?”

The first question he has for the waitress is the state of the diner’s caf. 

“Is your caf instant?”

The droid’s feminine programming and friendly inflection does its best to make up for an inability to smile. (He finds it a little unsettling all the same.)

“It’s brewed in-house, every hour on the hour.” 

Wolffe regards a small chronometer on the wall, displaying what his body-chrono already knows. Just a half-hour before dawn. Perfect. Depending on how far away Fox is, it shouldn’t take long for his vod to find his way here. Coruscant had been under the watchful eye and capable hand of the crimson commander very shortly after the start of the war; if anyone knew their way around this massive labyrinth of a planet, it would be Fox. 

“Good enough.” Wolffe says with a thankful nod. “Saves me the trouble of finding another place.”

“Looking for something to eat?”

“Not exactly. I’m supposed to meet with someone.” he explains, sending the name of the diner to Fox’s comlink while the WA-7’s back is to him, asking him to follow behind. She’s got just the spot for him. 

She shows Wolffe to a booth in the back-left corner, where he can already tell at a glance that the padding under the seat material is worn thin and unevenly. (Well, he’s sat in worse seats.) It’s secluded, just enough, that it should afford him and his brother a little more privacy. He unseals his helmet as quietly as he can to avoid disturbing the other patrons, and sets the sunbonnet down on the table. 

“Your business isn’t our business,” the droid promises to Wolffe’s great confusion as he works to seat himself as gracefully as possible with the kama, “so rest assured that whoever you’re meeting, we won’t tell a soul.” 

“Okay… I appreciate that.” 

Wolffe straightens out his modified phase two helmet on the tabletop, dismissing the waitress’s offer to get him something to start with while he waits. Glass of Jawa Juice, perhaps? It’s a house special. 

A mash of bantha hide and fermented grain so early in the morning doesn’t sound particularly appealing. 

“Nothing right now, thank you.”

The WA-7 nodded. “Suit yourself, hon. Give a holler when you’re ready.”

It wouldn’t be long from now. Fox had sown the seeds for a system the Corries called ‘Zeros and Fives’ when it came to meeting their vode for non-military matters. Seeking out Fox for answers wasn’t technically an emergency, but it should hopefully be treated with a little more urgency seeing as Wolffe couldn’t wait around all morning. With the General’s help, he had to fabricate time-sensitive duties to excuse his presence on Coruscant earlier than expected. 

Some poodoo about retrieving something-or-other under the General’s orders. Records of research from the Chief Librarian of the Jedi Archives, Jocasta Nu. 

Records of what kind of research, he wasn’t sure. 

That comes later. Now, he was waiting for Fox.  Wolffe checks his comlink for any response to his choice of locale, finding only a silent ‘Seen’ status. Well, he’ll take it to mean his vod won’t be waving down the suggestion.

With little more than his comlink and the datafile to keep him occupied, the flint gray commander settled in for what could end up being a long wait in the event Fox ran into trouble on patrol. How long he would end up waiting would be inconsequential, so long as he got answers and insight to the root of this tragedy. Something to rationalize the reality of losing brothers to something other than Separatists and their sympathizers. 

He just had to ask himself why he was doing this. Why he cared so much, what he hoped to find. Maybe even who he was doing all this for. 

Was it for Fox, hoping to get ahead of the inevitable boiling point the rumors might reach?

Was it for Captain Rex, finding some shred of information that may bring closure to the death of one of his best men?

Was it for Fives, given the death of an ARC trooper was no insignificant thing? Was he hoping to find reason, or just cause?

Or was it for his own morbid curiosity, given other details of the deceased’s service file?

Commander Wolffe couldn’t be certain until his brother was dragging his over-caffeinated carcass through the doors of the diner, and down to the last booth on the left. He couldn’t be certain Fox would be forthcoming with those answers, either. Or the state the other commander would be in. 

Fifteen minutes before the next hourly pot of caf is made, Fox shuffles into the diner, quiet and wordless. Not in the sense of stoicism; rather fatigue. Ignoring the greetings of the waitstaff, he walks himself down to the booth once he’s found Wolffe in his visor. Like his fellow commander, Fox’s helmet remains over his head until he reaches the table, at which point he unseals, and drops it with a dull thud half an inch over the table. 

“Good to see you, Fox.” Wolffe says.

That was a lie. Perhaps only partially. He wished if he was paying the crimson commander a visit here on Coruscant, it would have been under better circumstances. With better beverages as well. The last time Wolffe had seen his brother, he was promised a splash of spotchka and the opportunity to properly talk about the Abregado disaster when next they met. To mourn the loss of Wolffe’s men and the change to his armor. They started this war named after members of the Canidae and painted in beautiful shades of red. 

Now they were just a couple of canines. 

Fox makes no immediate greeting. With a tired grumble, he drops into the booth, a small betrayal to the tireless façade the Corries had come to be known for. 

“Sorry to make you wait,” he says at last, propping his elbows on the table as he begins rubbing one bleary eye, “Patrol took longer to button up than anticipated.”

“That’s fine.” Wolffe replied, just relieved the other canine commander was here. 

Doing her rounds, the same service droid as before approaches the brothers’ booth and asks if they’d like anything to eat while they conduct their business. (She doesn’t suggest Jawa Juice this time.) Wolffe takes her up on the offer for the freshest cups of caf that would be ready not too long from now. Just as the droid goes to send in the order to the back-of-house, she takes another look at Fox— currently in the process of falling asleep at the table —and thinks better of it. 

“... I’ll tell Dex to make it a carafe.”

When the caf is prepared, instead of sending it out with the service droid, FLO, Dex himself brings it out from the kitchen to the front-of-house. 

And Dex had certainly not been what Wolffe imagined him to look like. 

Standing roughly 1.88 meters tall by the commander’s estimation, the owner of the diner was a heavyset Beskalisk who wore an ill-fitting, heavily stained white shirt and apron that had certainly seen better days. Making use of the four arms in his possession, Dex carried the carafe with the lower set, and a pair of mugs in a third, upper hand. 

Wolffe hides any surfacing unease after meeting the owner’s eye by fixing Fox’s helmet beside his own to clear space on the table. He came here to question his brother about an ARC trooper’s death over a decent cup of caf; he didn’t expect to be reminded of someone who put his brothers of the GAR through a gruesome campaign on the lightless word of Umbara. 

A Force-wielding Besalisk named Pong Krell had tricked the 501st and 212th into turning their blasters on each other some time ago. His style of leadership was firm, his fighting form aggressive. Krell’s war record boasted several successes at the bloody cost of countless Clone casualties; the highest of any Jedi. Having been seduced by the allure of rising power, he betrayed the Order, the Republic, and weaponized the absolute loyalty of the men under his command. 

It would be Fives, Jesse, and Hardcase of the 501st’s bravest blue to defy orders and take stolen ships to cripple enemy forces. They proved successful, though only Fives and Jesse would return. Krell had tried to order their execution as a result of this disobedience. But brothers in blue and orange mutinied against the fallen Jedi, and attempted his arrest. Once they managed to capture him, Krell had been interrogated and his treasonous plot was brought into the light. 

Fives had been faced with the business end of a blaster at the hands of his own brothers twice. 

He only survived it once. 

Wolffe could only hope Fives’ mortal remains were being treated with far more respect than whatever had been afforded to Krell. 

One thing was soon clear at least, the longer the diner’s owner was working to serve them the fresh caf: Dex was nothing like Krell, save for being a Besalisk. 

Dex was far kinder, friendlier. 

He first poured out a generous portion for Wolffe, chuckling warmly as he spoke. “You’ll want to be careful, gentlemen. Quite hot. Should do a fine job of perking you right up, though!” Wolffe was sure to thank Dex before carefully kicking his brother’s boot under the table to stir him. Fox hadn’t fallen asleep, but he certainly was heading in that direction the longer he sat in the booth. 

Tiredly scrubbing a hand over his face in an effort to wake up, Fox took hold of the mug that had been carefully pushed in his direction by the four-armed cook. 

“Thanks…”

“Don’t mention it! Matter of fact, I’ll leave the rest with you two and let you get about your business.” Dex carefully set the metal carafe on the tabletop and lumbered back into the kitchen, as promised. 

Together, the commanders would take their first sampling of the diner’s caf; Wolffe found it of decent quality, nothing more. There was nothing special that set it apart from other diners, but it was a step above the instant powder in his and his men’s rations. 

Fox on the other hand drank like the caf was no milder than water. Maker. That couldn’t be healthy. Once the mug had been lowered for a suitable amount of time, Wolffe voiced the first of his concerns. 

“When’s the last time you slept, vod?”

With a heavy exhale, Fox set down the mug and leaned against the backrest. “Same time as the rest of Coruscant.” he said, too focused on the patternless web of scratches in the table to see the displeased furrowing of his brother’s brow. 

“Coruscant never sleeps. Are you telling me you’re running on empty?”

“No. I just don’t remember, cub.” 

Wolffe grit his teeth, full lips pursing as his displeasure deepened. This was no time for the kit-and-cub routine they had developed fresh off Kamino, possessing a curiously bright-eyed quality that would be lost before long. This was serious. All of this was serious, and Fox is choosing now to be sarcastic and apathetic with him?

He has to stop and take a measured breath before acting on any kind of anger. Should he be short with Fox, Wolffe’s opportunity to get sensible answers might slip between his fingers. So instead, he nurses his mug of caf before saything or asking anything else. Maybe it’ll help him hold on to his tether a little longer if he combats his own budding fatigue. Crossing several galactic timezones in order to get to the heart of the Republic could make even the most tireless of men weary. 

Settled, Wolffe begins again. “What do you remember about last night?” A glance is cast over their helmets; the thought of scrubbing through helmet footage flickers in his mind. 

“Might need to be more specific,” Fox replies, wantonly tracing the rim of his mug with his forefinger. “What part of last night are you asking about?”

“The part that ended with a dead ARC trooper.”

For a moment, the other commander remained unnaturally still, and equally quiet. Now that the reason behind the visit Wolffe was paying him had been revealed, Fox felt the atmosphere of the diner tangibly shift. So that’s what this visit Wolffe was paying him was about. He was aware from the beginning Wolffe was coming all the way to Triple Zero to question him; not the subject matter of these questions. 

It was time to establish a baseline for the brothers. 

“What have you heard?”

Propping up the datafile, Wolffe presents the timeline as he understands it. 

Alongside the Kaminoan Nala Se and General Shaak Ti, ARC trooper Fives had traveled to Coruscant from the Clone homeworld and met with Chancellor Palpatine at the Grand Republic Medical Facility. Shortly upon their arrival, Fives presented a potential Separatist plot that he believed responsible for the death of a trooper by the name of Tup to General Ti, the Chief Medical Scientist, and Palpatine. Agreeing to hear him out, Fives was granted limited audience with the Chancellor. 

Per protocol, shock troopers and the Red Guard remained in the room when Palpatine requested to speak “alone” with Fives. This meant when the Chancellor was suddenly attacked, the response was almost immediate. 

Under threat of apprehension, Fives would escape the Medical Facility, and remain unaccounted for for some time before making contact with a member of Torrent Company - namely their medic, Kix. Coordinates would be given to a location on Level 1325 with the request General Skywalker and Captain Rex meet him there, as soon as possible, and importantly, alone. His commanding officers would go to Hangar 18 in Sector I-9, where Fives had been spotted by a probe droid, and find themselves caught in a ray shield. 

While effectively at his mercy, Fives would tell his commanding officers he had been set up, framed, before the arrival of the Corries. 

“Did you hear anything Fives might have said when you arrived with the Guard?”

Fox, just about to take a drink, paused. “Not everything.” Once they had made it inside the warehouse, he and his men were more concerned with finding safe cover before moving into action.

A minor tell of annoyance, the twitching of the scarred brow over his brother’s cybernetic eye, did not go unnoticed by the red commander. 

“Obviously. But what did you hear?”

“General Skywalker questioned why his ARC trooper believed the Chancellor was capable of orchestrating this… Separatist plot when an assassination attempt had failed. Said the Chancellor was incapable, though his soldier insisted.” Fox replied, considering the dregs in his mug for the moment before pouring himself another serving.

“At what point did you step in?”

Not long after, his vod tells him. 

“His back was to us. Didn’t see us draw our DeeCees.”

“Why didn’t you stun him?” Wolffe nearly demands. 

Fives had been declared a fugitive, the commander understood that. When he had taken part in the manhunt for Ahsoka Tano following the declaration of her own fugitive status following the bombing of the Jedi Temple and death of a suspect, Letta Turmond, it had been under orders. Tano had been a dear friend to General Plo; the Kel Dor often spoke so kindly of her… she had saved his life in the aftermath of Abregado.

But given the evidence at the time, he believed she was the primary suspect behind the blast that had killed Clones, maintenance workers and six Jedi, and left many more injured. A belief that would be buried once he heard General Skywalker had found and brought the true perpetrator before those who put the Togruta on trial. Firing upon someone he cared about, in his own fashion, while she was dazed and unarmed, would be the last time Wolffe ever saw Tano. 

The guilt still gnaws at him.

Maybe if they had taken Fives alive, the real perpetrator could have been discovered. Like Barriss Offee had been.

“Why,” he repeats himself, determined to break Fox’s continued silence, “Tell me why, Fox.”

“We didn’t exactly have much of a choice, Wolffe. I ordered him to stand down, warned him not to do it; but he drew a nearby weapon. He was acting erratically.”

Fox had to make a split-second decision with highly volatile variables at play; the way he had been trained. The way both of them had been trained. Trained to make the tough calls that came with the lofty status as Marshal Commanders, before Wolffe had been stripped of such a rank. Robbed of the red. 

It would be replaced with gray, to honor and remember the dead. 

The innumerable, tragic dead. 

Try as they might, the Kaminoans could never hope to train the sting of a brother’s tragic death out of the men of the GAR. 

Following a break to use the diner’s refreshers and collect themselves, the commanders return to the table, making use of limited time before Wolffe is supposed to act upon new military-wide orders from General Plo. 

“What orders?” Fox asks, brow pinched in confusion. 

He hadn’t seen any such notification. Just a report from Thire and Thorn that more surveillance footage had been acquired of the events from last night; they now had an answer for how ARC trooper Fives avoided the shock troopers checking IDs in the Clone bar. A damn hat given to him by a corporal from another unit, of all things. 

“I’m supposed to report to the nearest Republic med center to receive some kind of vaccination. For a parasite.” 

Continuing to read the message on his comlink, Wolffe learns soldiers on other planets will need to await the arrival of the inoculation that was being mass-produced to protect every Clone, whether their deployment was peaceful, or on the front lines. 

“They… think some kind of rare parasite native to Ringo Vinda was responsible for what happened to Tup. For the behavior Fives displayed before you-” 

Something about this didn’t feel quite right. 

This answer was too convenient. How was it possible that a parasite was missed by the Chief Medical Scientist during Tup’s thorough examination on Kamino, but discovered by the Chancellor’s personal doctors in a rushed autopsy? (They had been thorough, right?) How did invasive organisms cause these “aggression inhibitors” to decay? How many more men of the 501st Legion were potentially infected, and how did the organism spread? Something about this wasn’t adding up. 

Maybe by asking the shock troopers who had been present during the conversation Fives had with the Chancellor, he could find something they missed; maybe they had heard something-

“ -ffe. Wolffe,” 

Failing to get the flint-gray commander’s attention, Fox has reached across the table and taken hold of his hand just as he finds it beginning to tremble. Minor stress tremors such as these have plagued him since the ill-fated naval battle, though they’ve been dormant for a long time with a combination of strict rest and discipline. And typically, they’re almost unnoticeable. 

But Fox has always had sharp eyes with even sharper ears. 

“When’s the last time you slept?”

A slow burning behind his eyes—the feeling stronger on the right—served as an uncomfortable reminder that he had been unable to find much meaningful rest after hearing what happened in Coruscant’s sub-levels. Another brother’s tragic, untimely death. Resisting the urge to rub his eyes and rid himself of the discomfort, Wolffe instead returns the steady squeeze rather than pulling away. 

Voice soft, he heaves a quiet sigh. 

“Not recently enough, kit.”

Perhaps it was his own fatigue that had him jumping to absurd conclusions. The demise of an elite ARC trooper had reminded him of his own heavy losses, and his composure was beginning to suffer for it. That was unacceptable. He needed to sleep. Both of them needed to sleep. 

But more importantly, Wolffe needed to leave. He had a set time to arrive at the med center by, and it would be imprudent to be late. Gathering the datafile, his comlink, and his helmet, Wolffe took one last gulp of caf before standing to bid his brother farewell. 

Then, he had an idea. 

“Maybe… after I’ve gotten the inoculation, we should both crash in your quarters for an hour if you’ve still got that shitty old couch stuffed in there since the last time I saw you.”

Fox chuckled, a lazy smirk settling over his features. 

“It’s still there and shitter than ever,” the crimson commander promised, “Been too busy to remove it.”

Wolffe resealed his helmet so Fox wouldn’t see the grim smile, one grateful for the meager space to sleep and troubled by the responsibilities his brother has had to shoulder that have kept him so busy, he can’t rearrange a stained sofa. 

It was no wonder Fox was sporting some silver around his temples prematurely. It probably wouldn’t be long before Wolffe’s own raven-dark hair did the same, given his own burdens and losses. This war would make old dogs out of both of them. 

Assuming they lived long enough to see the supposed end of it. After all, only the dead will ever see the true end of war. 

And that was a tragedy for the living.

Thank you for making such a uniquely heart-breaking request for this event Maia; I hope I did these canine commanders justice and made it appropriately angsty enough. I hope you enjoyed! 🩷

Fic taglist: @anxiouspineapple99 @dukeoftheblackstar @dystopicjumpsuit @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636

[Masterlist] [TCW Masterlist] [Taglist] [Requests: OPEN]

[midnight-els]

my friend told me it was really important to her that everyone was getting a +1 to her wedding but my invite doesn't have one so apparently I'm just so chronically, haplessly single that it's assumed I won't use it lmao thx 💀

[romance-rambles]

[modern] cael | red dress, white dress

After Cael picks up a new hobby relating to your latest work, the two of you discuss weddings and wedding dresses. It ends with a proposal, from you to him.

1.8k, set after qixi [+ some spoilers for his whisper], romantic fluff + super self-indulgent, reader is mc, sequel to this cael fic [but you don't have to read it in order], series: none

IN THE TIME SINCE THE night of the QIxi festival, Cael has discovered an amusing new hobby with which to occupy himself with, when he's with you.

The words that the painter and the spirit speak—particularly towards end of your oneshot—are, evidently, not unrelated to your relationship with him. That much is obvious. And it'd be rather difficult to claim otherwise, given the faces they wear.

You haven't tried to, either.

Between the two of you, there is an acknowledgment, implicit, that they are a reflection of your innermost thoughts and desires. That they are the kind of daydreams that even someone eloquent as him would find difficult to describe, domestic and loving—just tumultuous enough to describe their standing, with the sort of fairytale ending most would wish for. That they are memories, transformed only in setting and time—only this time, they are not newly acquainted or on a time limit.

He thinks of the quaint little moment where the painter promises to make sure that no one will bother his lover. Had he not done the same for you, once, long ago?

He remembers the casual affection the spirit showers upon her love too, the way she finds herself with her head on his lap underneath the wisterias, and if that ever stops feeling familiar, it must be because he's lost his mind.

After all, you've always been an affectionate person. How can he miss it when the evidence remains in the lingering heat left by your touch? Through the way you so easily take his hand, or throw your arms around him—

When your lovesick gaze isn't boring holes into his body, that is.

He's no better in that regard. In some ways, he thinks he might be worse, with the way his loving gaze seems incapable of following anyone but you. But you might turn it into a competition if he brings it up, so Cael—well aware it won't end well for him—keeps his mouth shut.

Still, it's clear that you never expected him to start quoting your dialogue back at you.

It reminds him of one of the first times he'd properly let his mask down. The way the gears turned in your head, your deer-in-headlights expression betraying your panic before he'd clarified his joke. You'd stared at him—half-relieved, half-surprised, sitting in the silence a bit longer before you laughed.

Today, when you stare at him, there is a hint of defiance peeking through from underneath your flustered mien.

You're dressed casually, in a yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt with one of your favorite cartoon characters. Jagged lines run across the drawing, signaling its age. Some parts of the design have entirely vanished, but it remains one of your most faithful companions still.

With your head on his lap and legs thrown over the armrest, you're sprawled across the couch. In your hand is your phone, and before he dropped his line of the day on you, you'd been showing him a red dress that you really liked—one you intended to buy with your next paycheck.

"Thank you." The effect of your haughty tone is greatly lessened by the scarlet hue painting your cheeks. You clear your throat. "Does that mean you'd like to see me in a red dress?"

Cael chuckles, brushing your hair gently. "To me, it seems like you're the one who wants to be seen in a red dress."

"Of course, I do," you reply, your hand reaching out to play with his hair. "But red or white, it's not the dress that matters. As long as there's a certain someone waiting for me at the end."

For a moment, his quick-thinking mind betrays him, offering him nothing but static. He puts down the book in his hand down and carefully adjust the bookmark until it looks neat. His attention had left its crisp pages when you'd sat down beside him, but it remained in his hand still.

Occasionally, he would flip to the next page, then remember that he had absorbed none of the words on the previous page. So, he would go back, a fact that had not escaped your keen gaze—you'd teased him plenty for it, and who was he to stop you?

"I wonder who that certain someone is," he murmurs.

"I think he knows who he is," you answer, holding onto the end of his now braided strands. After a moment of digging around in your pockets, and the sofa as well, you managed to find a hair tie. "Or, he should, by this point."

"Indeed," Cael says, earning himself a wry smile from you. "It would be difficult to miss."

Enamored by your smile, he sifts through his memories, searching for the line that had left every single reader in desperate search of their own painter.

You'd been rather pleased when you went scrolling through the comments, with a smile so big it bordered on evil. So pleased, in fact, that you made sure to show him every such comment. The underlying meaning to your words was clear—you'd already found your painter, after all.

You'd have a big ego if you were dating someone so pretty too, you'd said, when he'd commented offhandedly on it.

He remembers responding with:

Then I'm certain I have the biggest ego out of anyone.

Though, his words ended up only disarming you for a brief second. It wasn't long before you were throwing your arms around him and calling him a liar ". But for the time being, the comment section was forgotten, and it was just you and him—and Beanie, watching you both from his favorite spot underneath the round table in the corner, seemingly miffed at being excluded.

He had snuck in a few extra treats for him.

Then, all was well in their relationship once more.

"'If that day ever comes, no matter what you want—'" Cael smiles helplessly, remembering the way you'd so easily captured his expression on the painter's face. "'I'll do everything in my power to bring you the most elegant wedding in the entire world.' Though you said the dress itself doesn't matter..."

You inhale sharply, seemingly forgetting—for a moment—that you're in the middle of braiding another section of his hair. When you look back at him, having looked away, your eyes are shining with poorly-disguised affection and your voice is painfully soft.

"When," you correct. "When that day comes. That's what I should've written down."

Letting go of his hair, you pull yourself off his lap and draw your knees closer to your chest. You rest your head on his shoulder. And as loose dark hair begins to tickle his cheek, his hand seeks out yours, pinky finger brushing against the back of your hand.

"When that day comes, we'll get married."

His gaze softens when he looks at you, in the midst of murmuring his agreement. Your wedding is something he's thought about often—his own is not. But now, the groom at the altar is no longer a blurry figure, devoid of any recognizable qualities and having only an aura of happiness that befits a day so celebrated.

It is something he'll ponder over until the day comes, all so that you're the happiest bride to ever live, whether on Earth or any other world.

"Good." You squeeze his hand gently. "Consider it a proposal then."

"It's the first time I've ever been proposed to," he comments offhandedly.

"Really?" For some reason, you sound surprised. And though your words sound like they could pass for a joke, the thoughtful note to them makes it clear that they are not. "Alright, I'm taking it back. I'll make sure to come back with a ring next time."

Cael smiles helplessly at you. "I'm not sure if you can take something like that back so easily."

His breath catches in his throat when you lift your head slightly to meet his gaze. Because in that moment, you're smiling at him brightly, It is blinding. While he's distracted, you lean in close and steal a quick kiss from his lips.

"Temporary measure," you respond, squinting at him in faux annoyance. "You're not getting rid of me so easily."

In a voice so soft that he's half certain you'll miss it, he says, sincerely, "I would never dream of it."

Judging by the way your smile widens into a grin, you don't miss it at all.

+extra

"YOU KNOW, YOU MISSED IT BEFORE," you point out unexpectedly, long after they've moved on from the topic of weddings and wedding dresses.

Cael catches onto the context immediately.

It's past dinner time now. The dirty dishes in the sink wait for you and your yellow rubber gloves patiently for their turn. He'd been the one to make dinner, something quick and easy, per your request. Your wish for the day had been "a lazy day together", so your initial intention was to order to takeout.

But halfway through the day, you began to crave his cooking.

Once he'd made sure the ingredients were there, getting them both out of a trip to the supermarket, you had no reason to refuse his offer. So you'd scrapped your plans and followed him into the kitchen to help.

"I'm not sure it would've been very appropriate to point out," he says, from where he sits at the dining table.

He'd expected nothing to come out of it, so he simply never brought it up. There were more important things to worry about at the time—your presence in Godheim, and all that came after that. His heart aches at the memory of your tears, particularly because he'd been the one to cause them.

They'd never properly spoken of it—of the day Peter Pan understood, but could not bring himself to make peace with, the fact that Wendy would have to leave him one day.

"After all, you were a teenager," Cael adds, remembering what he'd told your friend Natalie. "It would be no different than taking advantage of you."

His words, however, go in one ear and go out the other. You're rather specific about what you choose to pick out from his words, your next words discarding all but the subtext.

"So, you did know about my crush on you."

Though your words are undeniably a conclusion, a statement and not a question, they carry with them an expectation of a response. You crane your neck to fix him with an equally expectant stare, as if the weight behind your words isn't enough.

"Yes, I knew about your crush on me," Cael admits wryly. A helpless sigh accompanies his words. "What brought this on?"

You hum strainedly, returning to your dishes. "Nothing."

For the time being, he leaves it at that.

It is only when the two of you happen to encounter Lars while on a date that he discovers the truth, after some coaxing on his part. That you'd been under the impression that your crush on him was a secret kept carefully under wraps. That it'd been Lars who'd guessed otherwise—after some advice on how to handle Cael's new hobby—and subsequently been proven correct, leaving you to sulk on your own.

Unsurprisingly, Cael does not manage to stifle his laughter before you notice.

[flying-cat]

It was crazy watching bkdk go from the most hated ship to the most popular ship in the fandom

[sskk-manifesto]

\\

[altruistic-meme]

if you could... describe aftg in 5 words

oh this is not as easy a question to answer as it should be akfhsdkf bc like. i could describe its plot, or my thoughts on it as a fan, or how it makes me feel, or just make a joke, or or or and bc idk why you're asking it makes it harder :'))

but let's see...

plot: gay sports mafia found family.

fan: drama, familiarity, trauma, comedy, home

feelings: love, understanding, chaos, joy, comfort

joke: you know, i get it-

(as you can see, i couldn't pick which one to go with, so choose whichever 5 words you want lmao)

[vounoura]

oh I didn't notice the siphoning strikes change either dbjhjbngdf

[bunnihearted]

‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Might accidentally get absolutely jacked bc in a sheer desperate effort to artificially raise norepinephrine levels in the absence of an actual snri, might start doing cardio at the gym again

[volivolition]

[guy with chronic pain voice] i should draw pain threshold

[the-physicality]

.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

more info, via a couple of reviews:

"Is this the best, most exhilarating, most close-to-perpetual dancing ever to grace the Goodspeed Opera House stage?

It certainly could be.

The new stage adaptation of “Summer Stock” at the East Haddam theater has plenty to recommend it in terms of the canny script and the hummable songs. But it’s the dancing that leaves the biggest impression.

The show is jam-packed with choreography from Donna Feore, who also directs, that is thrillingly executed by the cast.

We’re talking: Gravity-defying kicks. Head-spinning turns. Male dancers lifting and tossing and catching the female ones. It runs the gamut from Cossack-dance athleticism to soft shoe grace, tap precision to Lindy hop energy.

How the cast manages to sing after executing these (literally) breathtaking numbers, I have no idea.

And how do they make it through two performances on some days? Amazing.

Also amazing: the fact that they do all this on Goodspeed’s small stage without making the space feel cramped.

So, yes, the dancing is phenomenal. But there’s more to the show than that.

This stage version of “Summer Stock” — which is enjoying its world premiere at Goodspeed — is inspired by the 1950 MGM movie starring Judy Garland and Gene Kelly. Writer Cheri Steinkellner, though, has reimagined the piece in many ways, making it better, stronger and propelled by a more modern sensibility. (Steinkellner’s writing credits range from “Cheers” to the Broadway adaptation of “Sister Act.”)

The foundational story, though, remains the same: A no-nonsense young woman named Jane is trying to save her family farm. Her actress sister (named Gloria in the version at Goodspeed) brings her compatriots to the farm to rehearse a show. Jane first spars with and then starts falling for Gloria’s beau Joe, the production’s director.

Steinkellner has also changed up the score, to great effect. While some tunes from the movie remain, she has pulled others that are in the public domain (such as “Accentuate the Positive,” “Paper Moon” and “It Had to Be You”), and she has woven them perfectly into various plot points and important emotional moments.

As director, Feore makes sure the whole enterprise has a dynamic spirit. It’s a story and a production that brims with optimism and cheerfulness.

Leading the cast is Corbin Bleu, who became famous with his work in “High School Musical” and has gone on to star in several Broadway shows, as Joe. Bleu is a true, and truly talented, triple-threat. He has a warm, welcoming presence as an actor; he also brings an authority to Joe so you believe he’s someone the actors respect and will follow. Bleu’s singing is strong and lustrous, and his dancing — particularly his tremendous tap ability — is … wow.

Arguably the biggest scene-stealer here is Veanne Cox, as the wealthy, snooty owner of huge property surrounding Jane’s. The way she trills dialogue can turn anything into a punchline. She can wave her arms about as her character repeats “l’amour” and generate audience laughs. When her character falls for the egoistic actor Montgomery Leach (played by J. Anthony Crane with Barrymore flair), Cox burbles with girlish romantic giddiness.

Danielle Wade does her own take on the Judy Garland role. She gives Jane a swagger and a tough façade that reveals a more human self during the course of the story. Wade’s most important feature is her voice, which is potent whether she’s finessing a ballad or powering through a big number. While she can’t compete with Garland’s renowned version of “Get Happy” (who could?), Wade does a good job in the number — choreographed and costumed in an homage to the original — that serves as the culmination of the production.

Arianna Rosario gets to play an interesting arc at Gloria. At first, Gloria seems to be a blithe, self-centered actress, but she later shows that she is quite the problem-solving producer. Rosario makes the transformation believable, as if Gloria is finally letting her real self come through.

The scenic design by Wilson Chin suggests the various elements of a Connecticut River Valley farm in the 1950s while still allowing room for the cast to burst into all of those big dance numbers. And the costume design by Tina McCartney provides a fun and functional take on country clothing of the era.

I will say that the second act could be tightened up (we don’t need to see so many beats of the rehearsal process), but, in total, this “Summer Stock” is sensational." [source]

(hooray for most directly explaining gloria's overall arc)

and the next review:

"A throwback to the golden age of Broadway and movie musicals, "Summer Stock" is a timeless, inspiring song-and-dance tale of good deeds, fairy tale showbiz, classic romance and backstage intrigue played out to such dazzling effect, you want to freeze frame it, take it home with you and watch it over and over again for pure fun and a let's-put-a-smile-on-your-face endorsement. This is Goodspeed Musicals at its best - old-fashioned musical entertainment designed to deliver by the bucket's load, stir the senses, rhythmically intoxicate you and dance up a continual storm of good cheer that's guaranteed to leave you breathless.

Animated. Airborne. Magical. Sweet-natured. Fresh-faced. Dance happy. It's all here, wrapped up in shiny gold ribbons and signature colors that complement and complete the picture with a technicolor flourish, a big bang and an internal logic that flows with appropriate style, stamina, full command and intent.

Adapted to the stage by Cheri Steinkellner, "Summer Stock" replays that popular let's- put-on-a-show conceit where everything rests of the big opening night, the box-office intake, the big kiss between the leading man and the leading lady and how a complete unknown saves the day right before the final fadeout. Here, struggling Connecticut farmer Jane Falbury decides to let her actress sister Abigail and her actor friends from New York use the family barn as a rehearsal space for their brand-new Broadway bound musical in exchange for doing the daily farm chores to raise enough money to keep the business from going completely under. One slight problem. During rehearsals, Jane finds herself falling for the show's handsome director, Joe Ross, who, happens to be engaged to the show's leading lady - her sister Abigail.

Staging "Summer Stock," director Donna Feore ("Chicago," "Billy Elliot," "A Chorus Line"), who doubles as choreographer, creates a loveable, intoxicating show that reels you in, grabs hold of you until the final curtain and lets you fall in love with every little detail, surprise, plot twist, joke, visual gag, one-liner and tilt of her jolly agenda while she articulates every element of this musical story with thrust, warmth, spin and splendid articulation. Directorially, she pulls it off spectacularly. No wrong moves here as "Summer Stock" catches fire with a spark, a gusto, a shine and a 1950s mentality infused with plenty of imagination, originality, style and flair.  More importantly, the production never loses sight of its origins, its functional plotting and its love of musicals of yesteryear despite well-intentioned doses of kitsch, takeaway humor, giddy backchat and story arcs right out of the MGM library of backlot moviemaking.  Feore, free spirit that she is, fuels the musical with a sharpened wit and sentiment that works especially well as does her decision to let "Summer Stock" remain rooted in the period from whence it came in terms of staging, development, expression and interaction. 

Moving from screen to stage," "Summer Stock" retains only four songs from the 1950 MGM musical. The addition of several new songs to the original version of the score turns the two-act musical into more of a showstopping event and adds clarity, luster and vintage spin to its already proven material, its let's launch into another song and dance routine blueprint and its firm grasp on characterization, story evolution and its happily ever after conclusion. At Goodspeed, there are 28 important, recognizable, smartly placed musical numbers. They are:  "Get Happy," "Happy Days Are Here Again/I Want to Be Happy," "Accentuate the Positive," "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows," "Always," "Always (reprise)," "It's Only a Paper Moon," "The Best Things in Life Are Free," "Dig for Your Dinner," "Me and My Shadow," "Howdy Neighbor, Happy Harvest," "Red Hot Mama," " 'Til We Meet Again," "You Wonderful You," "June Night," "Some of These Days," "Joe's Dance," "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows (reprise)," "It All Depends on You," "Always (reprise)," "Everybody Step," "Lucky Day," "How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm," "Hinky-Dinky Parlez Vouz," "It Had to Be You," "Get Happy (reprise)" and "You Wonderful You (Finale)."

Musical director Adam Souza ("42nd Street," "Cabaret," "Next to Normal," "A Grand Night for Singing," "Because of Winn Dixie," "Rags") grabs hold of the "Summer Stock" score and allows it to breathe, gesticulate, excite, envelop and rhapsodize with the golden age sentimentality of MGM movie musicals and the timeless, larger-than-life spirit of old Broadway. Here, every song matters. Every song is important. Every song travels down memory lane. Every song is tuned to the max with sweet, centered, warm-heartedness. Every song fulfills its intended purpose. All of this is complemented by the strong, flavorful sound of Souza's orchestral team, all of whom share his tremendous sense of theatricality, musical interlude, impassioned communication and delight of the actual musical itself.  They are: David Uhl (bass), Sal Ranniello (percussion), Liz Baker Smith (reed 1), Andrew Studenski (reed II), Travis Higgins III (trumpet) and Matthew Russo (trombone). As with other Goodspeed musicals, Souza doubles as conductor and keyboardist. As "Summer Stock" zings and pops, pretty music every song unfolds with a contagious orchestral musical glow, matched by the splendid musicality of the entire cast who address the catchy, homespun music and lyrics with perfect harmony, rhythm, phrasing and nostalgic commitment. These elements heighten the on-stage mode of the production, its progression from Act I to Act II, its send offs, its pastiche and its electrifying, barn-raising influence and thwack.

As with any big stage musical, choreography is key to a production's success, its fluidity of form, its artistic expression and its accompanying dance routines. Here, Feore, as choreographer, gives "Summer Stock" a highly personal touch of invigoration and speedy excitement that is tipped and generated with wonderfully elongated inspiration, stamina and determination. This is star quality choreography that peaks, shines and tilts with clever build ups, catchy dance steps and bold, concentrated rhythms, moves and beats that joyfully celebrate 1950's musicals in all their technicolor glory.   As storyteller and dance interpreter, she brings great dimension and scope to the piece using techniques, styles, descriptions and an enriched canvas of thoughts and ideas that make their mark most engagingly. Everything that happens on the Goodspeed Musicals stage has been beautifully blocked, rehearsed and staged with such thrust and individuality, no two dance numbers are alike. In fact, once "Summer Stock" catches fire, there's no stopping it.  Creating a freshly minted fusion of moods, tableaus, lifts, twirls and swirls, Feore pays homage to the actual vintage look and mindset of the musical, its dance-friendly art form and its free-flowing feel of excitement and exhilaration. Hands pop. Arms move heavenward. Dancers smile and glisten as they passionately ignite into joyful visions of sweetness, passion, frenzy and syncopation. Everyone is lost in the moment illustrating the traditions, the conscience and the power of musical theatre, giving and getting the most out of Feore's phenomenal, ovation-worthy choreography. Trained, drilled and confident, they each get a chance to shine - and shine they do - all making strong impressions that will live long in memory.

Making his Goodspeed Musicals debut, Corbin Bleu, as Joe Ross, a character originated by Gene Kelly in the 1950 film version, creates a "Wow!" song-and-dance-man factor chock full of charm, personality, self-confidence and full-beam, champagne delightness that astounds, cajoles and sparkles with leading man gait and luxury like no other. No matter what he does, he's a proverbial triple-threat (i.e., a player who excels at acting, singing and dancing) who makes everything that happens on stage feel fresh, spontaneous, real, raw and very much in the moment. It's in his eyes. It's in his moves. It's in his expressions. Exhibiting a sweet, contagious rapport that extends far beyond the footlights, it's the performance of the year and one that Bleu exudes with a Gene Kelly/Fred Astaire aura of showbiz savvy, knockabout whimsy, graceful athleticism and sterling encapsulation. "Joe's Dance," a solo dance number in Act II performed by Bleu only furthers that notion.

In the role of Jane Falbury, a role made famous by Judy Garland in the original "Summer Stock" MGM musical, Danielle Wade lights up the Goodspeed Musicals stage with a breezy, intuitive musical comedy performance of real warmth and spirit that is a constant joy to watch. Veanne Cox, cast in the role of the wickedly devious Connecticut farming magnate Margaret Wingate, is jaw-dropping brilliant, using humor, music, dance and melodrama in divinely daft and glorious ways that prompt applause and laughter whenever she's in the limelight. It's a scene-stealing performance so seamlessly entrenched in glee and fiery abandon, Cox, would be the ideal choice to play narcissistic Broadway diva Dee Dee Allen in the 2024 summer presentation of "The Prom" at Playhouse in Park in West Hartford. I'll personally deliver the contract. Other memorable performances are delivered by Arianna Rosario (Gloria Falbury), Stephen Lee Anderson (Henry "Pop" Falbury), Gilbert L. Bailey II (Phil Filmore), Will Roland (Orville Wingate) and J. Anthony Crane (Montgomery Leach). A musical escape brimming with delightful songs, engaging performances and full-beam dance numbers, "Summer Stock" is not only a bubbly tonic for theatergoers of all ages, but one that kicks nostalgia into high gear with uncomplicated bliss, fizz and vintage sparkle. It sings. It dances. It pops. It dazzles. Like "42nd Street" which played Goodspeed Musicals last season, it overflows with Kelly/Astaire lightness, punch and precision, sunny vibes and well-played exactitude. The energy displayed here is fast and furious with first-night exhilaration and thrill paired especially well with Corbin Bleu's charming star turn, Danielle Wade's joyous "Get Happy" abandon and Veanne Cox's well-prepped, icy cool villain. This is musical theatre of the highest order - infectious, irresistible, glorious. Its leave-your-troubles-at-the-door/Let's-put-on-a-show mentality accelerates with sparkle and cherry pie goodness. And boy, do we need it now!" [source]

(the reference to jane's sister abigail uses the film's names: abigail becomes gloria in this production, which is the name of abigail's actor in the film, which also mirrors how the role of herb is now phil, also the name of herb's actor in the film)

(also shoutout to providing A Full, Chronological List Of Songs. noting that according to another interview, intermission would be between "you wonderful you" and "june night")

[taexual]

hey not to sound rude or anything it’s just a critic that i would like to share with you bc i feel like you write too much detail about other things that aren’t really how do i say it not important to the storyline. for example you wrote almost a whole chapter of jk and his friends doing absolutely nothing other than bicker for 30mins while drinking beer and what not so while it’s cool and very important for us readers to know about some details and information about the characters in the story it’s just too much and you did it again in chapter 7 too it’s like we never get to see him interact with oc more than 5 mins and the next moment he’s with his friends or idk she has to work on this and that like i get it she has to work but i don’t need to know the equipments. again im not trying to be rude or discredit you i love your story it’s very interesting i just want to let you know what you might do better next time if you would allow us to criticize you :)

hii, thank you so much for your insight!! i really appreciate it, although i am sorry those scenes felt excessive for you. they're meant to visualise the atmosphere, introduce you to the characters, build on their personalities, and strengthen the storyline, so it isn't just two-dimensional cardboard cut-outs interacting with each other in a vacuum. i'm hoping for full immersion into this universe with the way i write, but i understand if you're mainly interested in the two main characters interacting -- that's obviously totally fine! thank you for reading so far, anyway! 🥰❤️