#lush tunnel of love

[wallflowerglitter]

Love Boat Bath Bomb, Cherryish Body Scrub, Tisty Tosty Bath Bomb, Unicorn Horn Bubble Bar, Height Of Enlightened Expectation Bubble Bar Melt, Tunnel Of Love Soap

[lushuponatime]

Tunnel Of Love Bath Bomb from Lush

The Tunnel of Love Bath Bomb is a brand-new, limited edition product from Lush’s 2025 Valentine’s Day line. It is a ticket shaped bath bomb that was inspired by the ‘Tunnel of Love’ found in the village of Klevan, Ukraine.The Tunnel of Love is a four km long section of industrial railway track that is surrounded by lush green foliage. Local legend says that if you and your partner come to the…

[ktempestbradford]

I have been on a Willy Wonkified journey today and I need y'all to come with me

It started so innocently. Scrolling Google News I come across this article on Ars Technica:

At first glance I thought what happened was parents saw AI-generated images of an event their kids were at and became concerned, then realized it was fake. The reality? Oh so much better.

On Saturday, event organizers shut down a Glasgow-based "Willy's Chocolate Experience" after customers complained that the unofficial Wonka-inspired event, which took place in a sparsely decorated venue, did not match the lush AI-generated images listed on its official website.... According to Sky News, police were called to the event, and "advice was given."

Thing is, the people who paid to go were obviously not expecting exactly this:

But I can see how they'd be a bit pissed upon arriving to this:

It gets worse.

"Tempest, how could it possibly--"

source of this video that also includes this charming description:

Made up a villain called The Unknown — 'an evil chocolate maker who lives in the walls'

There is already a meme.

Oh yes, the Wish.com Oompa Loompa:

Who has already done an interview!

As bad (and hilarious) as this all is, I got curious about the company that put on this event. Did they somehow overreach? Did the actors they hired back out at the last minute? (Or after they saw the script...) Oddly enough, it doesn't seem so!

Given what I found when poking around I'm legit surprised there was an event at all. Cuz this outfit seems to be 100% a scam.

The website for this specific event is here and it has many AI generated images on it, as stated. I don't think anyone who bought tickets looked very closely at these images, otherwise they might have been concerned about how much Catgacating their children would be exposed to.

Yes, Catgacating. You know, CATgacating!

I personally don't think anyone should serve exarserdray flavored lollipops in public spaces given how many people are allergic to it. And the sweet teats might not have been age appropriate.

Though the Twilight Tunnel looks pretty cool:

I'm not sure that Dim Tight Twdrding is safe. I've also been warned that Vivue Sounds are in that weird frequency range that makes you poop your pants upon hearing them.

Yes, Virginia, these folks used an AI image generator for everything on the website and used Chat GPT for some of the text! From the FAQ:

Q: I cannot go on the available days. Will you have more dates in the future? A: Should there be capacity when you arrive, then you will be able to enter without any problems. In the event that this is not the case, we may ask you to wait a bit.

Fear not, for this question is asked again a few lines down and the answer makes more sense.

Curious about the events company behind this disaster, I took myself over to the homepage of House of Illuminati and I was not disappointed.

I would 100% trust these people to plan my wedding.

This abomination of a website is a badly edited WordPress blog filled with AI art and just enough blog posts to make the casual viewer think that it's a legit business for about 0.0004 seconds.

Their attention to detail is stunning, from how they left up the default first post every WP blog gets to how they didn't bother changing the name on several images, thus revealing where they came from. Like this one:

With the lovely and compact filename "DALL·E-2024-01-30-09.50.54-Imagine-a-scene-where-fantasy-and-reality-merge-seamlessly.-In-the-foreground-a-grand-interactive-gala-is-taking-place-filled-with-elegant-guests-i.png"

"Concept.png" came from the same AI generator that gets text almost, but not quiiiiiite right:

There are a suspicious number of .webp images in the uploads, which makes me think they either stole them from other sites where AI "art" was uploaded or they didn't want to pay for the hi-res versions of some and just grabbed the preview image.

The real fun came when I noticed this filename: Before-and-After-Eventologists-Transformation-Edgbaston-Cricket-Ground-1024x1024-1.jpg and decided to do a Google image search. Friends, you will be shocked to hear that the image in question, found on this post touting how they can transform a boring warehouse into a fun event space, was stolen from this actual event planner.

Even better, this weirdly grainy image?

From a post that claims to be about the preparations for a "Willy Wonka" experience (we'll get to this in a minute), is not only NOT an actual image of anyone preparing anything for Illuminati's event, it is stolen from a YouTube thumbnail that's been chopped to remove the name of the company that actually made this. Here's the video.

If you actually read the blog posts they're all copypasta or some AI generated crap. To the point where this seems like not a real business at all. There's very specific business information at the bottom, but nothing else seems real.

As I said, I'm kinda surprised they put on an event at all. This has, "And then they ran off with all our money!" written all over it. I'm perplexed.

And also wondering when the copyright lawyers are gonna start calling, because...

This post explicitly says they're putting together a "Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory Experience" complete with golden tickets.

Somewhere along the line someone must have wised up, because the actual event was called "Willys Chocolate Experience" (note the lack of apostrophe) and the script they handed to the actors about 10 minutes before they were supposed to "perform" was about a "Willy McDuff" and his chocolate factory.

As I was going through this madness with friends in a chat, one pointed out that it took very little prompting to get the free Chat GPT to spit out an event description and such very similar to all this while avoiding copyrighted phrases. But he couldn't figure out where the McDuff came from since it wasn't the type of thing GPT would usually spit out...

Until he altered the prompt to include it would be happening in Glasgow, Scotland.

You cannot make this stuff up.

But truly, honestly, I do not even understand why they didn't take the money and run. Clearly this was all set up to be a scam. A lazy, AI generated scam.

Everything from the website to the event images to the copy to the "script" to the names of things was either stolen or AI generated (aka stolen). Hell, I'd be looking for some poor Japanese visitor wandering the streets of Glasgow, confused, after being jacked for his mascot costume.

HE LIVES IN THE WALLS, Y'ALL.

[pe4cht3a]

Little something I think about once and awhile but I feel like Killua tells his dad and grandpa stuff about his life. Like just talk about his friends, any training, any enemies, any *crushes* ;). I feel like we see a little of this in the Zoldyck arc before Killua leaves home, AND I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT IT

LIKEE IMAGINE!! Killua yapping his dad and/or grandpa’s ear off about his smidge crush on reader then turning around and being like - don’t tell Illumi (he already knows). BASICALLY can we get a one shot/headcannons about this? This feeds my obsession with me needing to know what people think I about me

‧ ˚ Hush ˚ ‧

── .✦ a/n: augrhf this sucks so bad but i love this idea sm, pls enjoy :3

after numerous days of being tortured and mutilated by his family, killua was certainly feeling annoyed. why was killua even enduring this in the first place? because he decided it was a wonderful idea to stab the shit out of his mommy and older brother, the fat one, of course.

while enduring the endless punishments and merciless whippings from his family, especially milluki, who kil had stabbed before running off for the hunter exam. oh right! the hunter exam.

during the hunter exam, known world wide to be extremely difficult and hard to pass, killua had encountered some of the most important people to him currently. gon, his best friend. kurapika, an older brother figure. leorio, someone to make fun of. you, his first ever crush.

killua had never, EVER been exposed to girls before his whole life. disregarding his mother, and alluka since he hadn’t seen her since they were like six and five. the only things in life killua had ever been provided for was ruthless training and grooming to become the head of the zoldyck assassin family. of course, this role meant he was destined to marry in the future to reproduce, but talk of women and marriage was left for much of the future. so when kil met you and got to interact properly with you, A GIRL… he did not know what to do at all.

“wow! she sure is fast!” the cheerful gon chirped as he eyed you, pacing along with satotz in the first phase of the hunter exam effortlessly. “tch, that girl will for sure die later.” the albino rolled his eyes as he focused on the dark tunnel ahead of him. “i wouldn’t assume that so early, killua. she does seem strong.” kurapika chimed in as he watched you meticulously.

“oh! i guess you’re the number i’m assigned to collect for.” you slyly but gently smiled at killua, standing right in front of him, surrounded by the lush forest. “in your dreams.” the silverette non-chalantly spat out as he had his hands tucked into his pockets.

before killua could react, you had already swiftly jumped up onto a tree behind him. killua didn’t realise at first, but less than a second later he realised a side of his shirt had felt significantly lighter.

“hey! what the hell?” the boy screamed as he snapped his head around to see your figure atop a tree branch.

you had just taken killua’s badge without a sweat.

badge number 99 was now yours.

you turned your body around, and stared down at the albino, who was exuding embarrassment and anger. “don’t be so angry, kitty.” you smirked, as you placed your hands into your pocket, mocking killua’s once confident and signature posture. the darkened expression on killua’s face was priceless, something to behold, truly.

did this bitch just call him “kitty”? ain’t no way you took his badge, called him kitty AND mocked him. if this was anyone else, killua would’ve slit their throats by now but, you felt incredible.

that was the moment and interaction that caused something unknown to bloom inside killua. how could you take his badge without him noticing? how were you faster than him? he’s a zoldyck, so how? what training have you gone through? who were you, really? how were you so confident against someone like him? how the fuck were you so pretty while doing all that?

killua was now hungry for more of you.

“so killua! whats your type?” the raven haired boy said as he gazed out the window of the airship. “my type? what do you mean?” the pale boy questioned, tilting his head. “you know, what kind of girls do you like?” gon grinned innocently. “girls?” killua had never interacted with a girl before, until you, that is. killua was not sure what to say, his type? he hadn’t even been around enough girls yet to know.

“mhm! personally, i like older women! i think they’re caring and mature.” the ravenette exclaimed as he explained to the dumb-founded albino. “uh.. well…” killua was pretty puzzled, to say the least.

it shattered his ego to admit this to gon, but especially himself. “uhhh.. you know that girl we’ve been seeing around lately during the exam?” the albino stared off into the night lights shining from below. “oh yeah! she’s pretty!” gon smiled, he was pretty surprised killua mentioned you.

“um, i guess you could say so.” killua would never ever talk about this subject to anyone else.

unfortunately, all that was awhile ago. now, instead of spending time with gon and his other friends, he was propped up in his mansion’s cell, abused. everything went south once killua’s eldest brother, illumi revealed his disguise at the last phase of the exam and manipulated him into returning home. killua was not one to reminisce, but those memories were surely treasured.

“how dare you stab me and mama?” the obese creature yelled as he whipped killua. their mother had just entered a few minutes earlier but now, it seems another family member has intruded once again.

“milluki, stop it.” the elder declared as he calmly walked in. “grandpa! you’re always spoiling him! this is why now he’s a fucking brat!” milluki stressed, desperately trying to get their grandfather on board. “shut it.” zeno side eyed his huge grandson as he stepped towards the younger one. unsurprisingly, milluki shut his mouth due to his overflowing amount of respect and fear for his grandfather. what a loser, killua thought to himself, not daring to raise his head to look at his grandpa.

“alright, get up kil. silva wants to see you.” the old man informed, no anger or disappointment in his voice whatsoever. “huh? really? dad wants to see me?” the albino immediately shot his head up in a fit of surprise.

“so kil, i know you ran off.” the respectable man sternly said as he sat in the dimly lit room. “yeah… i did.” killua awkwardly responded to his father, afraid his father will be mad.

“i want to hear all about your journey.”

“really, dad?”

“sit beside me, kil.”

“what kind of people did you meet at the exam?” silva questioned, acting interested. “heh! well, i met gon! he’s so fun! and.. uh kurapika, he’s real nice. i also met some guy called leorio, don’t remember much about him.” killua excitedly rambled, like a little child once again. “i see. anyone else?” the man questioned as he narrowed his icey blue eyes.

silence took over the room for awhile, killua’s head facing down. not sure how to start off about you.

“well, i met a girl.” killua muttered as he looked off to the side. “oh?” silva let out as he tilted his head. how hilarious, such similar body language between son and father.

“mhm uh.. she’s.. really pretty…” killua felt his ears burning up and heart pounding. “describe her to me, then.” silva demanded as he was surprised a girl caught his son’s attention.

sure, killua was a teenage boy but his family expected him to have the mindset and ambitions of an assassin, not some love sick teenager.

“mm… her eyes shine so brightly, she moves so gently.. but yet so quickly. she also… smells good. hmm, i like how she’s so open to conversations with people around her and isn’t shy to say her mind! i love the fact she beat me, to be honest.” the little albino was now completely off in his little dream land about you, pale face now bright pink.

“she beat you? am i hearing this right?” the older man walked in, without any sounds giving him out whatsoever, beforehand. steps inaudible, how typical of an assassin.

“it seems so, father.” silva nodded, eyes still fixated on killua.

killua immediately regretted letting that information slip, now his dad is going to go WAY harder on him during trainings.

“yeah.. we had to claim other people’s badges for a phase, and she somehow took mine, when she was right in front of me!” the silly silverette unknowingly went back into a state of infatuation, forgetting all about how his elders will think of his failure.

zeno and silva exchanged glances, both decided to say nothing about THAT, for now.

killua softened his gaze at both. “her name is y/n. i asked her for her name right before… big brother revealed himself and—” killua’s voice slowly trailed off as he remembered what happened.

“forget about illumi, tell us more about this girl.” silva abruptly cut his son’s sentence off.

the flustered boy raised his head once more and nodded with a smile. “she’s so strong! i’ve never met anyone else who could beat me!” killua excitedly gushed, his heart was now feeling so fuzzy and warm. a foreign feeling, indeed

a good 3 hours had probably gone by.

“after i told gon i found her pretty, he urged me to give her my chicken wing during dinner! can you believe that guy?” the care free boy laughed as his dad and grandpa chuckled along. “well? did the lady accept your generous offer?” zeno teased, in his elderly fashioned humour.

“yeah! she said thank you and said that she really liked my hair colour… kinda weird but i felt good when she complimented me!” killua was now spread out, laying on the floor, as the two elders sat upon the bed. “it seems this gon guy is becoming your wingman.” silva grinned slightly at his son, delighted that killua was interested in strong girls, but unhappy since it was too early for him to be thinking about relationships.

“sometimes, i see her looking at me during dinner time and i feel like as if my heart was going to explode any moment! felt more intense than any training you guys have ever given me.” killua sighed as he was now, running out of breath from yapping so much about you.

“i think me and your father have heard enough to understand this y/n girl, kil.” zeno stood up from his seat and place his hands behind his back. “i agree, father.” silva huffed out. wow, his son sure was interested in you. this is definitely gonna bring some kind of trouble.

killua sat up from the floor, sapphire eyes now looking like an innocent child’s. as if, he was never a ruthless killer who murdered for profit and as a lifestyle. instead, looking like a pure and untouched pale porcelain doll. silver hair no longer dirtied and stained with blood from his victims. rather, silver hair now fluffy and as white as undisturbed snow during winter.

for once, killua felt normal.. no. for once, he is ALLOWED to be normal.

“please don’t tell any of this to big brother.” killua nervously said out loud to his father and grandfather, pleading almost. killua genuinely wanted to find you again, and get to know you properly. he was so so frightened that illumi will get ahold of this news and torture him. worse, he’ll go after you.

“no worries kil, illumi will stay out of this. after all, y/n and everything else is your own personal life.” silva reassured his son as he stepped over and placed his hand over killua’s head, patting him.

killua’s mouth curled into a soft smile, appearing like any other boy. happy to talk to his father about his crush, and getting reassurance.

“how is kil?” the silky haired man’s back leaned onto the cold marble wall. “doing fine, but he’ll leave again.” silva informed his eldest child.

“i know about that girl.”

“i presumed so.”

“should i get rid of her?”

“don’t.”

“okay. may i ask why though father?”

“first, killua will know it was us and never return to us again. second, he might learn a thing or two from forming bonds. third, that girl seems quite powerful.”

“are you suggesting we push him towards her more? that is absurd.”

“illumi, it is my responsibility as the head of the zoldyck family to plan for the next generations. she will produce fine children for us.”

“fair enough.”

“now, hush.”

[shallowseeker]

Truth & despair *COMPLETE*

"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."

Synopsis:

With Cas gone, Jack vanished, and Dean in turmoil, Sam turns to therapy to cope. His search for answers leads him to the bunker’s surveillance footage, where he uncovers startling evidence that casts doubt on Dean’s account of Cas’s death... and Dean's sanity. Determined to restore a semblance of normalcy, Sam gets them back on the road. But their case takes a terrifying turn when Chuck appears with a chilling revelation: the universe is targeting them in a deadly Final Destination-style game of fate. As Sam grapples with his own fears and a world seemingly set against them, he clings to the hope that reuniting his fractured family will be the key to overcoming their darkest challenges. Maybe once they’re all back together, they won’t need therapy at all.

---

Focus: Supernatural post-15x19 fic, TFW grieving badly, Bad therapy attempts with Mia Vallens, False memories, The Shadow is in love with Cas, Jack and Amara are AWOL

Characters: Dean/Castiel, Dean & Sam, Sam & Dean & Cas & Jack, Eileen Leahy, Mia Vallens, Chuck Shurley, Becky & the Rosen-Baron fam, Donatello Redfield, The Empty, Amara, Jack as God, Rowena MacLeod, Sam POV and Sam is blessedly annoying

Content warning: Major character death (Castiel), poor coping mechanisms (Dean), and encroachment of personal boundaries (Sam). Eventual happy ending.

Updates every weekend!

Proofread by @minalblood & finished for @tenderthunder

❤️

///

Ch 01: (~4200 words, ~17 minutes) - In an attempt to tackle his grief, Sam rifles through the bunker footage to track down Cas’s last moments. The footage leaves him with more questions than answers.

//

Ch 02: (~5700 words, ~23 minutes) Mia admonishes Sam for his breach of boundaries, and Dean suffers his first meltdown.

//

Ch 03: (~5200 words, ~20 minutes) Sam leans into unhealthy coping mechanisms that nearly get them killed.

//

Ch 04: (~4700 words, ~18 minutes) Snapped out of Chuck’s grand finale, Sam and Dean wonder what’s next.

//

Ch 05: (~5250 words, ~21 minutes) In need of Becky Rosen’s laptop, Chuck and the Winchesters track her to a safe house in the recesses of the Wallowa Mountains, Oregon. En route, the roadways are riddled with mysterious sinkholes. Dean admits he’s drawn to them.

//

Ch 06: (~7500 words, ~30 minutes) - Chuck shows his true colors, but Dean’s the real problem.

//

Ch 07: (~7200 words, ~28 minutes) - Dean takes a leap of faith. Sam follows.

//

Ch 08: (~7100 words, ~28 minutes) - Sam and Dean tunnel their way into The Empty. It's not empty.

//

Ch 09 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Unable to rid Castiel of the cooling Empty gunk, Sam and Dean transport him back to the Barons’ house and attempt to free him.

//

Ch 10 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Hoping to track Jack and Amara, Team Free Will returns to Washaway Beach to perform a potent locator spell.

///

Ch 11 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam and Chuck crash-land in a lush landscape and run afoul of Amara. She taunts Sam, promising that Jack will never return, at least not of his own free will.

//

Ch 12 (~10800 words, ~43 minutes) - Jack's got everything he needs right here. Why would he ever leave?

//

Ch 13 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam awakens in the shallow waters of Washaway Beach...alongside the prone body of Jack Kline.

//

Ch 14 (~10200 words, ~40 minutes) - Maybe Sam can't fix everything. Maybe that's okay.

//

Ch 15/ Epilogue (~17000 words, ~68 minutes) - Then, Dean welcomed Cas back from The Empty. Now, they deal with the fallout.

[legacygirlingreen]

I: "The Rescue"|| Commander Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Author's Note: Finally got around to editing this part... I am excited to kick things off with a beefy flashback. Unfortunately the early stages of their story will be a bit disjointed. Eventually time will catch back up to their life after the prologue, but I wanted to lay some ground work for Wolffe and Perdita. Thanks again to @leenathegreengirl for the lovely cover art for this chapter, showing Wolffe with his two natural eyes and Perdita's! I hope you all enjoy, I'll link the prologue to this if you missed it, and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. ~ M

Pairing: Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Word Count: 13.5k+

Warnings: mentions of nearly dying, illusions to religious trauma (the jedi suck tbh), mentions of loss/grief

Summary: When all hope is lost, a mysterious figure comes to Wolffe's rescue...

Masterlist || Previous Section || Next Section (Coming Soon!)

Perdita had been doomed from the start when it came to the Jedi Order. It was a miracle they had ever accepted her at all. The Jedi were a people bound by their strict code, where attachments were seen as a dangerous weakness, and only the young children—those with little to no memories of their families—were chosen for training. They had long been wary of the emotional baggage that came with deep bonds to others, believing that such attachments would cloud judgment and lead to the dark side.

But Perdita’s species, the Kage, presented an unfair conflict—a unique struggle that she had carried with her her entire life. Unlike most beings, the Kage were born sentient, with complex and fully formed minds from the moment of their birth. Their memories were sharp, vivid, and long-lasting, capable of recalling even the smallest details from infancy.

Though Perdita had been brought to the Jedi Temple at only three years of age, she was not the blank slate the Jedi were accustomed to. She carried with her three full years of memories of her home world. She could still see the lush, rich purple landscape of her birthplace, the towering spires that punctuated the horizon, and the deep violet horizon that stretched endlessly above. She could feel the heavy weight of the planet’s atmosphere pressing down on the tunnels where her people lived—an ever-present force, almost comforting, like a warm embrace.

She remembered her mother, with her soft hands stroking her brow as she tucked her in at night, whispering gentle words that still echoed in the recesses of her mind. And her older brother, agile and wild, climbing the towering spires with an ease that Perdita had always admired. 

It was these memories, these emotions, that the Jedi Order had never fully understood. To them, Perdita’s past was a burden, something that could jeopardize her ability to serve the Order without the distractions of personal attachments. They had taken her in regardless, but the struggle between her nature and the Jedi code had always been an internal battle, one that never truly ceased. And though she had grown up learning to suppress those memories, to bury them beneath layers of training and discipline, they lingered—persistent and undeniable.

Perdita’s mind wasn’t just uniquely capable of recalling complex memories—her gift extended far beyond what most would expect. Not only could she vividly recall her own experiences with remarkable clarity, but she also had the ability to reach out through the Force and pull in memories that were not her own. By extending her consciousness, she could tap into the echoes of others' pasts, drawing out their hidden knowledge and experiences. It was a rare and extraordinary gift, one that allowed her to uncover information that most others couldn’t even fathom.

This skill proved invaluable in the field of tracking. Unlike traditional methods of pursuit, Perdita could search for clues not only in the physical world but in the very fabric of the Force itself. By reaching out and connecting to the impressions left behind, she could see traces of someone’s movements, their intentions, their very essence—memories lingering like faint whispers in the ether. It was a method that allowed her to find those who had lost their way, those who had vanished without a trace.

This very ability had been the reason she was called upon to assist in the hunt for General Grievous’s latest secret weapon. The stakes were higher than ever, and the Jedi had learned quickly that Perdita’s unique talents were a tool they could not afford to overlook. With her ability to track through the Force, there was hope that they might locate the weapon before it could be unleashed upon the galaxy. Yet, as she prepared to dive into the mission, a familiar unease stirred within her—a reminder that even the most useful abilities could come at a personal cost, especially when they forced her to confront the very attachments she had worked so hard to suppress.

Stationed alongside General Skywalker and his new Padawan, Perdita had been a silent observer, watching as Master Plo Koon’s transmission had gone dark with the fleet after briefly making contact about tracking the secret weapon. The transmission had been short, but enough for them to glean its location before the connection abruptly severed. It was a moment that had sent ripples of uncertainty through the ranks, and in the quiet that followed, Perdita had found herself reflecting on the situation, her thoughts drifting back to the Jedi she knew and admired.

Master Plo had been more than just a wise Jedi; he had been a dear friend to her own Master, a bond forged through years of shared experiences and mutual respect. It was a relationship that had endured even after her Master’s untimely death—a loss that had left an undeniable void in her heart, a piece of her spirit fractured by the absence of one she had trusted so deeply. The grief from that loss had never fully faded, though time had done its best to smooth the sharp edges of her sorrow. In his own quiet way, Master Plo had been a source of comfort during those dark times. He had never shied away from acknowledging the struggles that came with being a Jedi, particularly in a war that demanded so much.

Master Plo had always shown her kindness in ways that others in the Order could not—or would not. In the privacy of shared moments, he had confided in her, admitting that he too had struggled with the very things she faced. The tension between compassion and attachment was something he understood all too well, perhaps more than any of his peers. It was a duality he had learned to live with, the lines between them so fine and blurred that they often became indistinguishable. He had spoken of the weight of that knowledge, of the difficulty of reconciling the Jedi Code with the innate need to connect, to care for others.

"Compassion is not the same as attachment," he had told her once, his voice soft, yet firm. "But in the depths of our hearts, the difference can feel almost impossible to discern."

Those words had stuck with her through the years, particularly in moments when the conflict within her became unbearable. In Master Plo’s aura, she had seen a reflection of her own struggles—a recognition that she was not alone, even in her darkest guarded secrets. And yet, despite the comfort of his words, there was always a lingering question in Perdita's mind: could the Jedi truly ever understand the complexities of the heart, or were they forever destined to struggle with the boundaries between duty and the natural need for connection? It was a question that gnawed at her, especially as the war raged on, and as she watched the galaxy slowly unravel around her.

Now, with Master Plo's fate uncertain and the pressure mounting to locate the weapon before it could wreak havoc, Perdita was forced to confront the very thing that had always haunted her: could she truly let go of the people she had cared about, the bonds she had formed, in the name of duty? Or would the compassionate side of her, the one that had been nurtured by the memory of her Master and by Jedi like Plo Koon, ultimately lead her down a path that defied the very code she had sworn to uphold?

She supposed that, as with most things, time would be the deciding factor.

As Anakin tried to slip away quietly, Perdita followed closely behind, her instincts telling her he was on his way to defy the Council’s orders. She knew him too well. Despite his tendency to act on impulse, she couldn’t fully fault him. He was the Chosen One, the one who would fulfill the Jedi prophecy, and because of that, he was afforded privileges that the rest of them—herself included—could only dream of. No matter how many times he bent the rules, Anakin would always be given a pass, his actions excused by his destiny.

Perdita, on the other hand, had never been so fortunate. No matter how hard she tried, she was frequently reprimanded for the way she navigated the complex teachings of the Jedi Code. She had always struggled with the balance between duty and attachment, between compassion and detachment, and her methods were often seen as unorthodox. Yet, despite the Council’s judgment and her own doubts, one thing remained clear: she wasn’t about to let Anakin go off to search for Master Plo. Not without her.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated bluntly, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anakin’s sudden movement—his body lifting skyward in surprise—was all the answer she needed. She’d caught him off guard, just as she’d intended. His expression shifted, one of frustration mixed with a trace of reluctance. She could see the conflict in his eyes; he knew he wasn’t supposed to be acting on his own. But the same fire that drove him to defy the Council also made him appreciate the rare few who were willing to stand by him when the path ahead seemed too treacherous to walk alone.

“Why?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise but also a hint of amusement.

“Because,” she said, her gaze steady, “you’ll need all the help you can get—and it’s been a while since I got a reprimand from the council. Figured it’s long overdue, don't you agree?”

Anakin paused, his eyes scanning her, reading the resolve in her stance, and for a moment, it was as if the tension between them dissolved. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an understanding, though they rarely acknowledged it aloud. She wasn’t just another Jedi. She was someone who knew the burden of walking a path fraught with difficult choices, someone who understood the weight of the Order’s expectations. One of the few with memories of her childhood as he too struggled. 

"Welcome aboard," Anakin said with a smirk, his tone laced with mischief. "Ahsoka's already called dibs on co-pilot."

She raised an eyebrow, scoffing as she stepped onto the ship platform beside him. "The fact that the Council even gave you a Padawan is a miracle unto itself," she retorted, her voice dripping with incredulity.

Anakin chuckled, his smirk widening as he adjusted the controls, clearly unfazed by her jab. "You’re not the first to say that, and you won’t be the last," he replied, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. 

Perdita was quiet for a moment. Watching Anakin with Ahsoka—how effortlessly they seemed to work together, how there was an unspoken understanding between them—reminded her of the emotional distance she often felt, even with her closest allies. She had never been given the privilege of a Padawan, nor had she ever considered taking one. There was something inherently personal about the bond between master and student, and she wasn’t sure if she could form that connection without compromising her own sense of self.

"Where was Master Plo’s fleet stationed again?" Perdita asked, stepping aside to give the younger Togruta a clear path to the seat next to Anakin.

"Abragado system," Anakin replied quietly, just as the door slid open. Ahsoka appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of annoyance and impatience as she flopped into the seat with little ceremony.

"Alright, I’m ready to scout ahead," Ahsoka declared, her tone laced with both determination and a hint of frustration. It seemed Anakin had conveniently forgotten to inform his Padawan about the mischievous true nature of their mission. Perdita couldn't help but smile at the thought. The pair was certainly... unorthodox. The kind of team that thrived on spontaneity and defied the conventional rules of the Jedi Order. It was both endearing and dangerous.

"I'll be meditating. Let me know if anything comes up," she said, her voice calm but firm as she turned toward the wall panel. She stepped away from the group, heading toward the hull, giving them the space they needed to process the reality of their actions without her interference. Sitting on the floor, Perdita folded her legs, recalling the details of Master Plo in an effort to locate him within the force… 

•—⟪=====> 

Storms were a rare occurrence on Coruscant. The bustling city-planet, with its endless lights and thick smog, didn’t foster the kind of atmosphere that would produce precipitation—or the howling winds that now swept through the streets. Yet, as the ship touched down after their harrowing return from Geonosis, it felt as though the planet itself was mourning. The violent winds seemed to echo the grief that hung heavy in the air, as if Coruscant, too, was grieving the loss of so many Jedi.

Perdita had been swiftly escorted to the Council upon their arrival at the Temple, the weight of the battle still heavy on her shoulders. “Congratulations,” they had said, their voices steady but distant. They told her the battle had been her trial, that she had passed, and that she was no longer a Padawan. The words felt almost hollow in the aftermath of so much loss, but she stood there, unblinking, as Master Fisto stepped forward to sever the braid that had marked her as a learner. It was a rite of passage that should have been performed by her own Master, but he was gone—fallen in the arena, like so many others, reduced to ash and blood. The ceremony, once a symbol of growth and achievement, now felt like a bitter reminder of the life she had lost.

In that same arena, when hope seemed all but extinguished, they had arrived. The roar of gunships filled the air as they descended, and Perdita had watched as squads of men, armored from head to toe, emerged ready for battle. No one questioned their arrival, no one questioned their purpose. In the chaos of the moment, there was only survival—and she had been thrust into their ranks, quickly learning that these men were not just soldiers; they were clones. Created for war. Created to fight. They didn’t have the luxury of choice. They followed orders, without question, without hesitation.

But now, with the literal dust settling, and her promotion complete, the questions began to creep in. Questions about duty, about what came next, about where she fit in a galaxy that seemed to be falling apart. The weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, and the ceremony—though a mark of her achievement—felt like a formality, a reminder of all that had been sacrificed. She needed space. She needed silence.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, Perdita slipped away, her emotions swirling like the storm outside. The courtyard was empty, save for the relentless fury of the rain and wind. She didn’t mind the storm. The storm outside matched the storm in her mind—chaotic, violent, and full of unresolved anger, sorrow, and fear.

Her gaze lifted to the sky, the sheets of rain blurring her vision as she sought some kind of solace in the tumultuous weather. But all she felt was an overwhelming sense of loss—the loss of her Master, the loss of so many others, and the loss of her own sense of purpose in the wake of it all. Jedi were meant to be peacekeepers. What would happen if they now were forced to lead men into battle? The Jedi Code had taught her to suppress emotions, to detach. But in this moment, as the wind howled around her, Perdita couldn’t help but feel every single one of them.

"I knew I'd find you here," came the calm, familiar timber of a voice behind her. Perdita didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She recognized the voice instantly, as well as the steady presence it carried. It was Master Plo, and the words he spoke were laden with the kind of understanding that could only come from shared grief.

His student, like her own master, had been struck down in the arena. The thought of it still twisted her insides. The four of them had often trained together, or traveled on specific assignments during her time as a Padawan—Moments of camaraderie and mutual respect, forming a bond forged in the fires of battle. She had known his student nearly as well as she had known her own master, their relationships built not just on duty, but on trust. Now both were gone.

It felt like a cruel twist of fate—two warriors, once so sure of their purpose, now left to navigate a galaxy that no longer made sense. She, without a master, and he, without his student. Both left behind to pick up the shattered pieces of what had once been, each holding together their own fractured pieces of humanity under the heavy scrutiny of the Jedi Council. To grieve was to show weakness, and that was something neither of them could afford, not now.

She felt his presence beside her, a quiet understanding that seemed to hang between them like an unspoken bond. They were two sides of the same coin, each carrying the weight of their loss in silence, never allowing it to fully surface in the light of day. The Jedi Code demanded it. Their mission demanded it. But in the solitude of the storm, far from the eyes of their peers, they didn’t need to speak. They both understood too well the painful burden of sacrifice.

Perdita closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to breathe before speaking, her voice soft but firm. “I didn’t expect anyone to follow me.”

“You should not isolate yourself in this. It is only natural to feel what you do,” came his reply, steady as ever, though there was a quiet sadness behind it. Yet, despite all the walls they had built around themselves, there was no escaping the fact that they were both mourning, in their own ways, the loss of those they had cared for and fought alongside.

“What will happen to them?” she asked quietly after a moment, her gaze fixed on the swaying branches of the tree in the courtyard, the rain blurring her view. The storm outside mirrored the storm within her, and in the midst of her grief, she found herself seeking distraction, a way to push away the overwhelming emotions.

“They will become part of the Force,” he replied, his voice steady, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had accepted the inevitable.

"No," she corrected, her voice sharp with the intensity of her question. "I mean the Clones."

“I believe the Senate is set to vote on authorizing the use of the clone army to combat the growing threat of the Separatists,” he explained, his voice tinged with a subtle hesitation. “However, the Jedi remain wary of how the clones came into existence.”

“I thought the Republic outlawed slavery,” she scoffed, disbelief evident in her tone.

“They did,” he replied, his voice flat, understanding the gravity of the comparison she was making. He knew exactly what she was getting at—the clones’ situation was eerily similar to that of slaves. They were created to serve, to be controlled, with no autonomy. Their existence would be confined to the demands of the Republic, bound to a life of rigid structure with no freedom of choice. And to her, that felt far too close to slavery for comfort.

“The hypocrisy of that governing body knows no bounds,” she snapped, the frustration in her voice unmistakable. She paused, her expression darkening as the weight of the situation settled deeper into her bones. With a weary sigh, she continued, “What does the Jedi Council say on this matter?”

“Many believe that, given the escalating threat, it is the appropriate use of force to employ the clone army,” he replied, his tone measured, though tinged with a quiet bitterness.

She arched an eyebrow, not entirely satisfied with the response. “And you?” Her voice held an edge, a challenge beneath the words.

He hesitated, his gaze lowering, as though the question itself carried a weight too heavy to bear. "I was dismissed," he said, his voice quiet, defeated. "But you know as well as I do that when the Republic calls, the Jedi answer. Even when the answer is one we don’t agree with."

The air between them grew thick with the unspoken truth. She could feel the pull of his inner conflict—the contradiction of his duty and his conscience.

“If we are to serve with these men,” he continued, his words now more resolute, though his expression remained troubled, “then it will fall on the shoulders of those like you and me to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve. They may have been created to fight, to serve, but that does not mean they should be used like tools. They are living beings, not weapons.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke volumes. “And when the time comes to end this conflict, we must ensure they are freed from this bond of servitude, released into a life of their own choosing. They deserve that much, at the very least.”

The words hung in the air, a shared vow between them—a promise to protect the clones not just as soldiers, but as individuals with their own rights, with their own futures. In that moment, the burden of leadership weighed heavily on both of them. The galaxy may have been at war, but there was a far more personal war raging inside each of them, one that demanded they fight for what was right, even when it was the hardest thing to do.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

Wolffe was thankful that Master Plo and the others had exited the pod to fight, leaving him behind to maintain the signal. Though he was frustrated by being sidelined from the fight, confined to the restrictive, itchy military officer uniform instead of his familiar pressurized armor, there was a small relief in the solitude. It spared him from having to mask his rising panic in front of the others.

No one would come for them. The thought gnawed at him, sinking deep into his bones. It was a bitter truth he couldn't escape. This was it. The end. They were adrift in the vast emptiness of space, with nothing to save them. The oxygen supply was dwindling, each breath becoming more strained, more desperate. He could already feel the air growing heavier, the tightness in his chest as he inhaled, as if the very atmosphere was suffocating him.

The pod was drifting farther from hope, isolated and fragile. It felt as though time had slowed, each second stretching painfully as the reality of their situation settled in. Wolffe's mind raced, trying to calculate, to find a way out, but there was nothing. The stars outside were cold, distant, and unforgiving. He could almost hear the quiet hum of the dying systems around him, each soft flicker of the lights another reminder of their inevitable fate.

He should have been with them. Out there, with the others, fighting for survival. But instead, he was trapped here, alone with his thoughts, and the crushing weight of failure.

As Wolffe continued to wait for what felt like his inevitable end, his mind drifted back over the course of his life. Most of it was a blur—an endless procession of drills, training exercises, and sterile routines. Kamino had been a cold, unfeeling place. The bland food they were served never seemed to satisfy, and the strict, regimented schedules ensured there was no time for personal indulgence or freedom. Regulation haircuts, the endless rain, the never-ending monotony—it had been all he knew, all he had ever known.

Then, like an unexpected interruption in the rhythm of his existence, the Jedi arrived. They were... strange, even by his standards. Warriors of Peace—a contradiction unto itself? Their purpose seemed at odds with their very nature, yet somehow it made sense. They were not like the clones in any way. Where the clones were bred for war, molded into soldiers from the start, with little to no variation. Same face, same body, same resolve. The Jedi were individuals. Their uniqueness was striking—different ages, genders, species. There was no uniformity among them, beyond the rigid structure of their religion. 

If Wolffe hadn’t seen so much of the impossible in their presence, he might have dismissed it as nonsense. But in the face of the things he had witnessed—things that defied logic—he couldn’t bring himself to deny the reality of it. The Force was real even if he didn’t truly understand how it worked beyond allowing the jedi to maintain impossible feats.

Initially, there had been a division between the Clones and the Jedi, but over time, Wolffe had come to see that they could coexist. When he was planet-side, there were conversations with fellow leaders about their Jedi Generals. Some of those generals were kind, empathetic, while others were more dismissive, more focused on the path to victory than the lives of the soldiers they commanded. Yet, the more Wolffe had worked alongside the Jedi, the more he had come to appreciate those who truly respected the men they led.

Plo, with his wisdom and compassion, had never seen the clones as mere tools. He had seen them as individuals. Wolffe admired him greatly for it. He had been one of the few who could see beyond the battlefield, who could understand that the clones were not just soldiers, but beings with thoughts, emotions, and desires of their own. He’d been one of the first Wolffe knew of to use their names, not numbers, even encouraging each of his men to think of what they wish to be called. 

Yet for all his remarkable qualities, Plo had always seemed a bit too optimistic. Wolffe couldn’t shake the feeling that Master Plo's hope that someone would come looking for them—a handful of clones and a single Jedi—was misplaced. They were out here in deep space, lost and stranded, and though Plo had always maintained his calm, unwavering faith, Wolffe wasn’t so sure. The reality of their situation was harsh and unforgiving, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would go to the lengths required to find them.

But even in the face of that, a small part of him wanted to believe in Plo’s optimism. Because, in the end, it was that hope—however faint—that kept them going. And maybe that was all they had left.

That optimism, fleeting as it was, allowed Wolffe to momentarily block out the blaster fire from the battle droids echoing just beyond the pod's thin walls. It didn’t, however, diminish the ever-present anxiety gnawing at him—the gut-churning realization that the craft’s relentless scraping against the pod’s metal was only a hair's breadth away from creating a catastrophic breach. The sounds of the metal warping, groaning under pressure, were a constant reminder: one more strike, one more hit, and the pod would depressurize, sucking the life from him in a deadly, silent instant.

Amidst the suffocating tension and the relentless chaos both inside the pod and outside in the cold vacuum of space, a voice suddenly pierced through the static—a crackling lifeline in the storm. “Is anyone out there? Come in.”

Wolffe’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Could it be? Was someone actually out there, hearing their distress? The radio crackled again, louder this time, the voice clearer. “Come in, this is General Halle—”

His pulse quickened, a flicker of hope stirring deep within him. He didn't recognize the name, but the urgency in the voice—tired yet determined—stirred something within him. Someone was reaching out. Someone had heard their distress call.

The thought of rescue, of survival, felt so distant, so impossible. Yet here it was, a chance, a thread of hope. Wolffe’s grip tightened on the console as he frantically moved to respond, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Could it be real? Was it truly possible that they weren’t going to be left to die in the cold void of space?

“There’s a general! She must be close!” he shouted urgently into the short-range comms, his voice cutting through the tension like a burst of raw hope. He had to let the others know—there was a chance, however slim, that they might not be alone in this. With a surge of adrenaline, he quickly turned to attempt contact himself, fingers flying over the controls, desperate to reach out and confirm that help was truly on the way.

“Wolffe to General Halle—come in!” he finally barked, his voice rough with urgency, barely suppressing the rising tide of disbelief. The last remnants of fear mixed with a deep, primal hope—the kind of hope he’d long abandoned in the wake of so many battles. Would they make it out of this after all?

“Keep the signal alive, Commander!” Plo Koon’s voice rang out over the chaos of battle, sharp and commanding. Wolffe gritted his teeth as he scrambled to maintain the connection. But the failing power system mocked him at every turn, the energy rapidly draining from the pod’s reserves. His mind raced, cursing himself for not paying more attention during basic engineering training—skills that could’ve saved them all now.

The beeping from the console grew louder, more insistent, each tone like the countdown to their inevitable end. Wolffe’s hands flew over the controls, fighting to keep the fragile signal steady. His stomach twisted as the air around him grew more suffocating with every passing second.

Desperation clawed at him as he forced the words out, “We’re losing the signal! The pod can’t take much more damage!” His voice cracked under the strain, betraying his calm exterior as he looked at the status report. The ship was on the verge of total collapse. The thought of what would come next—suffocating in the cold vacuum of space—made his chest tighten with dread.

It was a terrifying place to exist, caught between the faint hope of survival and the crushing reality that even the prospect of rescue might be a fleeting illusion. Despite hearing the voice over the comms, the question gnawed at him: Who was General Halle? He’d never heard her name before. Was she a fellow Jedi? Perhaps Plo Koon knew her? But Wolffe couldn’t waste time questioning—he had to fight for the signal. Every second felt like a lifetime, and yet, no matter how hard he tried, the clock was ticking down.

A burst of fiery light illuminated the cold darkness outside the pod as the enemy craft was severed in two by a decisive strike from the Jedi. The force of the explosion sent debris scattering into the void, and for a brief moment, Wolffe could allow himself to exhale. The immediate threat had been eradicated, but the relief was fleeting. The question that remained—would anyone get there in time to save them?

The panic that had surged through him began to recede, but he knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. The communication frequency had gone silent on his end, the voice that had offered hope now lost amidst the static and chaos. Whoever had been trying to reach them was now just a whisper in the void, swallowed by the expanding silence of space. The only sounds left were the crackling of their short-range comms, the voices of his brothers outside the pod, echoing through the static.

“We are clones. We are meant to be expendable.” The words, spoken by one of his brothers, hung heavily in the air, carrying a cold, hard truth. Wolffe felt a gnawing agreement with the sentiment. He had always known their place in the galaxy—cogs in a war machine, bred for battle and designed to be discarded when no longer needed. He was a commanding officer, yes, but that title was little more than a designation in the grand scheme of the Grand Army of the Republic. In the end, he wasn’t any different from the others.

If someone came for them, it would be to save the Jedi, to recover the one they had been tasked to protect. His own survival—his brothers’ survival—was not the priority. Even if some Jedi had tried to make them more than that, in the eyes of the galaxy, they would remain faceless, nameless soldiers.

Wolffe clenched his fists, pushing aside the creeping feelings of insignificance. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. There was still the chance—slim though it was—that they might make it out alive. But the weight of those words lingered in his mind, a reminder that in the end, their worth had always been measured by their utility to others.

Wolffe slumped back into his seat, the weight of the air around him becoming unbearable with each shallow breath. It felt as though the very oxygen in the pod was slipping through his grasp, as if it too were being torn apart by the impending end. The faint, flickering red lights above him grew dimmer with every passing second, casting an eerie, muted glow that barely illuminated the confines of the pod. The life support system was failing—he could feel it now, the slow encroachment of cold creeping into his bones, chilling him in ways that the adrenaline of battle never could.

It was a cruel sort of fate, the silence that followed. No grand declaration of doom, no sirens blaring, no sudden warning to mark the end of everything. The systems were shutting down quietly, efficiently, as if they were just letting him slip into nothingness with as little disturbance as possible. It was almost too serene.

He understood why it was done this way, of course. The programming was designed to allow any survivors a peaceful departure, a gentle fade into sleep as their surroundings gradually succumbed to the cold embrace of space. It was meant to be humane, a way to spare the mind the anguish of facing the end head-on. But Wolffe had never been one for gentle endings. He didn’t want peace in his final moments—he wanted defiance, a clear acknowledgment that the end had come, that it was final, that he had fought to the bitter end, even if that end had no grand spectacle. If he had it his way, there would be an unmistakable signal, a sharp, resounding yes, this is it, a harsh punctuation to the story of his life.

Instead, he was left in a limbo of silent, inevitable decay, surrounded by the endless hum of failing systems and the distant knowledge that the seconds, the minutes, were slipping away without him ever knowing for sure if this was the end.

Wolffe's hands tightened on the seat as he sat there in the suffocating stillness. The sensation of time dragging on without any real sense of urgency made him ache with frustration. What was the point of it all? To just fade away quietly, like some nameless casualty in the war that had defined his existence? No dramatic last stand, no final shout of defiance, no reckoning to be had. Just silence, cold, and the slow, grinding end of everything he had ever known.

He let out a shaky breath, the air growing thinner, the pressure in his chest mounting. In the quiet of the pod, with only the faintest hum of equipment barely keeping him alive, Wolffe had nothing left but his thoughts—and they were becoming far too loud.

Wolffe's eyelids drooped, heavy with the oppressive weight of fatigue and cold. His body had long since surrendered to the numbness, the chill creeping deeper into his limbs, making every breath feel like an effort, each inhale a struggle against the inevitable. Death had caught up with him. There was no escaping it now, no last-minute miracle to spare him. The sharp, biting cold pressed against his skin, and the air around him—once a lifeline—had become a distant, fading memory. His lungs screamed for oxygen that never came, every breath shallower than the last.

His muscles, once honed by years of training and battle, now felt like lead, too heavy to move, too weary to resist. His eyes fluttered, unable to stay open for much longer. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, the last remnants of his awareness slipping into darkness, where no light reached. A part of him embraced the quiet finality of it, welcomed it, even. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be. Perhaps Master Plo had been right—death was just a transition, a merging with the Force. It wasn’t an end; it was a return. Warm, bright, peaceful—the Force. Perhaps in that moment, he would finally understand.

And yet, even as the darkness crept closer, something stirred. The beat of his heart—the final, sluggish rhythm of life—pounded in his ears, louder now than it had ever been before, each thud reverberating through his chest like a drumbeat echoing in the stillness.

Bump.

Bump... Bump.

Bump.

The sound seemed to slow with his fading consciousness, the once-urgent beat now a rhythmic lullaby guiding him to the edge.

But then, without warning, a brilliant flash of light cut through the suffocating darkness. It pierced the quiet, searing through the despair like a sudden burst of hope. Wolffe’s mind struggled to comprehend it, but the light was unmistakable. Maybe Master Plo had been right after all—the warmth, the brightness, the sense of something beyond... but then—

Bang!

The sudden, loud noise outside the pod shattered the fragile peace that had begun to claim him. His body jerked involuntarily in response, his eyes snapping open as the shock of the sound cut through the fading haze of his thoughts.

Someone was out there. 

A surge of adrenaline shot through him, his heart leaping back to life. The air, now a bit thicker, felt somehow less suffocating, the hope that had seemed so distant flickering again. Whoever it was outside had just given him a moment—maybe more—of something he hadn’t dared hope for.

The pain in his chest was still apparent to him, and his vision blurred, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he found himself focused, listening. The world outside the pod had just shifted, and he had to know if it was the salvation he had been waiting for.

Then, with a violent jolt, the pod slammed into something hard, the impact reverberating through his entire body, rattling him to his core. The world around him seemed to spin, and for a moment, Wolffe could do nothing but slump over, his strength utterly drained. His limbs felt as though they had turned to lead, each one a weight he could no longer lift.

He fought against it, clawing for any remaining reserves of energy. He pushed himself, muscles trembling with the effort, but his body refused to cooperate. Every motion felt sluggish and wrong, as if the very will to rise had been stolen from him.

But then, with a sound that echoed in the empty space, the viewport of the pod shattered away, sending a burst of cold, fresh air flooding into the cabin. The sudden rush of oxygen felt like a rebirth, a blessing from the stars themselves. His chest heaved with desperate gulps, as though his lungs had forgotten what it was like to breathe. The air filled him with a ferocity he hadn’t realized he was starving for, until it seemed to choke him, forcing him to cough uncontrollably.

His arms shook with the final effort, but he found just enough strength to push himself toward the exit, his legs barely supporting his weight as he hobbled forward. He could barely think, his mind clouded with the dizziness of survival, but there was no stopping him now. He had to get out.

As he reached the opening, the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. He faltered, teetering on the edge of collapse, and braced himself for the inevitable fall. But instead of the cold metal of the floor meeting him, strong arms caught him in mid-motion, preventing his fall with an unexpected gentleness.

Expecting one of his brothers, his thoughts disoriented and desperate, he was taken aback when he realized the arms holding him were smaller—slender and feminine. A voice, calm and soothing, spoke just above a whisper, asking with surprising kindness, “Are you alright, Trooper?”

•—⟪=====> 

Perdita's focus deepened as she reached out through the Force, trying to find Master Plo amidst the chaos, but it was the disjointed, desperate thoughts of one of the men that captured her attention. His presence was a storm, fierce and muddled, his emotions ringing out far louder than the calm yet intense connection of her Jedi mentor.

His thoughts were raw, unrefined—full of fear and confusion. He didn’t want to be a cog in the machine. A mindless instrument of war. He didn’t want to be another expendable clone, lost in the endless tide of conflict. A question lingered in his mind: What would death feel like? 

Amidst those thoughts was something else—a flicker of gratitude. He was grateful to Master Plo Koon. The Jedi had treated him and his brothers with respect, with civility, even amidst the brutality of their roles. This is more than a commanding officer, he thought. This is a leader. This is how they all should be.

But then, the wave of frustration surged within him. An unwillingness to give in, even as his body slowly surrendered to exhaustion. His thoughts grew erratic as he pushed against the physical limits of his being, fighting against the inevitable collapse of his own mind and body.

Perdita understood that feeling. How many times had she felt the same way? The overwhelming fatigue, the pull to fight against the tide, against the war that seemed unrelenting. This war was not the purpose of the Jedi—it was a corruption of their true calling. The Jedi were meant to protect life, not throw it away. Yet here they were, caught in the gears of an endless machine, forced to wage war against an enemy that kept multiplying, even as the cost of every life weighed heavy on them. 

It wasn’t fair, she thought bitterly. None of this was fair.

The men, the clones, paid for the greed and ambitions of those who never felt the weight of their sacrifices. She could feel their pain, the endless struggle for meaning in a galaxy that seemed to demand only death in return for their service.

This man, in particular, seemed to be a reflection of everything she had come to understand about the clones. He was more than just a soldier—he was a person, a being with thoughts and feelings, dreams and fears. He wanted to be something more than just one of the millions, but at the same time, he was tethered to them all. He felt the deep connection with his brothers, the ones who bled and died beside him. They were more than just his comrades; they were his family. 

And yet, through all the pain and fear, there was a beautiful truth. He was alive. Against all odds, he was alive. The Force pulsed through him, as it did every living thing, binding him to everything in the galaxy.

Wolffe.

She could feel him.

When the pod finally crashed into the reconnaissance ship, Perdita didn’t hesitate. She acted quickly, tearing the viewport away with ease, knowing that every second mattered. What she saw made her heart ache—a broken figure, barely clinging to life, his eyes wide with terror, fighting against his own weakening body. 

His breath came in short gasps as he slumped, a mere fraction of the strong man he was, now reduced to a vulnerable body lying in the wreckage. But he was still alive. And for all the pain that radiated from him, she knew that was enough.

She moved swiftly, gathering him up as gently as she could, easing him out of the wreckage. His body seemed heavy, limp against her, but the sense of life—the fragile thread that connected him to the world—was undeniable. She settled him against her chest, her heart racing with the effort to hold onto that precious spark of life.

She gently propped him up against the side of the damaged pod, her hands steady but filled with urgency. Looking down at him, she saw the fear in his brown eyes, darting around in confusion and panic. His breaths were shallow, strained, and he seemed lost, disoriented in the chaos of his surroundings. She could sense his fight-or-flight instincts were still alive.

Her voice, soft yet steady, pierced through the fog of his panic like a lifeline. "Are you alright, trooper?" she asked, her tone as calm and reassuring as she could muster, despite the storm raging within her. She knelt beside him, leaning close in an effort to anchor him to the present, her steady presence a fragile shield against the weight of the chaos surrounding them. 

Her hands came up to cradle his face, the touch gentle but grounding. She smoothed her thumbs along his temples, her warmth urging his ragged breaths to slow, her quiet strength coaxing his lungs to draw in air again. Bit by bit, the tension in his shoulders eased, and with a slight nod, he leaned back, letting her hands fall away. A flicker of gratitude passed between them before she shifted her attention to Master Plo, who had just arrived.

“I see your tracking abilities remain as sharp as ever. Your master would be proud,” Master Plo said, his voice measured, though the words carried an unintentional weight. The compliment, meant to honor her, cut deep, stirring a memory she had yet to confront fully.

“Actually,” she began, her voice steady but laced with an edge of emotion, “I didn’t need to rely on them completely. One of your men guided me here. His admiration for you stood out, even amidst the chaos. It was louder than anything else.” 

Her words hung in the air, both a testament to the trooper’s loyalty and an unspoken reminder of the connections that kept them tethered, even in the darkest of times.

"I have done little more than what I promised at the war's outset," he said, his voice low and reflective as he inclined his head toward her. The unspoken understanding between them hung heavy in the air, unyielding but oddly comforting.  

"Skywalker," he continued, his tone shifting to something more urgent, "we need to get to the bridge and navigate out of this debris field before they track us. Dita, would you stay—"  

"I will help your men," she interjected with a firm nod, her voice calm yet resolute.  

The name lingered in the air, charged with a meaning no one else seemed to grasp. Dita. It slipped from his tongue so naturally that there was no time for the others to question it. She hadn't been called that in years—not since her old master had bestowed the moniker upon her. The sound of it was a bittersweet echo of a past life: part ache, part warmth, but entirely hers.  

Without hesitation, she knelt beside one of the injured soldiers clad in armor, her movements graceful but purposeful. She glanced at the medical droid, waiting for its assessment and instructions as it examined the man she'd found.  

Her eyes flicked briefly to the clone in the white uniform—definitely a commander. The oxygen mask pressed to his face obscured part of his features, but the sharp lines of his profile remained strikingly clear.  

Wolffe, she thought. The name suited him.  

There was something undeniably captivating about the clones. Their sun-kissed golden complexions and mischievous brown eyes seemed to embody an irrepressible vitality, even in the darkest moments. To her, they'd always been handsome—every single one of them. An army of millions, each bearing the same roguish charm, had often proved... distracting.  

But now was not the time for such thoughts. She pushed them aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. The commander needed care, and she would see to it that he was alright.

“This one is stable but may require additional care,” the mechanical droid informed her, its tone clinical and detached as it moved away from the commander.

Perdita nodded absently, her attention already shifting to Wolffe. She knelt beside him, her movements careful but deliberate, and gently took the oxygen canister from his hands. He leaned back slightly against the wall, his exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders slumped.

“General Halle, I presume,” he muttered, his voice raw and uneven. His dark eyes met hers, their sharpness dulled but still assessing.

“Yes,” she replied simply, her tone steady. Her gaze flicked to the shallow cut along his brow, the blood dried and dark against his golden skin. It wasn’t deep, just a small split where the skin had given way. But even minor injuries could become complications if left untreated.

Reaching for an anesthetic wipe, Perdita paused just long enough to lower her mask. She tore the foil packet open with her teeth, the action quick and efficient, and withdrew the medicated pad. Quickly replaced was the veil before anyone could see her almost constantly guarded features.

“This might sting a little,” she warned softly.

He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the pad against the cut, clearing away the blood with practiced care. His breathing was steady, though his gaze remained fixed on her, studying her scar and the small sliver of her face which showed beneath her mask and hood as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

The wipe’s cool, stinging touch worked its way through the wound, sterilizing as it soothed. She pressed a little firmer, ensuring the medicated solution did its job. After a moment of examination, she was satisfied.

“No stitches needed,” she murmured, discarding the used wipe. “You’ll be fine.”

Wolffe exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t say you are what I expected after hearing your voice.”

Perdita arched a brow, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone... taller,” he quipped, his voice still raspy but laced with dry humor.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, I’m afraid this is all you are going to get.”

Wolffe’s smirk widened, but it faded quickly as he winced, shifting slightly. Perdita placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Easy,” she cautioned. “You’ve been through a lot. Rest while you can.”

His eyes softened, the earlier tension in his expression easing as he leaned back again. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, the words tinged with both respect and a hint of weariness.

Something about this clone felt... different. All clones had their own subtle distinctions—small quirks that set them apart despite their identical origins. But with him, there was an undeniable uniqueness, an aura she couldn’t quite name. Was it his quiet strength? The way his presence seemed to command attention even in silence? She wasn’t sure, and now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

They weren’t out of danger yet.

As if to underline the thought, the lights around them flickered once before plunging the room into total darkness before the red backup lights kicked in. The low hum of machinery ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to swallow the air itself.

Around her, the clones seemed to snap into action, the hum of urgency electrifying the air. Despite their injuries, they moved with a kind of practiced efficiency, readying themselves for whatever threat loomed. The shift was palpable—soldiers who had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion now stood poised and alert, their instincts sharpened by years of training and battle.

“We should get up to the bridge,” Wolffe muttered, his voice strained but resolute. He took a tentative step forward, but his balance wavered, his body betraying the toll his injuries had taken.

Perdita was at his side in an instant, her fingers tightening around his bicep to steady him. “Not yet,” she said softly, shaking her head. Her grip was firm but careful, her support unyielding as his shaky legs found a semblance of stability.

Wolffe let out a frustrated breath, but he didn’t resist her help. She could see the determination etched into his features—the same determination that likely kept him alive through battles far worse than this. But right now, he needed rest more than heroics.

“I’ll head up and check on things,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

She held his arm for another moment, ensuring he could stand without her support. His dark eyes flicked to hers in the dim glow of the backup lighting, and for a brief second, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

As she stepped onto the bridge, the palpable tension hit her like a wave. The air was thick with unspoken fears and barely contained nerves. Through the viewport, the colossal battle station loomed, its ominous silhouette swallowing the distant starlight. It seemed to defy time itself, drifting past with an almost taunting slowness. No one dared to breathe, the quiet hum of the ship's systems the only sound cutting through the suffocating silence.

“Assuming that’s why it went dark…” she muttered after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a question, and no one offered an answer. The rhetorical comment hung in the air, unanswered, as the ship adjusted its course ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted to the corner of the bridge, where Skywalker’s R2 unit sat dormant, its lifeless dome a stark contrast to the urgency mounting around them.

The ship gave a faint shudder as its engines shifted power, turning them to face the looming battle station fully. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt—everything was at a standstill. Systems across the scout ship were dark, leaving them vulnerable to the predatory machine outside.

“Are all the systems shut down?” Master Plo’s calm voice broke through the silence, though his measured tone belied the danger they faced.

“Medical droid in the hull is still active” she mentioned with a terse tone, panic creeping into her voice as her words sent everyone into a frenzy of motion. 

“We’ve got to get the power back on, now!” Anakin’s voice cut through the chaos like a commander’s call to arms. Around her, frantic hands worked to restore life to the ship. Lights flickered, consoles hummed back to life, and the faint vibration of repowering systems thrummed underfoot.

She turned her attention back to the viewport, her chest tightening as the battle station continued to reposition itself. Its massive ion blaster came into full view, the weapon more menacing than she had ever imagined. The sheer size of it seemed to mock their tiny scout ship.

Her mind raced, recalling the grim story Master Plo had told—the devastating power of that ion cannon, the annihilation of his entire fleet, leaving only four survivors. Her breath caught in her throat. If that monstrous weapon could obliterate a fleet, what chance did they stand now? The odds felt crushingly impossible.

Being tossed around the cockpit by Skywalker’s daring maneuvers, Perdita clung to the nearest console, trying to steady herself against the turbulence. Anakin’s unique flying style was chaotic, but it was their only hope of threading through the dense debris field. The ship groaned in protest as it twisted and weaved, and Perdita struggled to keep her footing. To her left, a flickering display showed a massive energy surge closing in from behind—an ominous purple glow that painted the cockpit in ghostly light.

“Master…” Ahsoka’s voice cut through the alarms, tight with anxiety. The warning klaxons screamed louder, a relentless reminder of the doom racing toward them.

Perdita swallowed her fear, forcing herself to trust in Anakin’s uncanny ability to pull them out of impossible situations. He is the Chosen One, she reminded herself, clinging to the belief that his destiny would see them through. But the thought brought little comfort as her mind strayed down the corridor to where the rescued clones huddled, still recovering from their last ordeal.

What a cruel twist of fate, she thought bitterly. To have been saved from one deathtrap only to face annihilation again so soon—it was almost too much to bear. Her heart ached at the memory of the Commander, who still felt the call to assist despite his injuries. 

As the ion blast crept closer, its menacing glow filling the bridge, Perdita fought to keep her emotions in check. But her thoughts betrayed her, shifting to memories she had long tried to suppress. The laughter of her fallen Master echoed faintly in her mind, only to be replaced by the gravelly, smoke-tinged voice of the injured Commander. His calm presence in the face of despair had steadied her before, but now, with nothing but the vast void of space around them, she felt untethered.

“We’re clear!” Ahsoka’s triumphant yell snapped Perdita back to the present as the ship’s engines roared to life. With a sharp pull of the controls, Anakin wrenched them out of the debris field and into hyperspace. The oppressive glow of the ion blast disappeared as stars streaked past the viewport in brilliant lines of light.

For a moment, there was silence—a stillness broken only by the hum of the ship’s systems returning to normal. Perdita exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she released the console. Relief mingled with exhaustion, but another feeling lingered beneath the surface.

Master Plo turned to her, his calm presence grounding her as always. Though he said nothing, his body language spoke volumes. His steady gaze met hers, and she knew he understood where her mind had wandered during the chaos. There was no judgment in his expression, only a quiet empathy that made her feel exposed yet comforted.

In the wake of their escape, the tension in the room eased, but Perdita couldn’t shake the weight of what had just transpired. The Commander’s thoughts echoed in her mind once more, a reminder of both the fragility of life and the strength found in moments of resolve. As the movement of hyperspace stretched endlessly before them, she decided to carry that strength forward—if only to honor those who couldn’t.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

General Plo had returned to the hull where Wolffe and the surviving troopers rested after their harrowing escape into hyperspace. The debris field had been merciless, and though their escape was barely successful, it had yielded critical intelligence about the "mystery weapon." That knowledge alone offered a glimmer of hope for its eventual destruction. Despite the heavy casualties they had suffered and the searing pain that lingered in his lungs, Wolffe felt a small measure of relief. They had survived, and their struggle might now have purpose.

Seated against the hull wall, Wolffe adjusted the oxygen mask strapped to his face, his voice muffled as he spoke. “Sir, the General who found us—” he began, trailing off as his thoughts turned inward. Perdita had remained on the bridge after delivering them to safety, leaving him with questions that refused to settle. How had she found them? Or more specifically, how had she found him?

“What about her?” Plo Koon asked, his calm, gravelly voice breaking through Wolffe’s haze of uncertainty. The Kel Dor Jedi leaned slightly closer, his presence steady and grounding in the way only a Jedi Master’s could be.

Wolffe hesitated, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. “How did she… find us? Or… my thoughts, I suppose. Through the Force?” The question hung in the air, tinged with curiosity and unease. He’d heard tales of Jedi abilities before, but this felt different—more personal.

Plo’s masked face tilted thoughtfully, his gloved fingers brushing the edges of his respirator in a contemplative gesture. After a moment, he answered, his tone as measured as ever. “Perdita possesses a rare gift among Jedi. She has the ability to track memories and strong emotions through the Force. By touching an object, she can glimpse its past, and through the emotions of others, she can sense their presence—even across great distances. I suspect that, in the chaos, she latched onto your fear and resolve as a beacon through the noise.”

Wolffe blinked, the explanation both clarifying and unsettling. His fear and resolve… the emotions that had churned within him during those desperate moments had been like a flare, drawing her to their position. The thought made him pause, his mind turning over the implications of such a power.

“So… She felt… me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Plo. The idea was humbling and unsettling in equal measure. His fear, his regrets, his desire to save his brothers—it had all been laid bare in the Force for her to see. The mere thought of it all was exposing.

Plo nodded, his gaze steady. “She likely did. But do not mistake her insight for intrusion. Perdita does not seek to exploit what she feels. She uses her gift to help, to guide, and to protect.”

Wolffe mulled over the words, his gaze dropping to his hands as he contemplated the weight of them. It wasn’t easy for him to trust, even when it came to the Jedi. But Perdita’s actions spoke volumes—she had saved them, had reached through the chaos to find them when all hope seemed lost.

“I see,” Wolffe finally said, his voice quieter now. He leaned back against the hull, his mind still grappling with what Plo had shared. Perhaps it didn’t matter how she’d found him. What mattered was that she had. "I’ve never heard of her before. No troopers that I know of are under her command," the Commander replied, his brow furrowing slightly as he spoke. "But you referred to her as Dita—so, I take it you’re well-acquainted with her?"

For a brief moment, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. He wondered if the Jedi might interpret his question as an interrogation, but the man simply nodded, his expression softening. It seemed to Plo Koon that Wolffe was eager to understand more about his savior.

"I knew her master well," the Jedi began, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness. "He perished on the same day my padawan did. It's... a bond, of sorts. We’ve always seemed to think alike when it comes to this war. But as for why she doesn’t command any troopers—well, that’s a decision the Council made. They don’t believe it's in her best interest to lead in the traditional sense, as other Jedi do. Instead, she’s been assigned to work directly with those caught in the heart of the conflict. Her strengths along with her compassion, are an asset that is often in short supply these days." 

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind working overtime to make sense of the conversation. He had never known that Master Plo Koon had a padawan. Let alone that the jedi he served seemed to hold such a personal connection with the woman who’d saved them. The Jedi’s words lingered in the air, but they only served to deepen the mystery that seemingly was General Halle. 

He let out a quiet breath and nodded, deciding it was best to leave the questions for another time. The woman would be leaving soon. She would return to her own quiet battles, whatever they might be, and he would return to his more familiar role—leading the troopers, issuing orders, and focusing on the fight ahead. There was no room for distractions or unanswered questions in the midst of war.

Yet, as much as he tried to dismiss the matter, one thought refused to leave him: she had saved them. All of them. Without hesitation. Without asking for anything in return. The entire squad owed their lives to her, and that reality sat heavy on his conscience. The woman was elusive, almost untouchable in her detached, silent grace, but that didn’t lessen the gratitude Wolffe felt.

The question gnawed at him: How could he thank her?

A simple "thank you" seemed insufficient, a token gesture at best. Words had never felt so inadequate, especially when it came to something so profound. What did you say to someone who had saved you? How could you honor such an act of selflessness without making her uncomfortable or drawing unwanted attention to the deed?

To his right, Boost and Sinker were seated on the floor, the pair leaning against the hull, talking about nothing of importance. They were laughing, animatedly discussing how they couldn’t wait to get a warm shower and a decent meal. It was the kind of conversation soldiers often fell into when they’d survived another harrowing battle—small comforts, simple pleasures that felt like luxuries after the hell of war. He could understand their excitement; a hot shower and a good meal sounded like heaven right now.

But as Wolffe listened to them, a small knot of discomfort tightened in his chest. Their talk was too... narrow, too self-contained. It felt out of place, almost wrong. They were survivors, yes—but the war didn’t end just because they’d made it through another day. There was a bigger picture, one that stretched beyond their immediate needs. Perhaps it was that difference in perspective that had shaped him into the Commander he was.

He had always been trained to see the situation as a whole, to think beyond the individual and focus on the larger mission, the bigger strategy. The war doesn’t stop for you, his training had drilled into him, day after day. And yet here they were, consumed by the thought of a hot meal, as if the battle had already been won, as if there weren’t still lives at stake and a galaxy in peril. It bothered him. It didn’t sit right.

Wolffe shook his head slightly, trying to push the unease aside. His gaze dropped to his uniform, the stiff white fabric of his officer's tunic, out of place and ill-fitting in the moment. He was more acclimated to the constraints of armor, that this tweed material made him exposed. 

He brushed a hand over the fabric, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that had accumulated. It felt like an odd, futile gesture, trying to bring order to something that was, in essence, chaotic. He wasn’t used to thinking about his appearance—rarely had need to think about it. 

Wolffe shared the same features as his brothers—identical in every way. The same bronze complexion, the same dark, intense eyes, the same deep brown hair. To him, there was little need to stand out in appearance; his identity was defined by his role and his actions, not the way he looked.

He had always felt that the clones who sought uniqueness through changes to their appearance were chasing something fleeting, something unnecessary. The idea of colored or long hair seemed absurd—maintenance during deployments or combat was difficult enough without adding more to the list. And face tattoos? They struck him as... unprofessional, especially for someone in a leadership position. It wasn’t just about practicality; it was about maintaining a certain standard of discipline, a sense of order. Officers, in his view, needed to embody that standard—not stand apart from it.

In Wolffe’s mind, any alterations to appearance should be a personal matter, something private—done for oneself, not for the approval or attention of others. So, he kept his tattoos hidden, a personal choice that he saw no need to display. His hair was kept short and practical, his facial hair carefully shaved away. It was simple, efficient, and in his eyes, a mark of professionalism. 

Instinctively, he reached up to fix his hair, his gloved hand running through the short strands. His fingers caught on the thick gel he had used to keep his hair in place during the chaos of combat. Wolffe tugged at it, trying to rearrange his dark locks. The effort was in vain, of course. The gel was too set, too unyielding, and his hair refused to cooperate.

Why did this matter?

He froze, his hand still tangled in his hair, the question hanging in the air. Why did he feel this compulsive need to make himself presentable, when everything around him was in tatters? They had all been spared death today, yes. But that was the only victory. His appearance hardly mattered—not in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice.

Yet, despite the absurdity of it, the need lingered. The need to appear competent, presentable, even when he felt anything but. Perhaps it was a way to cling to some semblance of normalcy, some small piece of order in the disarray of his thoughts.

But as the thought lingered, Wolffe caught himself, questioning it—Why?

More troubling still, for whom?

The very notion made him want to bolt, to open the airlock and let the weight of his embarrassment carry him into the cold emptiness of space. What was he doing? Why would a seasoned Commander in the clone army, respected and battle-hardened, seek the approval of a woman he barely knew? A Jedi, no less—a figure bound by the very rules that forbade attachment, a woman who kept herself shrouded in secrecy, both physically and emotionally.

He couldn’t even begin to guess who she truly was beneath the robes and the mask. The only parts of her he could make out were the eerie glow of her bright eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of mystery surrounding her—and the scar that marred the otherwise smooth, pale skin of her face. A single mark, like a memory of a battle she’d survived. But beyond that, there was nothing. He had no knowledge of her species, no clue about the woman behind the mask.

He felt like an outsider looking in, caught between a gnawing curiosity and the stark realization that his place was far removed from hers. He was just a clone—a soldier—and she was a Jedi, bound by codes he could never understand, carrying burdens that had nothing to do with him.

The curiosity made him feel... juvenile. He didn’t wonder about women—not like this. His interests had always been more straightforward, more functional. The warmth he sought back on Coruscant was the kind most officers indulged in—brief, impersonal, and fleeting. Late nights in the backrooms of the 79s, tossing credits won in a game of sabacc onto the table, before making a quick retreat back to base to hit the refresher. The entertainers, with their bright smiles and painted faces, always made him anxious to get clean, to scrub away the evidence of the…distraction.

But this? To actually want to see the features of a woman who was his superior? The very thought was absurd. Wolffe scoffed under his breath, shaking his head at the idea. It had to be some kind of side effect of the gratitude he felt. She had saved his life—no small feat—and now that debt had manifested in this bizarre curiosity.

That’s all it was, he reasoned with himself. After months of nothing but combat and the sterile company of his brothers, she was one of the only women he’d been around. A brief glimpse of something unfamiliar, something human, had stirred feelings he’d never given much thought to before. She’d touched him gently, and in a way he’d never recalled being touched before. Her thumbs softly brushed along his skin, as if she was concerned it may shatter under her fingertips. It wasn’t attraction—it was simply curiosity, nothing more. Right?

The subtle shift in the ship’s movement as it exited hyperspace brought Wolffe back to the present, the hum of the engines signaling their return to realspace. They would be arriving soon—back with Skywalker’s fleet—and from there, his path would be uncertain, shrouded in the fog of the war. His thoughts faltered, caught between the urgency of duty and the questions that lingered unanswered.

The muffled voices in the corridor grew louder, pulling him from his reflections. The door slid open, revealing Master Plo Koon and Ahsoka.  Wolffe hadn’t even noticed his brief departure, only his return. The Jedi Master was speaking calmly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of reassurance, while Ahsoka wore a faint smile, her eyes alight with the quiet relief of their arrival.

Below them, the ship’s landing gear made contact with the cruiser, the low thud reverberating through the hull. Wolffe watched as Boost and Sinker stood, moving with practiced efficiency as they donned their armor once more, preparing for the next phase of their mission. The Gateway hissed open, and one by one, his brothers filed out of the small craft, their movements swift and familiar.

First his brothers, then Plo Koon and the padawan—each moving with purpose. Wolffe lingered at the back, holding his position. He had made up his mind: before leaving, he would find a way to thank her. The Jedi had saved their lives. He owed her that much, at least.

Moments later, she emerged, deep in conversation with Skywalker, her gaze flicking across the room with casual precision. But then, her eyes locked on him. “Anakin—” he heard her murmur, before her tone shifted, the words trailing off. Slowly, deliberately, she began to walk toward him.

“Commander, might I accompany you to the med bay?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm, the request coming with a hint of sincerity that caught him off guard.

Wolffe blinked, momentarily taken aback. “That’s not necessary, Ma’am—” he started, ready to brush off the offer.

She cut him off gently, her tone light but firm. “It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said, and Wolffe could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer some time alone after the events of today?”

He hesitated, glancing away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t think escorting a clone to the med bay would be a good use of your time,” he replied, his eyes darting uncomfortably to the side.

“Nonsense,” she replied with a quiet laugh, her confidence unwavering. “Besides—” she paused for a moment, as if considering something. “If that means the Council will take out their frustration on Anakin and Ahsoka instead, then you’d be doing me a favor by keeping me out of the crossfire.”

Wolffe couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “In that case, General, I’d be more than happy to spare you,” he said, a hint of dry humor creeping into his voice.

The woman gestured toward the gangplank, and Wolffe gave a curt nod, beginning his walk. She moved effortlessly beside him, her every step a picture of grace. The dark robes she wore—much deeper in hue than any Jedi’s attire he had seen before—swayed with her movements, flowing like shadows that shifted with the rhythm of her stride. In contrast, he stood in his pale officer's uniform, the stark white fabric a striking contrast against his dark features. She, with her pale skin catching the light beneath the dark material of her robes, was a study in contrast—an enigma of light and shadow walking beside him.

After a moment of silence, he broke the quiet, his voice steady but carrying the weight of gratitude. “Thank you for getting us out in one piece, General Halle,” he said.

Her steps faltered on the ramp at his words. She paused, turning to face him, her expression unreadable as she studied him in silence for a moment. “It was your determination that guided me to you all,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected depth. “In a way, you saved yourself, Commander Wolffe.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to brush off her comment. “Master Plo said someone would come for us. I’m glad he was right,” he replied, his tone steady, though the flicker of uncertainty behind it betrayed his intent to deflect.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes sharp, searching for something deeper. “You did not share his sentiment?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Wolffe hesitated before answering, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Strategically, General, it doesn’t make sense to waste resources on rescuing a handful of clone troopers,” he said, his tone firm, though there was a slight edge of discomfort in admitting it aloud. He wasn’t sure why the words felt heavier than usual, as if the notion of worth had shifted in his mind, leaving him with more questions than answers.

She didn’t respond immediately, a thoughtful hum escaping her lips as she processed his words. Then, with quiet conviction, she spoke. “Respectfully, sir, I do not agree with your assessment.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her candidness, and he turned to face her, momentarily speechless. “I—” he began, unsure of how to respond.

She held his gaze, her expression steady. “Strategically, our primary objective was to uncover the mystery behind that weapon,” she continued, her tone deliberate and measured. “Given the scale of the fleets that were lost, a small mercy mission to rescue the survivors could provide critical insight toward achieving that goal. However…” Her eyes softened slightly as she regarded him, “The value of life—no matter its origins—is something I hold dear. I do not consider it a waste of resources.”

Wolffe paused, his mind turning over the conversation. He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he turned away, his gaze inadvertently falling on a passing member of the 501st. The soldier’s face was all too familiar—his name unknown—but the resemblance was undeniable. The same features, the same purpose, the same quiet determination. It served as a stark reminder of his argument to the Jedi: that clones were soldiers, not individuals worthy of exceptional regard. His thoughts wandered for a moment, reinforcing the point he'd made earlier. Yet, despite his best efforts, he couldn't shake the weight of the resolve with which she had spoken.

Just as Master Plo had, General Halle seemed to view things differently—she, too, seemed to believe there was more to the clones than their utility on the battlefield. A subtle shift in his thinking began to form, challenging the hardened convictions he’d carried for so long.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “Master Plo speaks very highly of your compassion, General Halle.”

Her response was swift, a quiet smile in her tone. “As he does with the strength of your leadership, Commander Wolffe,” she replied, her eyes momentarily flicking to the distance, where the familiar signet of the medical ward could be seen, a quiet beacon marking the end of their short journey.

The words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Wolffe wasn’t sure how to respond. He had spent so long compartmentalizing his thoughts, locking away any notion of self beneath the armor of duty. But there, in her gaze, he saw something that both unsettled and intrigued him—an invitation to consider that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the role he had always played.

Before he could gather his thoughts, they arrived at the medical bay’s entrance, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss. The sterile scent of antiseptic and bacta flooded his senses. A place for healing. A place where bodies were mended, but souls remained fractured.

Wolffe paused in the doorway, his eyes briefly sweeping across the medical ward—sterile, quiet, a space built for healing and recovery. Yet, amidst the sterile whiteness of the room, he could feel an overwhelming sense of finality. He shifted his gaze back to her, meeting General Halle’s eyes once more, his expression betraying the quiet weight of his thoughts.

“Thank you, General,” he said, his voice low but steady. "For... saving us. And for not seeing us as just soldiers."

Her expression softened, her eyes shifting from their usual intensity to something gentler, something more personal. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging his words with the respect she’d shown throughout their brief time together. “Any time, Commander,” she replied with warmth, her tone unguarded.

Without hesitation, she extended her arm toward him, and he met it halfway, gripping her forearm in the familiar gesture—one of comradeship, of respect, a bond forged not in words but in action. The clasp was firm, an unspoken promise of understanding between them.

"Until we meet again, Wolffe," she said, her voice carrying a quiet finality that spoke volumes. There was something in her gaze—perhaps it was the fleeting softness, or the unspoken understanding—that made the farewell feel heavier than it should have.

Wolffe found himself looking down at their joined forearms for a moment. His fingers, long and almost imposing, curled around the slender shape of her arm, while her delicate fingers rested lightly against his. The contrast between them was striking—two figures so vastly different in form and demeanor, yet united in this fleeting moment of connection.

He then lifted his gaze slowly. He sought one last glimpse into her bright green eyes, eyes that seemed to hold so much, that flickered with wisdom and purpose. Something there stirred within him, a feeling that he couldn’t quite name but knew he would carry with him for a long time.

“Until we meet again, General Halle,” he replied, his voice steady, though a trace of something deeper lingered beneath the surface.

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[pazzapalooza]

The Fraggle Five Playing Minecraft

Gobo: got iron armor within the first twenty minutes then left them to try and get the Adventuring Time advancement, hasn't been heard from since. some say he's been spotted looking for a woodland mansion, and complaining about mushrooms for whatever reason. Mokey: went into the game completely blind, found an animal and dedicated her time to building a beautiful room for it. now works to build rooms for every type of mob in the game, hostile or passive. she also collects decorative blocks and materials for Boober. she loves collecting the flowers, and the others often are annoyed when they run into one of the many sweet berry bushes she planted. loves bartering with piglins. learned the hard way that beds don't work in the nether. Wembley: an idiot savant at the game, which makes Red very jealous. he somehow gets through the whole game without dying even when doing something extremely dangerous like infiltrating an ancient city without alerting a warden. he does bucket clutches and builds platforms while jumping just because he's always on the move, not even because it looks cool. always carries snowballs with him to throw near the others for fun. Boober: made a hole in the side of a wall in a lush cave and effectively created their base. he then proceeds to decorate and do all the farming, both animals and crops. there was once an incident where Gobo killed the cow he used a nametag on, and violence soon followed. he now has a pet axolotl. he regularly yells at them to put their shit in the proper chest. only time he left the base was when the others forced him to come fight the dragon with them. Red: tries really hard to impress the others by speedrunning the game, but is pretty bad at the game. runs headfirst into danger and dies for it often. always gets snuck up on by creepers. over time though, she does genuinely get better, and begins to actually enjoy the game more as a result. still the first to die in the dragon fight. has 2x2 tunnels at chunk borders at Y14 in the nether to get as much netherite as possible.

[insom-nom-nom-niatic]

2 Of A Kind Ch. 3

CHARACTERS: Troy Otto X Fem Reader

WARNINGS: It's made for FTWD so you should know the basics. +SMUT (read at your own risk. I'm nobody's mom) +Fem receiving

There may or may not be a part 4... need to see how people feel about it. ALSO! Shoutout to all the GIF makers out there for giving me so many options and I love you all... I still feel the need to use the same one repeatedly, but you all help me fight that urge!

This is made for THIS anon request!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“Can I help you with that?”

Troy’s eyes grew dark, feeling his senses begin to tunnel into her and her alone. The woman merely smiled, adjusting herself under the blanket to the side. Her cheeks burned with a fury of confusion and anticipation as she stared back into the blue eyes watching her. “I mean-” Troy shuffled his feet lazily towards the right side of the mattress, closest to the woman. “You helped me so it’s only polite of me to offer my assistance. That is - if you want me to help. Not to be frank but, I could do a bit better than what you were doing.” Troy cocked his head to the side with a crooked smile when the woman scoffed exaggeratingly at his remark. It had been some time, if ever, that anyone had made him feel like this.

Powerful.

“Come’er,” She whispered to him, a voice sending shivers down his spine, but Troy followed her order. The mattress slunk down from his weight, dipping the two into one pothole in the middle. Her fingers ghosted over his hand, the wound on it open to the warm air. His eyes flinched at the sting that rang up his extremity as she placed the hand to her lips, gently kissing the inflamed skin while looking up at him through dark eyelashes. with a twist of his hand, Troy caressed the woman’s cheek, feeling the heat radiate from her dewy skin. Their eyes never broke until Troy lowered his gaze to her lips, softer than he thought they’d be, swiping one calloused digit across the delicate flesh.

With a smooth lick of his lips, Troy initiated the kiss. Pressing his flesh upon her own, feeling her warmth and hearing the ever-so-silent moan that escaped her lips against his. He thought about going slow. He thought about taking it easy with her and not being so forceful, but the sound she made turned him into something more than he thought he was. Deepening the kiss, Troy licked at her bottom lip begging for permission.

Denied.

He could feel her lips pull at the sides, smirking against his touch. This was a game.

A hand found its way to the base of her neck, his fingers dancing along her spine until she felt his way into her hair. Troy took a handful of lush locks, pulling it into a fist. Her body began to arch as her neck pulled back just enough to gain his awaiting tongue entry. His body began to barrel over her as she was lost in the feelings. She wasn’t one to ever relinquish control… yet, here she was. Allowing a stranger control over her body, and she liked it.

As Troy’s tongue ventured into the walls of her mouth, his free hand found its way up her chest, burning fingerprints into the skin he began to expose. With one final nip to her bottom lip, Troy backed away, his lips at least. His eyes regained control again, watching her once-hardened eyes turn soft and needy. The look she gave him through those dark eyelashes gave him the feeling of warmth… possessive… needed.

Fully collapsing into the soft sheet below, the woman gave up her fight. His touch felt too good to push away.

Watching his head dip below her chin, she felt his lips once again burn into her skin, just below her collarbone. His tongue swirled with small suctions traveling lower and lower. His nimble fingers pulled the blanket she was hiding under exposing both breasts to his full view. Troy glanced up, his fingers pinching the sensitive skin of her nipples.

He wanted to see her face as she let him do everything he wanted.

He wanted to see her vulnerable. He wanted to see her as his.

After a little while, he couldn’t take it any longer. Seeing her skin raised in goosebumps and her nipples formed into full points, Troy replaced his fingers with his lips. He hadn’t thought he had an oral fixation before, but the way his cock begged for his lips to have her, any part of her, was beginning to make the brunette re-think that. Her voice jumped when he sucked in a breath against her, biting harder than he had before. Her fingers weaved through the curly locks on Troy’s scalp, tugging ever so much with each moan that escaped her. Troy hadn’t realized that his hand had already found her most sensitive region until she shook under his grasp.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait!” She exclaimed, her fingers lifting his chin to look back at her. “If you’re going there, then I need something other than ‘fuck-boy’ to scream. So what’ll it be?”

Troy smirked, a devilish smirk, with one arm under his weight to keep him raised above her form. The hand that was at her core swiped the saliva from his lips before ghosting down her body, once more resting where he could see a glint of her slick dripping from. His eyes watched her skin react to his touch the entire time, her scars rough and coarse before his fingertips met more soft skin. He thought about toying with her, prolonging her wait for any form of identity of him, but he wanted to hear his name echo on those walls just as bad as she wanted sweet release.

“I’m Troy.”

As soon as he spoke, Troy delved two fingers into her core. Her hands fisted into his hair as he did so. He watched as her entire body arched from the mattress and her lips enchanted the delight of moaning his name. Enjoying the sight before him, Troy watched as she came to orgasm. His digits glided in and out of her sodden core, stretching the walls of her pussy farther with each spasm she had. As she began to clamp down, his thumb rubbed circles through her clit, only causing even more mess as she finally climaxed with a squirt of fluids soaking the bedding below her sweat-slickened skin.

She was a mess, a hot uncontrollable mess as she came back down from her high. She had completely forgotten she was even in company until she felt one strong arm tighten over her belly and soft curls itch across her cheeks. Troy knew she needed a little time, so kept himself busy making bruises to last her a few days on her neck. Once he felt her heart rate slow against his touch, he pulled back to look upon the magnificent work he had done. One arm, again held him up as the other moved slickened hair from the woman’s face. His eyes peered over her lips as he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from dazing before meeting her watchful gaze.

“I suppose I should thank you.” She spoke quietly, much softer than normal. Her mouth upturned into a shy smile before turning to look at the ceiling. Troy chuckled tenderly. This woman wasn’t at all who he thought she would be as he peeled back layer after layer.

“There’s no need, I’m here to help, ma’am.”

Troy rolled over to the edge of the mattress, swinging his legs over the side. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome so he figured it was off to the couch for another night. Then, a soft touch wrapped around his wrist.

“Why are you leaving? Did I-”

“I didn’t want to overstay or put you in a position to ask me to leave.”

Troy looked back at the woman from over his shoulder. She sat where he had left her, trying to hide her modesty behind entwined arms and legs. The look she returned was not one that he had assumed he would get. Her coy smile beckoned his feet to not move. Her eyes were like a siren making any thought he had of leaving melt away.

“I’m grateful, I truly am -” her hand that was on his wrist weaved through a belt loop, tugging at the fabric, “- I need more, Troy. And given by how tight those pants have gotten, I think you need more too.”

[blackboxtheater]

Are you still taking requests?

I guess my prompt would be Crossover. Make these two from different places in any way you choose!

Also, I love your writing!

Fam, I will be taking requests for as long as there is a shred of hope that we can make mumpearl win.

I will be taking requests through our next round as we have to do the square vs. rectangle math of Mumpearl vs. Poly Boatem as the better ship.

And, god willing, I will be taking prompts until the very last moments of the fight as Mumscarian beats us to a bloody pulp in the quarter finals of the bracket.

I am here.

I am fighting.

And I will go down screaming with my laptop clutched in my dying hands.

So with that, make sure to go vote for Mumpearl in the Mumbo Jumbo ship bracket!! 1 day left in round 1 and we still have a good lead!!!

BUT ON A MORE POSITIVE NOTE….THANKS!!

There is SO many possibilities with "crossover" that I feel like I'm not using it to its potential, but I have been watching the Empires x Hermitcraft crossover recently, so that’s fresh in my mind. Specifically Santa Perla. (House of String team, y'all get 1 guess as to who is going to make an appearance in upcoming chapters and I'll give you a hint that his name rhymes with LegendaryBratwurst)

So I give you Life Goddess Pearl x Mumbo, set in a season 9 of Hermitcraft without Pearl. But because its a crossover, some empires and skyblock stuff will come up, which you don't really need to understand to get everything said here, who doesn’t need an excuse to go rewatch the potato wars?

👨🏻 🥔 🐷

Mumbo's axe finally chips through the next block in his strip mine, but when the shards crumbles at his feet his axe doesn't connect with the next block. Instead it swings out into open air and the lack of any resistance against the axe is the first thing he registers as his body stumbles forward with momentum.

The next thing he notices is the light. The bright, natural daylight spilling through the gap in the stone is what sends him reaching for his communicator. Maybe he tunneled up somehow and that why he can't find any diamonds recently?  Or maybe he's higher than he thought and this is normal?

The blank space where his y level is supposed to be is not a good sign.

It’s a worse sign when he looks up from his communicator to see not just one block gone, but nearly a dozen blocks have vanished in front of him, leaving effectively a doorway into a brightly lit cave.

It's a beautiful cave though.

There are vivid green vines dangling through the air with gorgeous flowers of every color he can think of blossoming along the snaking tendrils. Poking his head through the doorway, the cave turns out to be shaped more like a cylinder that he's accidentally dug into the side of rather than a normal cave, with smooth walls curving around to either side until they reach the other side. At the bottom is a crystal clear pool, teeming with darting streaks of colorful movement. If he didn't know better, he'd think there were red and yellow glow squid in there along with the teal ones, but he must be imagining that. It must just be axolotls or something else, right? The strange feeling about the creatures in the pool worsens as he looks up, unable to see a light source or roof for these vines to dangle from. It appears to go up forever.

The parts of him still searching for a logical explanation tries to remember if he had ever seen a lush cave before.

Those were new, right? Maybe this is just one of them.

Surely he'd just never been in one and this was something normal to encounter deep underground. And he can almost convince himself of that possibility. But it doesn't explain the stairs carved into the wall and spiraling down to the pool. Stairs that start at exactly the spot he just tunneled through the wall.

Which feels like a little too much of a coincidence to have appeared alongside the magic door.

It's strange enough that Mumbo's self-preservation instincts have him turning around to head back out the tunnel, only to find it filled in behind him. Where he knows he just spent hours tunneling through rock is not a smooth sheet of stone.

He's trying to come up with any plausible explanation when a voice echoes through the cavern.

"Mumbo! Come in!"

Mumbo turns, staring down at the woman he swore wasn't there a minute ago dangling her legs into the water at the bottom of the cave. She's waving at him, motioning for him to come down.

Rationally, he should try to dig his way out and escape.

But despite all the strangeness of this place, it doesn’t feel threatening.

It's strange in a way he wants to understand, not strange in a way that makes him afraid.

So he steps out onto the stairs, descending as they circle along the wall of the cave.

The closer he gets to the bottom, the more confident he is that he doesn't know the woman sitting beside the pool. Hermitcraft is a small server. He would know if this was one of his friends even if they were playing a joke on him.

She looks different than his friends. 

She looks too much, for lack of a better word, like the blocks he's so used to seeing around him. Her skin looks like it’s the same shade of oak as the first block punched down at the start of a season. Her hair reminds him so much of fresh dirt its eerie. Her shorts are clearly jeans but somehow look exactly like the water in a metal bucket just before he dumps it out for a bucket clutch.

There is something that just feels different about her.

He knows she's not one of the Hermits. But he also knows she isn’t one of the Hermits.

Just like he knows, no matter what he tells himself, that this isn't a lush cave.

The moment his feet step off the stone stairs and touch down on a grassy floor, she turns and looks up at him.

Two different colored eyes stare back at him. One is the deep, shimmering green of a perfectly cut trading emerald. The other is a prefect match for the crystalline blue of his diamond pickaxe.

She looks beautiful. She feels beautiful.

"Why potatoes?" she asks, before he can articulate any form of greeting.

"What?" is the only response his two brain cells can come up with.

"Potatoes. What is it about that vegetables that draws your brilliant minds to them?"

She asks like this is a totally normal question in a totally normal situation, and he's the crazy one for being confused.

"Wait, who are you? Where are we?" Mumbo asks, looking around again to see what he must have missed that would tell him what is going on. Except the more he looks, the more things don't look quite right.

"No, really. What is it about potatoes?" the woman doubles down, unphased by the questions or Mumbo's visible confusion.

"You can make carrots golden, so I thoughts you guys would like those best. And wheat, well I guess you did innovate plenty with wheat already. The cakes are truly magnificent. I loved when you made those. But it's not carrots or beetroots or even my apples you like. No. You're not drawn to any of those. It's something about the potatoes that you all go to. That inspire you. Why potatoes? Can you explain that?"

She's looking at him like this is such a serious, important question and literally all Mumbo can do for a moment is stare.

Then he laughs.

Uncontrollably, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as he nearly doubles over laughing.

"Am I dead? Is this where we go when we finally glitch out? Is this what happens when my code fails? It sends me here?" Mumbo spouts, still laughing because what else could possibly be going on.

A beautiful woman is asking him about potatoes in a bizarre otherworldly cave. He must have finally died the last time.

"Do you not like this? We can go somewhere else. What about-"

Mumbo blinks and the world around them completely changes. The towering walls that cocooned them inside the cave before give way to vast nothingness in every direction.

The flowers, the water, the stone. It's all gone.

They are floating in space.

It's just him, the mystery woman, a single oak tree, and a few chunks of dirt floating in space.

"Okay. Yup. I'm dead. My code corrupted and it reset me here. Okay. I guess I always wondered but, okay," Mumbo mutters to himself, taking in the vast expanse of blue as far as he can see in every direction.

"Very funny Mumbo, but my sister isn't here" the woman says with a chuckle like it's supposed to mean something or make him feel better.

"So if I'm not dead where are we?"

If she will treat this like its serious he can play along. His friends do enough crazy bits that he can play along well enough for now.

"Right now? The first seed. But we can go anywhere you want if-"

"No!" Mumbo shouts, finally seeming to crack through the woman's even demeanor as she jumps just the slightest at his outburst.

"This is fine. This is lovely, this……spot. I don't want to move. I want to know who you are," he finishes.

She looks confused for a moment, and then her eyes widen with shock and for the first time, Mumbo feels a little better that he's not the only one confused.

"You don't know who I am. I'm too early," she says, looking him up and down as if reevaluating him head to toe.

"Sorry," she shakes her head with a sigh before looking back at Mumbo. "I thought you met my prophet already. I'm too early. Wait have you been potato boy yet? Have you worshiped me yet? I thought I was late enough for that. Sorry. If that hasn't happened yet I'll come back after. Sometimes I don't get the time right. My time isn't like your time so sometimes I get it wrong."

"I was a potato super hero last season?" Mumbo offers, half way between an answer and a whole other question. He isn't even sure what he's asking it that is a question.

"Oh thank god," the woman sighs, relief visible across the lines of her face. "Then you can answer my question about potatoes."

"First can you please tell me who you are? Where we are? Anything? Please?"

The woman looks at him for a moment, hesitating. He almost opens his mouth to plead again for literally any answers or guidance before she starts again.

"I guess you called me Peace, Love, and Plants. That's not really a name, but perhaps what you best know me as."

"You are the concept of Peace, Love, and Plants?"

Mumbo feels like a broken record, repeating the same questions only to make progress by mimicking her words back to her.

"I'm Life. You didn't worship me that way, you called it Peace, Love, and Plants, but I heard you," she answers. In the same way that Mumbo was certain that the woman was not a Hermit, he is certain that what she said was true. It makes no sense and can't possibly be true.

But it is.

He knows that as clearly as he knows anything.

"I thought I came late enough so you would have met my prophet. He prefers to call me Pearl. Santa Pearla. You can call me that too, if you prefer."

"Pearl, like Ender Pearls?"

"No! Those are from my sister. You only get those from killing things," she scrunches up her nose in a ridiculous expression of disgust that looks too human to be from a goddess.

"Your sister is death?"

"Yes. And my pearls are much better than hers. She has to murder my beautiful endermen for her pearls. They are just shy! They just want to move things around and make the world better. They helped show me how much giving just a little bit of my creativity and free will to my babies could make such a change. They moved the little blocks around and built little things. It was lovely. And now look at you all! Making machines and art with the world!"

As she talks, Pearl's whole face lights up and she looks so much like his friends it can’t be a coincidence. She looks like Tango and Zed laughing at their creations. She looks like Scar's sentences tripping over themselves as he talks about an exciting new project. She looks like Cleo's delighted clapping at another armor stand tableau and Doc smirking with pride showing off a new redstone circuit.

Or maybe, if she is a goddess as the source of all life and creation, his friends all look like her.

"But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I needed to ask about the potatoes!" she says, eagerly looking back at him.

"I love when you- You players, I mean. Also you. Mumbo you. But you players, come up with fascinating new innovations and work arounds. You do such amazing things with the resources I’ve made. It’s fascinating. And now two of you my most fascinating creatures, have been obsessed with potatoes. So tell me Mumbo, why? What is it about potatoes?"

He doesn’t have a good answer for her, but he does have the whole story of the Peace, Love and Plants journey that made him Potato Boy, which she seems interested enough in hearing instead. She scolds him for using the end crystals to cause destruction, but it sounds perfunctory among the eager questions and praise for the ingenious ways he accomplished everything with so little death. He almost forgets that the woman before him is an immortal god until she mentions watching his ridiculous endeavors for years. Then the nervous flutter in his stomach about a beautiful woman being enthralled by his stories busts into a whole flock of birds thrashing against his ribs because a literal god who can see every universe in every reality across all of time is looking at him like he is the most worthy of her attention among all of creation. Her creation.

His nerves calm slightly when she offers the other potato story as an explanation of why she tracked him down. She tells him about a world full of first seeds like this little island and of a piglin and a squid who wanted to farm the most potatoes in the universe. He doesn't know if he should be jealous that someone else captured her attention the same way, or grateful the goddess isn’t only focused on him and all his mishaps. Well, he shouldn’t be jealous at all of an omnipresent, otherworldly goddess paying attention to other players. But that doesn't stop the feeling from flicking just the slightest bit in the back of his mind.  

When they finish talking, she drops him back in the same mineshaft he was digging earlier that day. And just like when he first saw her, he blinks and she vanishes, leaving him with no proof the any of it happened other than a pair of perfectly imperfect pearl cufflinks that catch the light just right each time he creates something new.

✌️ ❤️ 🥔

Months later, when a portal rips open the world under Grian's base, Mumbo wonders if he'll see Pearl again in the space between worlds. But then Sausage asks if they want to see La Catedral Santa Perla and Mumbo realizes this is what she meant by not getting time right.

He leaves an offering of an emerald, a diamond, and an oak sapling at the alter of Saint Pearl and Sausage looks at him with an understanding that goes unnoticed by the rest of his friends as they coo over the beautiful architecture and gorgeous landscaping.

Mumbo also suspects its why Sausage says yes when Mumbo returns the next day asking to build a potato farm on the grounds of the cathedral.And why he at least doesn’t immediately shoo Mumbo away when he asks about setting up some space for enderman, piglins, and squids somewhere nearby too.

[no6secretsanta]

Mr. Incredible and Metalhead

For @ami-nelle

From @pigeonsimba

Nezumi hates gym, so he figures why go? In fact, he pretty much hates every class except English, and that’s his first period, so school feels like crawling through a long, boring tunnel—a tunnel he can see the end to, that he has explained to his teachers he is more than ready to exit, but that his teachers insist he must inch along at the same pace as the rest of his idiot classmates. It is soul sucking. He’s already smarter and more athletic than almost every student and teacher at West Block, so there’s nothing to gain by going to class.

He would be better off, perhaps, at Chronos, where all the gifted kids with rich mommies and daddies go. But alas, orphan Nezumi is too poor for Chronos to profit off of. In Chronos, “gifted kids” is a literal term; the kids are gifted to the school with a five-figure bow.

Still, it’s hard not to find the place impressive. The towering white walls that glisten faintly in the sun. The ionic colonnade supporting the swooping, graceful architecture. The quaint white cupola topped with a silver honeycomb finial. Standing in front of its western-facing wall, Nezumi sighs in admiration. Pretty, preppy Chronos, the jewel of No. 6. How he wishes he could burn the whole building to the ground.

Today, however, he’ll have to settle for breaking and entering. If he’s really lucky, it’ll be more heavily weighted toward the breaking side of things.

One might wonder, why is Nezumi ditching school only to trespass on another school? Because why not. If he has to be in school today, might as well gatecrash the superior institution and see what exactly is so magical about Chronos.

Now, which window…

Only three are open, and he decides on window number two. Partially because he likes the potted plant sunning itself on the sill, but practically because it’s the window closest to the pipe on the wall that he plans to climb.

Nezumi looks left and right twice to make sure the coast is clear, then hops up onto the pipe. It’s sturdy and has just enough of a gap between it and the wall for Nezumi to wedge his slender fingers into. Carefully, he scales the pipe until he’s slightly below parallel with the target window. He takes a second to measure the short distance, then pushes off with his feet and snags the edge of the window with his hands. After that, it’s easy to pull himself up onto the sill.

They don’t teach that in gym class.

Nezumi smirks at the peerless view he now has of the topiary gardens in Forest Park. He flicks one of the leaves of the potted plant and slips inside to get his first glimpse of Chronos’ innards.

The room is the window sill on steroids. Every inner sill has some kind of plant: cactuses, flowers, succulents, ferns. More types than Nezumi knows the names for. The only ones he recognizes at a glance are the pothos that hang in rope hammocks from several places in the ceiling, their leafy tendrils spilling down in cascades of jade and gold. Here and there one can see evidence of it being a classroom converted into an arboretum. A few desks are scattered in the middle of the floor, which are mostly home to empty pots, bags of soil, and shovels. He can make out a whiteboard at the far end of the room, but most of it is obscured by a table hosting elaborate trellising.

The corner of Nezumi’s mouth curves up. The space is beautifully curated. The air feels cleaner in the dim, lush room, and he’s immediately filled with a deep sense of inner peace. The hall outside is unusually quiet for a school day. Perhaps this room is for afterschool activities or advanced placement. How fortunate of him to have climbed into such a lovely deserted room. Nezumi ambles along the perimeter, admiring each plant in turn.

Just as he finishes his tour, the silence is broken by the sound of footfalls. Nezumi turns toward the room’s sole door. It sounds like only one person. He has no idea how many rooms this wing of the school hosts; perhaps the person will pass him by, but better to not take a chance. Nezumi crosses to the back corner of the room and tucks himself behind one of the tiered plant stands.

A moment later, the lock on the door clatters and the door rolls open. Nezumi peers through the foliage. A young man about his age walks briskly toward a desk at the center of the room. He has shaggy brown hair and a gentle, pleasing face. He looks like just the kind of person who would be in this room. Just the kind of person who would go to Chronos: soft and sweet as a newborn fawn.

The boy shucks his navy blazer and drapes it over the back of the desk chair, then unbuttons and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. From where Nezumi is spying, he can clearly see the honeycomb and laurel wreath emblem on the front of the blazer. He glares at it a moment out of habit, then returns his attention to the boy as he pulls his phone and a pair of headphones from his pocket.

Connected headphones, Nezumi notes. He would have thought that all the Chronies had expensive earbuds, but perhaps this kid is old-school.

The boy plucks a spray bottle from the desk and nods his head to whatever music he’s listening to through his headphones as he goes along the window to spray the plants.

Nezumi folds his arms across his chest and deliberates. He could lie low and wait it out, but it’s possible the boy could be in here for a full period or longer. It would be monumentally boring to stay still and quiet for that long. Plus, the boy has evolved from just nodding to the music to full on bopping and mumbling words under his breath, and Nezumi can’t help but be intrigued at what he’s grooving so hard to.

 At last the boy makes it over to the plant stand behind which Nezumi has hidden himself. Nezumi steps forward and rests his head on the upper shelf, directly between two pots. The boy mists the plant to the left of Nezumi’s head and leans to do the right one when his eyes land on Nezumi’s face.

He gasps and jumps back, holding the spray bottle out like a gun and squeezing the trigger. A gentle puff of mist floats through the air and Nezumi bursts into a fit of laughter.

“Priceless!” Nezumi chokes. He comes out from behind the plant stand and wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. “Ah… Love your instinct to shoot me with the mister.” Another bout of laughter seizes him and he has to press the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle it.

“What the hell…?” the boy warbles. A tinge of pink begins to creep into his cheeks the longer Nezumi’s hysterical fit carries on.

The boy grunts, lowers the spray bottle, and pulls the headphones from his ears. The buds still hum with sound, but it’s too faint for Nezumi to make out the music. “How did you even get in here?” he asks. His eyebrows are so scrunched they look like they’re about to knit together.

Nezumi almost laughs again, but masters himself. “It wasn’t locked.”

“Yes, it was. I always lock the door when I leave. And I’m the only one with a key.”

“Well, you didn’t lock the window.”

The boy’s eyes dart to the window and widen comically. “You came through the window?” His fear and suspicion evaporate as he crosses the room and pokes his head over the sill. “We’re two storeys up!” The boy whirls around to face Nezumi. “How did you—?”

Then his gaze drops from Nezumi’s face to his black gakuran. The boy’s eyes spark in recognition of the emblem on its chest and he pauses a moment to reassess. In that moment, he finally realizes his headphones are still emitting faint sounds. He presses a button on his phone to pause the music, disconnects the headphones, and slips them and the phone into his pants pocket.

Then he oh so casually asks, “What’s your name?”

Nezumi snorts. He supposes it’s only natural for a Chronos kid to be intrigued by a West Block one, though this guy seems unusually chill. West Blockers usually garner suspicion from outsiders—heck, from West Block locals too.

“Nezumi.”

“Nezumi?” He doesn’t look like he believes him, but Nezumi stares placidly back, letting him know that’s all he’s going to get. The boy quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards with it. “I’m Shion.”

“Shion,” Nezumi says, unable to keep the delight from his voice. “That’s adorable. Do you have a mini me somewhere in here?” He casts his gaze around the room. “Blue flowers, right?”

Shion tilts his head, and Nezumi senses a slight waft of approval. “Asters come in several colors, but, yes, blue is one of them. I’m named after Aster tataricus, though, which is purple. And, no, there aren’t any here.”

“Ah. Shame.”

Shion clears his throat and moves away from the window. “So… What are you doing here? I don’t think Chronos and West Block are easily confused.”

“Oh, well, you know. I’m looking into joining some extracurricular activities. West Block pretty much only offers graffiti and shiv-making, and I mastered those ages ago, so I came to see what Chronos has to offer.”

“I see.” Shion presses his lips into a line, but Nezumi can see the amusement sparkling in his eyes as he passes by to return the spray bottle to the desk. “I don’t think you’ll find your match here. I somehow doubt you’re interested in botany.”

“Don’t be so quick to assume. I was interested in your flower, wasn’t I?”

“Hmm,” Shion hums. He leans back against the desk and fixes Nezumi with a closed mouth smile. “I call bullshit.”

Nezumi smirks. He’s very glad he decided to engage Shion instead of hiding. The kid is smart, as expected, but more playful and relaxed than he thought a prep school kid would be. Who knew a field trip to Chronos would be this fun? 

“Yeah, okay,” Nezumi relents. “I’m not really that interested in plants. There is, however,” he says slowly, “something I’m very interested in here.”

Shion’s smile freezes at Nezumi’s silky tone and Nezumi’s body buzzes with satisfaction.

“O-oh?” Shion stutters.

“Mmhm.”

Nezumi takes a step toward Shion, measuring his reaction, but there isn’t much of one. His big brain is still apparently trying to download the software to deal with this level of flirting.

Or maybe he didn’t realize we were flirting. It was pretty damn obvious to Nezumi, but conversation is so nuanced these days, maybe Shion thought they were just having a friendly banter. Maybe Shion is oblivious or in denial. Regardless, his reaction is definitely one of gay panic, and Nezumi can and will work with it.

Nezumi takes another step. He and Shion are within touching distance now, and Shion looks sufficiently stupefied. He’s a little shorter than Nezumi—and even shorter now since he’s propped up against the desk—so Nezumi has the immense pleasure of watching Shion shrink backwards and tilt his head up as Nezumi places a hand by Shion’s hip and leans in.

Nezumi holds the pose until Shion manages a faint, “Um. What…is it?”

Bless his soul.

Nezumi takes one more moment to savor Shion’s large dark eyes and long lashes before getting to the point. “I’m actually very interested,” Nezumi purrs, “in what music you were listening to.“

He slips his hand into Shion’s pants pocket and pulls out his phone. Shion blinks up at him, then dazedly at the phone.

“But I also think you’re adorable,” Nezumi adds, because he feels a little bad for leading him on. And because it’s true.

Shion sucks in a breath and tries to snatch the phone. “Give that back!”

Nezumi skips backward, holding the phone above his head where he knows Shion can’t reach it. “Ah-ah,” he tuts.

“It’s just some music! It’s not that interesting!”

Nezumi is intrigued by his level of agitation. “If it’s just some music, why are you so worried? The curiosity is killing me; it looked like you were really into it.”

“Please, don’t—”

But Nezumi has already pressed the play button.

A guttural scream bursts out of the phone’s speakers, and for a moment, Nezumi is dumbstruck.

This guy just listens to people screaming??

But then his brain starts working again and he picks up on the electric guitar and words, and he realizes this is just heavy metal screamo.

“Shion,” Nezumi says smilingly. “This is not ‘just some music.’”

And Shion proves himself not just some prep school kid. With a primal scream of his own, he lunges at Nezumi.

He’s pretty fast and plenty furious, but Nezumi has made a part-time job of pissing people off and saw the retaliation building a mile away. He sidesteps Shion, hooks him around the midsection with his free arm, and presses Shion face down on an open desk. He pins one of Shion’s arms behind his back to keep him there, for good measure, though Shion appears too stunned to put up a fight.

After it’s done, Nezumi considers whether it was overkill to restrain him. It was his instinctive reaction to incapacitate the threat, but Shion is hardly what one would call a threat. Then again, maybe this will teach the kid to think twice before jumping at people, no matter how embarrassed he is.

“I was gonna shut it off. No need to freak out.”

Nezumi presses Pause and places the phone down on the desk in front of Shion’s nose. Shion lets out a huff, his breath fogging the phone screen. His profile looks shell shocked.

Nezumi’s conscience makes a rare appearance and he asks, “You okay?”

“That was amazing,” Shion says faintly. He lifts his head and stares at Nezumi with a light in his eye that is just short of worshipping. Nezumi is used to admiration, but it feels a little weird coming from the boy he just face planted on a desk.

“Are you in Karate Club?”

Nezumi doesn’t bother to hide his look of revulsion. “Do I look like I’d be in something as stupid as Karate Club?”

Shion frowns. “It’s not stupid… But if that’s not it, where did you learn to do that?”

“None of your business. And also, what the hell is with your reaction? What kind of weirdo gets excited about being pinned by a stranger, then asks about their methods?”

“Well, I mean…” Shion appears stumped by the question. “It’s not that weird,” he mumbles eventually, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Unless…” Nezumi considers aloud, “this isn’t new to you? I’ve already misjudged you once, I’d be remiss to do it again.” He glances down at the phone, frozen halfway through SECOND & SEBRING by Of Mice and Men. “Perhaps you do more than headbanging in this room?”

Shion turns red up to his ears and sputters an emphatic, “No.”

Nezumi snorts and smirks as Shion starts to wriggle in his grip. “It was just a question. Relax, I’m not going to—”

And of course, this is the moment when the door across the room opens.

Nezumi looks up and into the face of a petite girl with soft, doe-eyed features and a tousled bob haircut. She is absolutely adorable, and so pristine and preppy-looking in her uniform that he must assume she is another member of this club. Because, of course, clubs have members—plural—even nerdy ones like Botany Club.

The girl’s expression goes blank as her eyes dart from Nezumi, curled imposingly over Shion, to Shion, furiously red and bent over the desk.

Well, this is awkward, Nezumi’s brain supplies, unhelpfully.

The girl’s eyes return to Nezumi, and then a series of things happen in quick succession: a camera flash goes off to the left of the girl’s elbow; Shion gasps and shouts, “Safu!”; and the girl runs at Nezumi and aims a flying kick at his chest.

“Oh, fuck!” Nezumi barks.

Nezumi wheels away from Shion and very narrowly avoids getting the breath knocked out of him by the savage girl. He’s been in several fist fights, but those were with your typical street thugs; this girl is obviously trained.

“Wait!” he tries to reason, but instead, the girl fires some kind of spinning back kick at his face. Nezumi once again barely dodges the blow, but this time he can’t help but lose his balance. He stumbles back against the tiered plant stand and catches himself, but he knows he’s only delayed the inevitable by a second. The girl’s pitiless eyes flash and her muscles tense to deliver the crippling blow.

Shion throws himself in front of Nezumi and shouts, “Safu! Stop!”

The girl freezes. “Why?” she demands. “He was assaulting you.”

“He wasn’t. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Uh, yeah, well…” drawls another voice.

A scruffy-looking youth is standing in the doorway, inspecting the display of their camera. They look younger, between thirteen and fifteen, and their hair is shoulder-length and hopelessly tangled. The state of their hair alone is enough to disabuse one of the notion of them being a Chronos student, but their uniform (a plain white collared shirt, lopsided blue striped tie, and navy slacks) seals the deal.

The raggedy kid’s nose is scrunched in an expression of half disgust, half amusement as they continue. “I don’t know how you could misunderstand this. Looks pretty damning to me.”

They flip the camera around. Nezumi winces. The photo is mortifying. The kind of shot that paparazzi fantasize about taking. Shion goes white and Safu looks ready to kill Nezumi all over again.

“Inukashi,” Shion rasps. “Delete that. Now.”

“Don’t delete it,” Safu says, though it clearly pains her. “It’s critical evidence if we want to press charges.”

“Press charges? Are you serious?” Nezumi laughs at the same time Shion whips around and hisses, “I’m not pressing charges.”

“This has gotten way out of hand,” Shion huffs. He runs his fingers through his bangs, attempting to calm himself. “As I said, it was a misunderstanding. I attacked Nezumi first. He was just defending himself.”

The murderous expression on Safu’s face freezes as she absorbs these words. She narrows her eyes at Shion. “You attacked first?”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yes, me.”

“Attacked him.”

“Yes,” Shion sighs.

“And I believe we call that a confession,” Nezumi chirps. He slides away from the plant stand and around Shion to position himself closer to Inukashi and the open door. Just in case. “I’m told confessions are critical evidence should one want to press charges for assault.”

Safu’s eyes watch him like a hawk’s. They clearly say, if you run, I will come after you with zero mercy. Nezumi’s reaction to her level of intensity is 50-50 between amusement and arousal. Maybe he ought to visit more Botany clubs. So many cute faces with unexpectedly ferocious tempers.

“What did you do?” Safu demands.

“Excuse me?”

“You must have done something to him. Shion’s not the type to use violence without reason.” Safu’s gaze rakes over Nezumi’s uniform and her mouth twists into a scowl. “And you’re from West Block, so we all know you’re a born and bred scumbag.”

“Safu, that’s rude!” Shion gasps, and is ignored.

“I’m offended by that assumption. I merely asked Shion if I could listen to some music on his phone.”

“So you stole his phone.”

Nezumi laughs. “Brains and brawn, all in one tiny package. That’s a little unfair to the rest of us.”

Safu bristles. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Calm down, killer. It was a compliment.”

“Your compliments sound a lot like insults.”

“Maybe you’re just not in the right state of mind to receive them. In time, you may actually find me quite charming.”

Safu’s glare stays fixed on her face as she sneers, “I doubt it.”

“Guys,” Shion intervenes. “Let’s not…do whatever this is.” He wrings his hands, trading glances between Safu and Nezumi. “Let’s just…start over!” he declares, as if it’s the best idea in the world. “Wipe the slate clean, and go forward from there.”

No one in the room except Shion cares for this idea. Safu rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. Inukashi seems oblivious to the conversation and continues staring at and zooming in on the photo on their camera with an evil smirk on their face. Shion visibly deflates and gives Nezumi the saddest set of puppy dog eyes he has ever seen. Nezumi pretends not to see, but it’s useless. As pathetic as it is, he has somehow developed a soft spot for the weirdo.

“Safu, right?” Nezumi asks, keeping his tone level so as not to set her off again. Safu doesn’t deign to respond, but the question was rhetorical anyway. “Really, though, those kicks were impressive. Where did you learn that?”

Safu tilts her chin up imperiously. “I’m in the Karate Club. President of the Karate Club.”

Nezumi blinks. He slowly turns and raises an eyebrow at Shion.

Shion returns the raised eyebrow. “Not so stupid now, is it?”

“No,” Nezumi says meditatively. “I stand corrected.”

Shion crosses his arms and smirks. It’s like watching a kitten crow over a leaf it’s managed to capture under its paw. Nezumi has no choice but to smile.

Now that the verbal sparring match has subsided, Shion gives his full attention to the mangy mutt sniggering in the doorway. “Inukashi, please delete that photo now.”

Inukashi flinches. Their eyes dart down to the camera, pulling it closer to their chest.

Shion looks thoroughly harassed. “You’re supposed to be here to make the Botany Club look fun.”

Inukashi’s face brightens. “This makes the Botany Club look really fun.”

“Not that kind of fun!”

Safu and Inukashi straighten at the outburst. Apparently, they aren’t used to Shion losing his temper, which Nezumi finds interesting. Nezumi has known Shion for all of ten minutes and he feels like he knows this apoplectic botany nerd quite well.

Inukashi better delete that photo before he flies into an embarrassment-induced rage again. In fact, for my peace of mind….

Nezumi plucks the camera out of Inukashi’s hands and flips the neck strap up over their head before they have a chance to utter a syllable. The photo is much worse up close and Nezumi feels a rare lance of shame shoot through his chest. By the time Inukashi squeaks an indignant, “Hey,” the evidence is deleted.

“Sorry, kid,” Nezumi says, relinquishing the camera to the feral teen’s grasping hands. “I have a reputation to uphold. If the other scumbags at WB think I slum it with Chronies, they’ll never take me seriously.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Safu asks. “You should be in class on the other side of town right now. Better yet, why are you here? As you say, most West Block students wouldn’t be caught dead in Chronos.”

“True. I do, however, think they’d find it very exciting if a West Block student was caught dead on Chronos property. It’d finally give them the excuse they’ve always wanted to revolt.” Nezumi jabs his thumb at Inukashi. “I’m more interested in why this twelve year old is here.”

“I was invited,” Inukashi sniffs. “I’m taking promotional pictures. And I’m not twelve years old.”

They don��t, however, share what their actual age is, so Nezumi is now fairly certain they are thirteen—at fourteen or fifteen, teenagers start to think they’re hot stuff, but thirteen year olds know how ridiculous it sounds to brag about their age.

“Yeah, exactly,” Nezumi says. “Why in the hell did you hire a literal child to take photos for your club?”

“Inukashi is a family friend,” Shion says.

“And a talented photographer,” Safu adds. “They’re already an intern at Latch Bill.”

Inukashi preens.

“Yeah, okay,” Nezumi says incredulously.

He wanders over to the desks and hops up on top of the one he had Shion bent over. The effect is instantaneous: Safu’s face darkens and a blush blooms on Shion’s cheeks. Nezumi smiles and props himself back on one hand, his pinky brushing the edge of Shion’s phone.

“You never answered my question,” says Safu. “Why are you here?”

“Came for the plants. Stayed for the people.” Nezumi’s attention wanders back to Shion.

Safu has edged in front of Shion like a protective lioness, but Shion is either oblivious or actively trying to escape her sphere of protection. He wants to catch Nezumi’s eye, so it’s an easy matter to do so. Shion offers him a smile and all Nezumi can think is that it’s such a shame that Safu and Inukashi gatecrashed their getting-to-know-you party.

Their moony eyes are immediately identified as a threat to Safu’s unrequited feelings and her temper rekindles. “Alright,” she snaps. “You’ve stayed quite long enough. I think you should go.”

“I just got here. And I don’t think Shion wants me to go. Right, Shion?”

“Well, I mean…” Shion waffles between Nezumi’s expectant expression and Safu’s forbidding one. “He’s already here—-and you’ve been saying we need more members!”

“He is not interested in botany, Shion.”

“I don’t like him,” Inukashi chimes in, even though no one has asked for their opinion. “He wasn’t invited and he obviously can’t keep his hands to himself.” They shake their camera at him meaningfully. “I think he should leave.”

Safu flashes her first smile. It’s closed-lipped, but it’s a lovely preview of what a friendly and approachable Safu looks like. “Thank you, Inukashi.”

Inukashi perks up like a dog who’s just received a pat on the head.

Shion starts to complain, but Safu places her hands on her hips and declares, “Majority rules. Go on, then. The door is over there. I’d warn you not to get caught by the security guards, but I’m sure a rat like you won’t have any trouble sneaking past them.”

“Aw, was that a compliment?”

“You gave me one, it’s only polite I return the favor.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Leave before I literally kick you out.”

“Alright, alright, I’m leaving.” Nezumi hops off the desk. “Geez. Your girlfriend is savage, Shion. How do you stand her?”

Shion and Safu’s cheeks flush, and Safu growls, “Shut up.”

Nezumi heads for the window. Inukashi and Safu pull faces, but Shion’s eyes spark. He trails after Nezumi to get front row seats to the shimmy down show. Which is what Nezumi was hoping for.

Nezumi stops in front of the open window and faces Shion. “Well, this was fun. I hope Inukashi takes some good pictures for you.”

“Oh. Thanks. I hope so too. Erm… Well, you’re more than welcome to come to any future Botany Club meetings. I know Safu’s not been the most welcoming, but I promise, she’s really nice and funny once you get to know her.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Nezumi says drolly. “I’m not going to join Botany Club, Shion.”

“Yeah, okay,” Shion smiles. “Worth a shot. So I guess I’ll see you?”

“Mm… No, probably not. Unless you want to come to West Block.”

“Oh.” Shion considers this response. “Was that an invite?”

Nezumi laughs. He senses rather than sees Safu tense across the room. “West Block would eat you alive.”

“Probably,” Shion agrees. “And, like you said, being seen with me wouldn’t be good for your reputation.” His good humor dims as the implication sinks in.

Nezumi presses his lips together into a line. He did indeed say that, and it’s true, and he can’t really take it back. “I should go.”

Nezumi climbs up onto the sill. Shion continues to look like a jilted maiden, but Nezumi thinks he might have something to cheer him up.

“Oh, right. I should give this back to you.” Nezumi reaches into his pocket and pulls out Shion’s phone.

“Oh.” Shion takes the proffered phone, brows creasing. “Thank you… But…” He glances at the desk where he could have sworn Nezumi had put the phone down earlier, then back at Nezumi. “When did you…?”

Nezumi shrugs a shoulder.

Shion shakes his head. “You’re a little incredible, you know,” he says softly.

A tingle of pleasure dances down Nezumi’s spine. “I like that. Make sure you save my contact in there as Mr. Incredible.”

Shion’s face lights up. He hastily unlocks the phone to check if Nezumi has somehow managed to add his number, and Nezumi plucks the phone out of his hands.

“Hey!” Safu barks, but once again Nezumi ignores her.

“I’m not magical,” Nezumi chides. He quickly keys his number into Shion’s Contacts and makes pointed eye contact with Safu as he hands the phone back to Shion.

Shion looks so smitten as he stares at his new phone contact that Nezumi wouldn’t be surprised if his pocket vibrated with a text from him any second.

“Alright, I better go before Safu defenestrates me.”

“What?” Shion laughs.

“Ask President Safu. She’s a smart girl, I’m sure she knows what it means.”

Nezumi aims a wink at Safu, edges backwards, then lowers himself down until he’s hanging from the sill with his arms at a ninety-degree angle. He assesses the distance to the pipe, then swings and launches himself sideways. He hears a chorus of gasps as he snatches hold of the pipe and flattens himself to the wall. Nezumi can’t help but glance up to confirm that, yes, Safu and Inukashi’s curiosity got the better of them and all three of the Botany squad are poking their heads out of the window to watch his progress down the side of the building. Inukashi raises their camera and snaps a shot.

Nezumi flashes a smile for a second shot, then carefully shimmies down the pipe until he’s close enough to the bottom to let go and drop down to his feet. He gives a wave to Safu and Inukashi, then points to Shion and mimes “call me.” Even from this distance, Nezumi can see Shion’s shy smile.

He’s barely off the property before his phone vibrates with a text.

What’re you going to save me as?

Nezumi grins and considers before answering.

Metalhead

Don’t you dare

Too late

☠️

Nezumi laughs and slips the phone back into his pocket. He swings around and takes a last look at Chronos. Maybe it’s not such a horrid place after all.

[queenmuzz]

Sehnsucht

My Gift to @mintnoodles as part of @dmc-secret-santas event!

Read it HERE on Ao3

Nero wrinkled his nose at the smell.  He really ought to be used to the smell of decaying flesh, but it never got old.  Especially when it was an animal, like the poor horse at his feet.  Humans were often unfortunate victims of scenes he’d investigated, a good chunk of them being idiots who attempted to summon demons, and another chunk were idiots that went ‘Ooooh, I wonder what that slobbering creature with the sharp fangs is, let me check!’ instead of ‘RUN AWAY’.  Animals were always victims, and never at fault.

Especially with this horse, with a good chunk taken out of it, hadn’t deserved its fate.  He sighed, looking around the farm.  It was pretty silent, with the farmer and his family wisely getting the heck out of dodge, along with most of the livestock…

Most.  Apparently this poor beast, its eyes still open in terror, had not made it.  Nero frowned as he saw the track that led from the beast.  It wasn’t really a track, more like a mound, like a furrow when a spring field was plowed, but the tractor operator must have been drunk, because it went this way and that.  That, along with the dead horse, and the strangest scent, (if Nero had to describe it, it smelled like electricity) gave him a pretty good idea what exactly he was facing. A Chronoskolex. A worm that’s diet consisted mostly of Geryon steeds, it had three annoying characteristics:

It loved to burrow

It liked to snack on horses, demonic or mundane.

And because of the aforementioned preference for Geryon horses, they had time warping powers, proportional to their size.

This one, guessing by the width of the mounds, and the size of the chunk taken out of the horse, was kinda tiny, no bigger than a small car.  Still, considering how annoying these guys were, with their time warping powers making them faster than should be possible, and his… previous encounter with them, it would be best to call his uncle or dad to give them a heads up.

“Devil May Cry”  the nasally voice on the other end was more than enough to distinguish the twins. 

“Hey dad,” It still felt odd to call him by that title.  Vergil hadn’t discouraged the practice, but he felt just as uncomfortable with the title as Nero felt saying it. “I’m out on a job, and I think I came across our favourite time warping demonic worm.

He heard the heavy swump of a hardcover book cover he undoubtedly was reading being slammed shut.

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty sure.  The signs point to it.  Dead horse, tunnel activity.”

“I will be there shortly.  I would highly suggest that you leave the area until my arrival.”

Nero huffed “It’s just a worm… and a small one at that.”  He was really irked that he was treated like a little kid, Vergil was overreacting.

“Still, I urge you to use the utmost caution-”

“Oh come on Dad, there’s nothing to worry about, I’m perfe-”

He never got the chance to finish the sentence, as something wet and slimy had wrapped around  his ankle, and dragged him down into the earth.

🌷🌷🌷

Nero blinked.  Then blinked again.  He wasn’t dead.  At least he thought he wasn’t dead.  If he was, the afterlife was extremely banal.  The sun shone down, at an angle that suggested sometime around noon, the birds were chirping, the trees were rustling with new leaves.  Springtime?  That was weird because it was mid fall when he had investigated the farm.

It took a little bit of time to get his bearings.  He was standing on a sidewalk, in front of an ornate wrought iron gate, that looked familiar, and yet…odd.  He wasn’t quite sure, as it looked completely normal, if a bit rich for his tastes.  Something like those manors owned by the old families on the island.

Speaking of manor, that building behind the gate was really getting his attention.  It was stately and grand, with a lush lawn and a large garden full of flowering tulips and daffodils, further cementing it was spring here.  But it was the facade that captured his attention. He swore he’d seen it before, but… where… or more importantly WHEN.

It took about thirty seconds until he realized what this place was:  Redgrave Manor, the birthplace and childhood home of his father and brother.  But… here it stood here at the zenith of its glory, instead of the crumbling decrepit charred skeleton he remembered it to be.   Knowing what little bit he had gleaned from the twins, the fire that destroyed it and ended their childhoods prematurely was… almost forty years ago.  How long in time was he sent back?  Was this the doing of that weird worm?  It seemed kinda small to move him so far back in time.  Was this permanent?

He didn’t really have time to ruminate on such things because from a batch of tulips, there was a movement of gold that caught his eye, as if he was a magpie.  A head popped up, wearing a wide straw hat, humming contentedly as she pulled weeds.  Nero’s mouth went dry… he couldn’t see her face, had never met her, but he knew exactly what she looked like.  He’d studied that portrait on Dante’s desk countless times, comparing it to Trish’s face.  He struggled one whether to stand here standing there like a creepy stalker, watching his grandma, or to try to sound like a creepy weirdo, trying to get her attention.  What could he even say to her?

And as if she could read his mind, she looked up, and noticed him.  “Oh!” She exclaimed as she got up, removing her gardening gloves and brushing the dirt off of her knees. She had a basket of freshly picked tulips hooked on her arm, and she smelled of damp earth and freshly shorn grass.  “I didn’t see you, young man.”  She cocked her head in confusion, and for a moment, Nero felt like he didn’t have any clothes on, she was examining him so thoroughly.  But after that, she just smiled and asked, “are you looking for someone?”

“Uh yeah…” he began lamely, “is your husband Sp-”  he stopped himself.  Did his grandpa go by that name with his family?  Seemed too stately, too formal.  But maybe that was because in Fortuna, ‘Sparda’ was up there with ‘Jesus’ when it came to reverence.  Not a name to casually banter about.

“Oh, you’re talking about Spencer?  Sadly, he’s out of town-” she paused, and a shadow passed over her face. “For the foreseeable future.  I’m Eva, his wife.”

Nero could only stand there stunned.  His Grandpa, the Former Ruler and Savior of Fortuna, the Demon who threw down Mundus two millennia ago, who his father revered, went by the name… SPENCER!?  That was a nerd name!  No wonder the twins never referred to him with such a lame name.

“Oh…that’s too bad,”  he said, not feeling too bad at all.  It had been ages since he swallowed the baloney that the ‘Saviour’ was some sort of divine figure, but it would still feel awkward to meet the guy that Kyrie’s family practically worshipped.  And would Sparda somehow know who he was?  Would he be disappointed in his grandson?

“What’s your name, young man?”  

“Pardon?” “You never gave your name, and Spencer mentioned having any other…” she hesitated as she looked up at his hair.  “Relations.”

Aw crap…this is not a situation he had never planned for.  To be fair, he hadn’t expected to be warped into the past to meet his long dead grandma, but there was no way that she didn’t have suspicions about how he and Sparda were related.

“Oh,” he laughed nervously, running his hand through his hair, as if to acknowledge her concerns, “I’m from Fortuna, it’s an island off the coast a few days' travel from Redgrave.  I guess… you could call me a distant descendant of him.”  ‘Distant’ was stretching the truth to its fullest extent, but it would do, “My mom never met him either, if you’re worried about-”

“Oh, no… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to imply-” Now it was her turn to act flustered,  “I knew Spenc-, she paused, and then corrected herself, “Sparda used to reside there, long before we met, and I would never blame him for things he did there, and especially not blame a young man like you!”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and it felt… good.  Like with that simple gesture, he was now accepted by his grandmother, even if she didn’t know…it took all his willpower not to break down and cry.

“You still haven’t given your name..”

“Oh… yeah… I’m”  He panicked.. Should he give her his real name?  Would it fuck up the timeline?  But what pseudonym could he give that sounded believable.  It had to be a Fotunan name, it had to be one that he had heard constantly… it had to be a respectable name. “Credo…My name Credo Elesion”

Her eyes brightened, and she squeezed his shoulder tightly, as she tucked a vibrant royal purple tulip into his jacket breast pocket.  “Well, Credo Elesion, I’d like to formally welcome you to the Sparda family.”

🌷🌷🌷

He always knew the home where Dante and Vergil once spent their childhoods was massive, just looking at the skeleton that was left, but here?  In its prime?  It was beautiful, much grander than he’d ever seen before.  Dark wood panelling covered with paintings and tapestries, busts of statues from different eras.

“Sparda wa-is a collector of all things beautiful,” she explained, as she led him through the central hall. “One of the few things we argued about was how to let go of some of his older items, to make room for newer ones. For example,” she stopped before the only clear spot on the wall, visible the moment Nero stepped in.  “I had to cajole him to donate several pieces of art he cherished to the local museum, in order to make room for… this.”  She motioned to something leaning against the wall. She stepped away, and Nero gasped.  It was a life sized portrait, and he remembered it very well.  The heavily damaged one still hung in the manor, with Dante and Vergil hesitant to send it for restoration (and not because of the cost, he sensed)  This one was brand new, still giving off a faint odor of varnish.  A heavy canvas sheet covered half of it, most frustratingly, the part where he KNEW Sparda was seated.  But he could see Eva, looking regal as a Queen, and below her, her hands clasped on the shoulders of two young boys… “Those are…” he whispered.  The heavily damaged painting he remembered had obscured their features, almost as much as their fathers.  Now he could see their pensive features feeling quite out of character for the two older men he knew now.

“Yes, those are my sons,” she murmured, and he had a sensation that she wasn’t looking at them, but at him, for some reason.  “You have no idea how much effort it took for the two of them to stand still for their portrait to be even sketched, let alone painted.”

“I can only guess,” he grinned.  The only time the twins seem to be able to stand each other’s presence for any length of time is when they both are drunk… or sleeping.  

“Speaking of which… they’re awfully quiet…  DANTE!  VERGIL!  YOUR COUSIN IS HERE TO VISIT!!”  

Cousin, eh?  I can work with that. He thought.

There was a stampede of feet down the stairs, and a young voice yelled out.

“COUSIN LEON IS HERE! WOOOH!”

He shot a sharp glance at Eva.  There was another family member?  

“Ah, he’s talking about my sister’s son, Leon…. We’ve been a bit… estranged from that part of my family for the past few years.  The boys miss him terribly.  So few children of their age live in this area.”  She explained, and he nodded, and made a mental note to ask his dad about this cousin when he got back.

If he got back.  

He shoved the uncomfortable feeling down as soon as a bundle of demonic energy came down the steps, the two entities racing each other to get to the bottom.

It was Dante who got there first. His unmistakable aura of excitability, not tempered by age and tragedy yet to come was what marked him out to Nero.  His grin, showing a gap where he had recently lost a tooth, was hard to miss.

“I won!”  He crowed to the other figure, dressed more neatly, and more soberly.  Even at that age, Vergil had preferred to distinguish himself from his brother in any way he could.  Especially as he had to act like he was TOTALLY not upset that his little brother had won this particular race.

Dante skidded to a stop and stared at Nero, his jaw dangling open. “Dante, it’s not polite to stare.” “But this isn’t Leon!” The disappointment in his voice was palpable.

“No, this is your other cousin, Credo.  He’s dropped by to visit.  This is my son, Dante,” she formally introduced him, even though he already knew so much about him.  “And his brother,”

“Older brother,” the boy clarified.

“Older brother, Vergil.”  

“Glad to meet you!” Nero greeted them, trying to keep his composure.  They were so small.  It was hard to comprehend that the two men he called father and uncle were once children, instead of full grown adults that acted like children.

“Now, I need to get lunch ready for us and our guest, so if you two would like to show Mr. Credo around while I make some extra food for our guest.”  The boys began to protest.

“But mooooom, he’s so….” Dante looked at him with a grimace, “Olllllld.  He looks as old as dad!”

Nero had to bite back outrage, or a laugh, he wasn’t quite sure which.  

“Dante!!!  What have I told you about ‘if you can’t say anything nice…”

“Yeah yeah, don’t say anything at all...” he groaned, and he looked at his mother.  “Can I help you instead?  Vergil likes hanging around old people better…”

“Dante…”  Her voice was dangerously low, and Nero automatically knew that tone, having heard countless times, from orphanage matrons, mostly towards him.  Dante was thin ice.

“I’ll do it,” Vergil interrupted, and Nero was half surprised that he said it without a hint of sarcasm, or obligation.

“Splendid!  While you show Credo around, we’ll work on a picnic lunch!”  She shepherded Dante towards what was probably the kitchen.  

“With Strawberries?” Dante asked hopefully.

“Sorry, it’s not quite that season yet.”

“Awww”

“But we do have strawberry sorbet!”

“YAAAAY!”

And with that, they left both Nero and his…dad standing there.

“Um…well,” Vergil said, suddenly a bit shy, ��Do you want to see my room?”

“Sure!”  That was a good enough start.

Nero couldn’t help but marvel at everything as they went up the stairs.  So much beauty and art was contained here, in this house Even the handrails, made of hand carved well varnished wood, were amazing.

“How old are you, Vergil?”

“I’ll be eight in a month and three days.”  

That number sent a chill down his spine and settled in his gut.  Eight years old… the kid had  less than a year of peace and happiness before all this art, this beauty, his entire childhood, would go up in flames.  And Nero had no idea if he could change it, prevent it, or even warn him about it.  Would it make things worse?  Would the kid even believe him?

No, it would be best for him to stay vigilant and silent.

“Here we are…”

Nero stepped into what was the biggest bedroom he had ever seen.  Bookshelf after bookshelf filled the walls.  Most of the upper shelves were full of  tomes that he assumed even Adult Vergil would have found extremely dull, with names like ‘On the Nature of Rosacea’ or ‘The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’, but the lower books seemed plausible for a kid to read, even if they seemed a bit… ahead of the curve for a seven year old.  Swiss Family Robinson?  Nero had read that book when he was nine, secretly hoping that if he managed to escape Fortuna, he could settle on an isolated island and live life free.  And even then, his teachers were surprised that he was reading it at that age.

“Wow… this is your room?”  He looked over at the bed, and was surprised that it didn’t quite fit the room.  The wood frame didn’t match, far too light in colour, and the design didn’t fit the hardwood paneling.  And there was only one.  Which was odd, because his dad always seemed to share a tiny  bedroom with Dante, even with a spare room in the building.  And seeing how they could barely tolerate each other when awake, he had just assumed they must have slept in the same bedroom as kids.

“This is just your room?”  He looked, and yeah… there wasn’t anything about this room that indicated Dante even stepped foot in it.  Everything had its place, even the set of wooden swords that were placed carefully in a display above a polished hardwood desk.  Not a single hint of the chaos that was innately Dante.

“Yes, when father… when he went off on business, he left me his old library.” Vergil huffed and plopped himself on his neatly made bed.

“You don’t share a bedroom with your brother?”  

The look on the kid’s face looked like Nero had just suggested that he should use Yamato to cut a pizza. 

“Ew.  No.  Dante is just too… messy.  He never makes his bed. He talks in his sleep.  He snores.  When mother tells him to clean his side of his room, he sweeps all his stuff under my bed, and then I get in trouble for it.”  Vergil explained, each complaint given the full seriousness of a courtroom civil suit. “And worst of all, he’s always bugging me.  Always asking questions.  Always wanting to spend time with me.”  

Nero couldn’t help but chuckle.  That did sound like his dad, but nowadays he seemed to mellow out, maybe nearly a lifetime of being apart had made him more tolerant of Dante’s presence.

“Oh, he can’t be that bad!”

“Oh yes he can!  That’s why I moved into the library.  I can have my own space, and it has my father's old books.”

“You like books, I take it?”  Nero said as he sat down beside the kid, admiring the collection.  The amount of books could rival a small town’s library.

“Yes… father always liked reading.  Said it…” He closed his eyes and picked up his chin before lowering his voice in an imitation of Sparda, “Helps promote culture and learning.”  Nero couldn’t help but chuckle.  Somehow, despite never meeting the guy, it sounded like it had come straight from his mouth.

“Huh, that’s probably why he has a gigantic library where I live.” he mused, looking up and making a mental estimation at how many books this room had.  There had to be over two thousand.  After he was satisfied with his math, he noticed that Vergil had been quiet for far too long, he turned to see the boy staring at him in wonder.

“Father has another library?”

Crap.

That was not something he had wanted to disclose, but now the demon was out of the pizza box, so to speak.  Trying to backpedal would just make the kid more insistent.

“Yeah… your dad lived where I live, a looooong time ago.  He had a huge amount of books, so we took care of them, and tried to learn about him by reading his stuff.”

“Where do you live?”

Nero hesitated.  He could just make up a place, and Vergil wouldn’t know any better, but something told him that he ought to tell the truth.   Vergil would eventually head to Fortuna anyways, and do… uh… ‘research’.

“Fortuna,” he rubbed the back of his head, “it’s an island where your dad liked to spend time,” he decided to clarify, “before he met your mom.”

Vergil looked at his lap, thinking hard.  Eventually he murmured, “I’d like to go there… maybe I can find out about what Father really did, where he went.  Mother always seems so sad when I talk to her about him, and I would like to make her happy again.”

Nero paused.  Vergil was a good kid.  He had a lot of stuff ahead of him that Nero didn’t wish on his worst enemy.  He didn’t deserve to deal with it all alone.

“What about Dante?”

Vergil huffed, “What about him?”

Nero gulped, but continued, “You like to say that you don’t like hanging out with him, but I get the feeling that deep down, you really care for him as a brother.  Yeah, you need some time apart, but at the end of the day… you like having him at your side.”

Vergil sat there, digesting the information before slowly nodding.   “Perhaps…”

“VERGIL… CREDO!!! THE PICNIC IS READY!!”  Eva’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs.  Vergil’s eyes lit up, and he hurried out, grabbing Nero by the wrist and practically dragging him down the stairs.

🌷🌷🌷

Lunch was a delight, with sandwiches cut into quarters, layers of ham and cheese, turkey, and bacon, with finely cut slices of vegetables.  There was fresh squeezed lemonade, and as cheered for before, strawberry sorbet for dessert.  The boys devoured everything (with the exception of the vegetables) with gusto, despite their mother repeatedly reminding them that they had a guest, and that it wasn’t polite to ‘inhale’ their food.  (Some things never changed).

Nero was glad that they enjoyed the food, because for some reason, it didn’t have the same appeal to him. Like, it LOOKED like it ought to be delicious.  The vegetables were crisp, the bread was freshly baked, but everything, including the tartness of the lemonade felt…dull… distant.  Like those cheap drinks Nico bought at gas stations and guzzled constantly, despite them tasting like a can of water shown a picture of a fruit.  Even the strawberry sorbet tasted more like one of those cheap snow cones that had only one squirt of flavouring in it.   Of course, he would remain polite, and smiled and lied about how delicious the food was. 

“Vergil!” announced Dante, after licking the rest of the sorbet out of the bowl .  “Race you to the treehouse?”  He stood up and held his hand out to the other boy.

The older twin hesitated, obviously not really enthusiastic for the idea of spending more time with his annoying little brother.

“Go on…” Nero urged, “have some fun with him.”  Nero might not be able to prevent what was going to happen, or protect him, but at the very least, he could encourage him to make some good memories, to help him remember how much he loved his brother, despite the hard times ahead.

The boy pursed his lips for a minute, looked at his mother for her nod of encouragement, and took Dante’s hand, who helped him up and attempted to look like he was being dragged towards the distant tree, a barely seen wooden structure hidden in the freshly grown leaves.  But Nero couldn’t help but notice he had a small smile on his face, especially as he turned back for a one small glance at what he originally thought was his grandmother… but to his surprise, it was directed at HIM.

He heard a blending of two types of laughter, one eager and excitable, the other more subdued, yet fuller with warmth,  before the wind carried them away.

“I hoped you enjoyed your short stay with us,” Eva murmured, sitting next to him.  She took a sip out of her teacup, her mannerisms in holding the cup resembling a  man he knew.

“Yeah!” he took a sip of the lemonade, attempting not to wince at the (lack of) taste.  Maybe old folks were right, food back in the day wasn't full of those ‘darn artificial flavouring.’  It’s been great meeting you all, coming here and seeing…”  he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to sound like a crazy guy, so he took another swig.

“Seeing your father as he once was…” she finished his sentence, and it was all he could do to turn his head away from her and not ruin the picnic by choking and spitting the lemonade all over her and the picnic.  He spent the next minute coughing and hacking while she sat patiently for him to recover.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that while you were in the middle of sipping.”

Frankly, him looking like an idiot, choking on some lemonade was the least of his concerns. He eventually got control of his breathing, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stared at her.

“How did you…”

“Know that you weren’t who you said you were?”  She said, but there was no anger or disappointment in it.  “Having spent most of my adulthood at Sparda’s side, I learned much about arcane subjects.  Demonic magic, the subtle distinctions of souls, and when someone is where- or in this case- WHEN in the wrong place.  I identified it the moment I saw you.  There’s a …” she placed her teacup down, and picked up his hand.  He was too dumbfounded to pull away or react, not that he wanted her too.  Her hand was so warm, so soft.  “There’s a translucency about you, as if you could exist at this time and place for a limited period of time.  It’s a lot more pronounced now, perhaps you can see it too.”

He looked down at his hand, and he could just make out the outlines of her hand within his, not noticeable enough for anyone not looking for it.

“That means-” he gasped.

“We are running out of time…” she said softly, and there was a little bit of a tremor in her voice.  He wasn’t sure if she was talking about him, or…her and her sons.  

“How did you know my dad was Vergil?” he asked.

She chuckled, and looked out at the treehouse, which now looked faint, like a warm fog had suddenly blown in.  “I’ll admit, I may know the difference between Vergil and Dante by their souls, but even I have my limits with the twins.  In which case, I cheated.  I looked at you, your reaction to the boys.  The way you wrinkled your nose at Dante calling you old.  And the look of longing you gave Vergil.  That sealed the deal.”

Was it just him, or had the colour of the grass they sat upon lose its springtime vibrancy?

“May I have your name?”  She asked one last time, and this time he answered truthfully.

“Nero.  My name is Nero.”  

Her face broke out in a smile.  “That’s a wonderful name!”  He was glad she didn’t ask for his last name.  He wasn’t sure there was enough time to unpack all of that history.  Still, her face turned a bit sombre as she looked at him.  “We haven’t met before, have we?”  She seemed more sad that she would never meet her grandson, than the implications that she would never LIVE to meet him.

Nero thought he didn't have springtime allergies, but for some reason his eyes began to water.  He blinked back the tears threatening to form.

“No… Dante and Vergil talk about you regularly though.  One of the few things they agree on is how wonderful a mom you were.”

He must have inherited those sudden spring allergies from her, because her eyes were now shiny too,

“Oh, they’re still together!  That’s wonderful to hear!”  But she pulled him closer to herself to the point that their foreheads nearly touched, like she was trying to memorize everything about him.  Her hand withdrew from his, and placed it on his cheek, which he couldn’t help but lean into, savouring the warmth.  Every other sensation was becoming muted, even the blue checkered cloth picnic blanket was fading into a dull white.  “It hasn’t been an easy life for them, has it… or for you?” He couldn’t say anything except to nod dumbly, because he was certain that the only sound he could make would be a choked sob.  He couldn’t put the burden on her on how one son would spend much of his life living his life depressed at his own failures and alone, the other cold, tortured by his past and legacy, and alone.

“But you are here, my grandson, a fully grown man, and my sons are alive and together,” she reassured him,  “that is enough for me.”

He managed to keep himself together enough to blurt out, “Me and my fiance…we have three kids we adopted. Vergil loves them, in his own Vergil way.”  He longed to tell her about Kyrie, how much that woman saved him from a life of anger and despair, that she was so much like Eva in her own way, but like his grandmother said, they were running out of time.  But still, as the haze that surrounded them and leeched the colour out of everything got darker, her smile of delight shone through.

“I’m a great-grandmother…” she said with amazement, and Nero’s heart thumped that like Vergil, she instinctively took them as her own, bloodlines be damned.  She pulled his head closer and down, and brushed her lips on his forehead, and that was it.  The dam broke and he began to sob.  He didn’t want this to end.  He didn’t want to leave her to a future he knew would end in her terror and death.  He wanted to protect her, protect the twins, let them live life to the fullest.

“What little time we have been given to be together is worth more than many years of being worried for the future of my boys.  Whatever happens, I know that in the end, things will work out.”

He couldn’t help it, his spectral wings shot out and gathered her in a loving embrace.  There was a small yelp of surprise, and then a contented hum as she realized what was happening.   The world was becoming really dark now, as if he had entered a tunnel.  He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or shut, or if the scant light he saw was just something he imagined behind closed eyes.

Her voice murmured at his ear, faint, almost a whisper.  “Tell them all that I send them my love.”  He nodded, tried to speak, but found himself unable to move.  The darkness was now physical, crushing him, and for a brief moment, he just floated there, trying to figure out what was happening.  Was he dead?  No, he couldn’t be dead, he needed to relay her last message to the twins.  He needed to get back to his kids, tell them how much he loved them, tell Kyrie that his grandma would have adored her.  He struggled at the pitch black that threatened to suffocate him.  He felt, rather than saw his spectral arms struggling against it trying to find something that wasn’t a void of light. 

Suddenly, there was a shift, and a jerk upwards, his right spectral arm had found something to latch onto, or more correctly something found IT, and now was pulling it, and him up.   He hoped whatever it was, it didn’t have any plans of eating him.

Suddenly, he felt the influx of three things, light, air, and sound in abundance.  Blinked teary, gritty eyes. Coughed up, not watered down lemonade, but dirt that was in his mouth and throat.   Heard not the sound of spring birds or the sound of his grandmother’s voice at his ear, but the hiss of a dying demon, the rush of ghostly hooves, and the half frantic mutterings of a man.

“Come on Nero, wake up.”  The nasally voice, much different from the pensive young boy.  Nero heard a grunt, almost a roar, “GET UP!”  and suddenly the darkness that had imprisoned him was gone.

He cracked his eyes open, blinked away more grit. Vergil stood above him, breathing heavily, loose strands of his usually combed back hair flying this way and that.  Yamato was unsheathed, demonic ichor still dripping from the tip, unwiped which was so  his usually meticulous father.  

“WHAT. DID. I. TELL. YOU. ABOUT. THE. CHRONOSKOLEX.” he wasn’t yelling, per se. But for Vergil, this volume of voice conveyed how angry he was at Nero.  “I  SPECIFICALLY told you to be aware and keep your distance from it, especially without me or even your uncle.  Had I not had the ability to arrive quickly…” he wiped his blade on his sleeve before sheathing it as he motioned towards the rapidly decaying carcass of the worm.  There was that telltale odor of ozone that always accompanied a portal that Yamato had cut. “You would have been kept in stasis by its timecontrol, completely motionless, undetectable until you were suffocated by the ground.”  It was that sentence that revealed that it wasn’t anger that was causing Vergil to raise his voice, it was terror.  Terror at what might have happened.   Nero could tell by the way he offered a hand to help him up, the way it trembled.

With a grunt, he swung a hand, and his father yanked him up, overcompensating on the effort so that Nero fell into him.  They both stood there, frozen, waiting for the other to hug, neither one wanting to be the one to initiate it.

In the end, it didn’t happen.  He heard a disgusted sniff, and Vergil’s voice at his shoulder.  “You smell of horse droppings,” and he backed up, as if he was afraid of being contaminated.   Still, it didn’t stop him from brushing off the horseshit infused dirt out of Nero’s hair, his shoulders, his coat… and then he stopped, his eyes transfixed on Nero’s chest.

After a few awkward moments, Nero braved a glance downward to see what Vergil was staring at.  And suddenly froze as well. 

There, set in his breast pocket was a perfectly dried black tulip.  But, on closer inspection, as his trembling pulled it out and held it in the light, indicated that it had been a deep royal purple when it was fresh.  Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore he could still smell, above the odors of a farm, its delicate fragrance.

“That was mother’s favourite…”  Vergil’s voice was ragged.  

“Her favourite colour of tulip…” Nero finished his sentence for him, and gave him some time to register it.

He looked back up at Nero’s face, searching for something, or retrieving a memory, before rasping out a single name.

“Credo?”

Nero gave him a small grin… “You of all people can’t blame me for going by an assumed name,”  He placed the tulip in Vergil’s hand, cracked his stiff neck, and his grin grew.  “How about we go home, I get a shower, Dante orders a pizza or two, and we can talk about…well” he motioned to the flower, and Vergil nodded.

The older man cut through the air, creating a portal, the inky void beckoning them forward, not scary and suffocating like the deep earth and the tragic past, but leading them to an unseen, but hopeful future.

“I have one question right now…” Nero said as they began to walk through.

“Hmmm?”

“Do we have a cousin named Leon?”

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

The Garden

Chapter One

❥Prince!Park Seonghwa x fem reader

☆ feat. ateez, tomorrow x together, and others

➯a/n: i've had this idea in the drafts for a very long time and it's gone through a million iterations of characters and love interests and something about hwa in the skirt and sword clicked in my brain. i'm still recovering but this idea hit me hard and fast so i decided i'd put something out. i promise i'll stop starting new stories 😭 (shoutout to my gf again for helping this come to life)

✃"I will give you the happy ending you've always wanted."

✫彡wordcount: 2.7k

(✯◡✯)genre: historical fantasy au, drama

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: mentions of violence, anxiety, and loved ones passing, briefly proof read

⁂taglist: @stvrfir3 @tunaasan

MATURE UNDER CUT MDNI

𖢌

I hope this letter has found you well.

   The wheels crunch the gravel road. Horses hooves clap against the ground loudly. The waves crash just feet way. The sounds echo through the carriage.

I know it's short notice.

    The sun is casting down from a clear sky. The grass is healthy, green and lush. The ocean is vast and blue, foam from the waves clings to the pure white sand.

Taedemere is in jeopardy. We are at war. Lord Hwang declared it silently.

  It was a bumpy ride. A long one. But you don't seem to mind. You keep your sisters entertained and keep your brothers minds off of the impending war. Doing so, you can almost manage to distract yourself from your own future.

He's already posted spies. Spies in the castle. Gods knows how long they've been here.

  "The dragon fell from the tower. It's shrieks echoed through the kingdom!" You read with enthusiasm, looking at the twins who look back with wide eyes.

It's not safe for them here. We had to sneak them away through the tunnels.

  "Did the prince kill it?!" Seunghee asks, holding tight to your skirt. "He must have," Soojun is entranced by the story, "right?"

There was an attempt on my life. An attempt on the girls in the garden. Another on Kai and (Y/n). They are everywhere.

  You launch forward and scream, spooking the girls back into Kais leg. He's holding back a laugh as he pats their heads. "The dragon soars up from the fog, the princes sword still lodged into its scaly side!"

They are threatening us with no words at all. Lord Hwang is coming for the Taedemere crown.

   "Must you scare them with such stories?" Yeonjun sighs as he tugs the young girls back up to the seat, sandwiching himself between them and his brother.

You must forgive our absence. I have to keep the crown secure until we have a more solidified plan.

   You simply ignore him, "the creature perches itself on the ledge, it's jaws reach for the prince. He backs into the wall and draws his dagger. 'Foul demon! I send you back to hell!' he yells as he dives at it. They tumb-"

It's time.

  The carriage halts. You snap the book shut and lean back to get a look out of the foggy window. Yeonjun slides into the seat next to you and does the same. Kai strains his neck to look out of the window behind him.

Take care of our children. Our future.

  The gates are iron, shining like they were scrubbed everyday. The castle beyond them seems to be endless.

-King Choi Seungcheol

  As the gates open, you can feel your heart beat in your ears. Seunghee climbs on your lap and peeks out of the window, her eyes widen with every second she inspects the castle.

   Yeonjun seems to notice your dismay as the carriage grows ever closer.

He can feel it to. The feeling that your future is being written in stone with every inch you grow closer.

"When I last saw him," he hesitates as he gets your attention. "Prince Seonghwa seemed to be the same. He hasn't changed, he's still your old friend."

  You manage a nod with a small smile, and although he can tell it's forced; it helps comfort him. It doesn't comfort Kai, however. He never liked the idea of you marrying someone so far away. He still doesn't. You're attached at the hip.

   Everyone knows Choi (Y/n) doesn't want to marry for security or position. You made it very clear. It's a miracle that you've been able to avoid it this long. You figured if you put up enough of a fuss, your oldest brother would simply give up. But you are equally stubborn. And now he's King.

  A loud horn startles you, and you instinctively pull Seunghee closer. Your breathing hitches until you realize it's just the castle welcoming your entourage.

   As you come to a complete stop, all of your demeanors change. Yeonjun wipes his caring expression away and straightens his back. Kai lets go of Soojuns hand and fixes his blouse. The twins try their best to hide their awe at the beautiful and vast architecture.

And all you can do is hide your growing anxieties with a polite smile.

  The door squeaks as it opens. Yeonjun is the first one to exit. Soojun eagerly follows, and Seunghee is right behind her. The remaining siblings can hear the fuss from the bystanders outside.

   The middle siblings sit silence for a moment before he speaks up. "You don't have to be afraid."

You look up and let the faux smile fade the second you see his sincerity.

  "Don't I?"

  "No."He shakes his head. He's sure. His sister has nothing to be afraid of. Because- "if that Prince hurts you; I'll be the one to personally whip some senses into him."

You can't help the small chuckle that leaves your lips, and motion for him to leave the carriage first. He does, leaving you alone for a single moment before someone peeks in.

  "Your highness?" You smile at the man in uniform, standing slowly.

  "So impatient," you roll your eyes playfully and take his hand as he helps you step down. "Thank you, Yeosang."

  He bows slightly before leading you to your place in between your brothers and sisters. Your eyes are still adjusting to the bright light, but you can see the large doors open in front of you.

Yeonjun kneels, Kai follows his lead, you follow his, Seunghee following you; and Soojun stands upright just staring at the royal family until you notice and pull her down by the back of her neck without even lifting you head. You can all hear a small snort of laughter, and Yeonjun worries your family managed to already offend them until the King speaks.

"Please, rise."

The Choi family does so and Yeosang, the knight, steps forward. He bows deeply before turning to the siblings. "The Prince Choi Yeonjun. The Princess Choi (Y/n). The Princess Choi Seunghee. The Princess Choi Soojun. Huening Kai."

A man steps up from behind the other family, introducing them like Yeosang had just done for your family. "His Royal Majesty Park Kyujun. The Prince Park Seonghwa. The Princess Park Bongcha. The Princess Hayoon."

Your family bows, greeting him in unison, "Your Majesty." Yeonjun continues. "Thank you for your hospitality, sire. We are forever grateful."

Your eyes are fully adjusted when you rise from your bow. The king is older than you remember, but it has been a long time. Princess Bongcha has grown so much that you briefly wonder if you've found yourself time-traveled. There's an unfamiliar little girl beside her. The prince, your fiancé, has changed just as much as you have. You contemplate if he even remembers you. But those wonders are cleared when he addresses you directly.

"Princess (Y/n)," he has a bright smile and dark hair, that much has stayed the same. "Your highness," you smile back and lower your head.

  Whispers echo through the crowd that's held back by the guards: and it's becoming hard for you ignore them. You wrap your arm around Soojun when she cowers closer.

   "Please, come," King Kyujun motions for you all to follow him, and you gladly do.

    It's been a long journey, but it's only just begun.

𖢌

  King Kyujun leads the Choi family down the great hall and they can't help but marvel in its greatness. To the twins, it's a new world to be explored, coming up with their own stories that go along with the stain glass windows. To the older siblings, it brings back memories of childhood, a time when they didn't have such worries that plague their minds these days.

  Yeonjun can remember his first kiss behind a delicately painted pillar during the dead of night. Kai can remember learning a dance with his mother in this hall, the feeling of belonging. (Y/n) can remember running away from the tutor with Seonghwa beside her.

  As you look over to him, you notice it. "You still have that goofy smile," you've dropped the titles and politics. You're just a girl reunited with her child hood friend and fiancé. "I though you may have outgrown it."

  "I'm starting to think I may not," he laughs a bit.

   "I'd hope not. It's one of your few redeeming qualities," you joke, hiding your smirk as you look up at the new chandelier you pass under.

   He feigns a gasp, a hand on his chest. "I'll have you know that I have many good qualities."

  You hum, turning to him, "such as? Sparring with a squirrel?" He slaps a hand over his mouth to swallow his laughter. Your laughter rings free in the empty hall.

   "That squirrel was a menace! It startled me!" He argues in a low voice. "It had no right jumping next to me like that," he says with an exaggerated frown.

   "Unnie!" Soojun hollers, catching your attention quickly as you see that your little sisters have fallen behind. You make your way to them quickly, scolding them that they shouldn't yell in the presence of the King. "Look, Unnie," she points as she ignores your scolding.

  Your heart speeds before it stops abruptly, face to face with the intricate stained glass window. The sun shines through it, casting colorful lights on you all. It's a beautiful collage of colors. Every tiny piece is fit together perfectly to tell a story.

   You flinch when a hand is placed on your shoulder. The King apologizes, retracting his hand. "You probably don't remember this..." You shake your head and look back to the art. "I remember, sire."

He sighs deeply, and you can feel his energy apologizing even if he says nothing.

    "Come on, there's food waiting." The twins cheer quietly, following the King to the room where everyone else has vanished to.

    Seonghwa joins your side and looks at the window, basking in the colored light as he looks over the picture for what must be the millionth time. In his lifetime, he hasn't been able to find a single flaw.

  He looks down at you. Your skin is painted in a range of blue and yellow, pinks and greens. There's a patchy scratch on the majority of your cheek that's slipped his notice until now. Your eyebrows have screwed themselves up and your lip quivers.

   "Don't cry," he was essentially begging, "please, don't cry, (Y/n)."

You sniff in response, rubbing a stray tear away from your cheek. It's silent between you as you have a staring contest with the glass. "Fuck," you mumble as tears start to fall more often. "Ah, (Y/n)," he coos, moving to block your view of the heartbreaking image.

"I... It's just, I haven't seen them since they passed, Cheol put away their portrait... It breaks his heart to see them, but it breaks mine not to. I almost forgot what they looked like."

He doesn't say anything, simply opening his arms and letting you fill them. After so long, it feels the same. You're still shorter, but you've both grown. He's still strong, but now you caught up. You still turn your head to the left and place it on his chest. He still wraps one arm around your back and places the other on your shoulders. After all these years, you remember how secure he feels when your arms link around his waist. Even with the time that's passed, he can recall the fact you love when he rubs his thumb over your shoulder.

So much has happened to each of you and yet you both still have memorized each other's hugs. You used to be each others safe place. And though you're older and have met again in such pressing circumstances, it remains the same.

"Your highness," the familiar voice is just loud enough to startle you. "Yes, Yeosang?" You questions calmly, and it's a stark contrast to Seonghwas glare at the man. "Your brother asks for you, ma'am." You nod to dismiss him, and turn back to Seonghwa when he's gone.

"How do I look?"

"Look like you've been crying."

You tut your tongue and gently slap his shoulder with the back of your hand. He smiles as you do. "It'll be okay," he assures you as he fixes a stray from your neat hair, "it's dark in the dining hall."

He takes your hand and pulls you away from the image of your passed parents lazing in the garden.

𖢌

His footsteps are heavy. He's forcing his breathing to be slow. His heartbeat is going wild as he gets closer to the Kings quarters.

He steps in front of the guards and they knock on the double doors. "Prince Yeonjun, your majesty!" The Kings response is muffled by the walls, but clear enough for the guards to be confident in opening the doors.

Yeonjun steps in and looks over his shoulder as the doors close behind him, anything to keep his eyes away from King Kyujun. The doors slam shut and he finds a tapestry to inspect.

"Please, sit." He follows his voice and finds himself sitting across from the King on the large balcony, a round table littered in papers separates them.

"Thank you, your Majesty," he eagerly takes the wine he offers, hoping it would soothe his dry throat. He can't remember being so thirsty before the King called for him.

"How do you find your quarters?"

Yeonjuns lips are still occupied with the glass when the man speaks up, and he takes his time before speaking shortly. "Very nice, sire. Thank you."

"And your siblings?"

"I'm sure they're adjusting well, sire. We thank you, again, for your hospitality while we discuss our plans."

When he finally has the courage to look at the man, it calms his nerves. His crown is gone. His blouse is astray. His nose and cheeks carry a rosy hue from the frigid weather. He looks much more human.

"This is, of course, why I've asked you here."

"Of course."

Kyujun leans back into the wooden chair and lets out a sigh. "Once (Y/n) and Seonghwa are married, we will put our combined efforts against Lord Hwang. He's a vicious man," he tuts his tongue, annoyed at the mere mention of the Lord of Kherhai. "I've heard of the attacks on your family. I'm sorry for you loss and... rest assured, we will not let anything happen to you at this court."

    "Thank you, sire."

   "Your sister," he hesitates just a bit, "I've looked into quite a few people to help her plan the wedding. They'll meet with her tomorrow. I know she doesn't agree with the circumstances, but that doesn't mean it must be unpleasant."

   "I'm sure she will appreciate it, sire. She's been hesitant to do any planning on her own."

   Kyujun nods in response. He already knows this. He's kept close tabs on his only sons fiancée.

   "Sire, may I ask when the wedding is supposed to be taking place?"

"This week, if all goes well. Lord Hwang is no doubt sending men this way as we speak to get rid of the rest of the Choi family lineage." Kyujun doesn't seem to notice Yeonjuns pained expression, and if he does: he doesn't say anything about it.

   He, instead, hands the young man a map of Kherhai: diving head first into strategy.

𖢌

[eddiestightywhities]

TID-BIT TUESDAY AS WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by lovelies @inell and @daffi-990—thanks my dudes! you can find inell's here and daffi's here. mine is from my shot!eddie fic which doesn't yet have a title. it's a bit of a stream of consciousness, and so somehow felt right to be written in 2nd person? so, weird POV let's go!! lol

.

You reckon your knees are about to buckle, and you think of Johnny Lawrence sweeping the leg—and you'd maybe laugh at that if your face hadn't stuck when the wind changed, just like your mamá always warned you it would.

Then, you…

Then you don't know shit.

There's nobody taking swings at you. No skirmish. No fist fight. In fact, the only thing fighting you right now seems to be gravity—and whatever’s trying to take you out this time around.

There's this intense, incessant ringing, and you guess it must be in your head with the way it's resonating between your ears; a channel of piercing surround sound, deadening everything else to only muted reverberation. Your vision’s blurring, too, like someone swapped out the moisture in your eyes for your father's tequila, and it's giving you a watery sort of tunnel vision, everything now hazy and unfocused which is freaking you the fuck out and the only thing you can see clearly is—

Him.

He's here, yet all the way over there. Standing tall, directly opposite you, but looking small, somehow, and he's blank-faced, at first, but then cast with this look of revelation that's straight out of an old painting from the Getty museum you both took Christopher to a little while back; like God just took him by the shoulders and said This is how the world really works, Evan—and Caravaggio, or Bosch, or some other old painter dude has captured it in rich oils on expensive, stretched canvas. And you—you'd hoped he'd never find out, didn't want him to have knowledge of any of this shit. Not this, never this.

Then, like clockwork, you're looking at his mouth that is so, so red, which is—that's not right. Even if his mouth is always red, and pouty, and lush, it should never be this red. It's too red. Too, too red. Too much of that bright red that's splattered carelessly across his pale face. And it must be seeping into his skin by now, through his pores, and has to be be in his mouth, and you're wondering if it's warm on his tongue? Wondering if he likes the taste? But then you baulk at the idea because fuck, no, it shouldn't—he shouldn't be having to—and it's frightening him, you can tell, can see the fear blooming in his eyes, his features starting to contort in slow-mo, and oh—shit, shit, shit—is he hurt? All that red, and he’s—no, wait, hang on, he's, he…

Is it blood?

All that blood.

God, you need to get to him so you can—can see, can check him over. You have to get to him, right the fuck now, make sure he's okay and help him if he isn't. And you're trying, you're trying so hard, trying really, really hard, but you can't—can't seem to get to him, can't seem to manage it, can't get your legs to move and oh, yeah, that's right, they're about to give out from under you, remember, Eddie? And you need to breathe, in and out, but you're not sure you remember how, so you start to panic instead—only it feels weird, the fear, your fear. Too slow, and too quiet, and how is a person expected to hyperventilate if their breath is so shallow that it's hardly there at all? And you're thinking about how you don't know what will happen if all this dread has to stay stuffed inside of you, if it can't escape via too-fast half-breaths and shaking hands, and you feel like an African worry doll that somebody stuck pins in; full of holes, so full of holes. Except your holes are bullet holes, and holes of your heart, the ones you got as a little boy that your mamá and papá and the world put there. And all the stuffing's falling out of you, now, and you don't know how to shove it back in ‘cause you have no idea how the hell it ever fit inside you in the first place. And you're scared, too, now, terrified, actually, but you still need to move because you have to get to him, fuck! You need to fucking get to him and wipe all that awful blood off his lovely face, and check if he's hurt, and put your thumb to his pulse point and tell the both of you that everything is gonna be okay—except it isn't okay, is it, Eddie? Because—because he could be hurt. Is he hurt?

Is he hurt?

Dios mio, you have to get to him. Because You need him to be okay. Because he has to be okay. He has to be. Has to. Has to. He has got to be okay because it's him, it's him, it's him, and everybody needs him. Christopher needs him, and—and you need him, dammit.

Oh, God.

.

tags below the cut, play or nay:

@rosieposiepuddingnpie @sortasirius @angela-feelstoomuch @woodchoc-magnum @kitteneddiediaz @watchyourbuck @treasurehuntbuck @colonoscopys @wildehacked @shitouttabuck @lamardeuse @exhuastedpigeon and anybody else who wants to do the thing xp

[thegamingcatmom]

how do you think the denalis would react if the reader sneakily got a tattoo? If it was of their initials or their symbol would the reader get out of trouble?

Do you think MC has a death wish?

...

Jk. 🤓

(Bish will do as she damn well pleases, tyvm.)

(...And pray to God her wives are in a forgiving mood.)

(Better to ask for forgiveness than permission anyway, right?)

(...Right?)

(👀)

.

.

.

Tanya Denali:

*affectionate* excuse?

her darling did what?

don't get her wrong

ofc her mate is allowed to, yknow, be her own person and stuff

she'd never forbid her precious girl anything

unless it's dangerous ofc

or foolish

or reckless

(or doesn't 100% match up with what she has envisioned)

(jk jk)

(or not)

(she can be a bit...overbearing, at times)

so, yknow

all things that she associates with getting a tattoo

how foolish

how reckless

how dangerous

she just doesn't understand why her darling would want to tarnish that perfect skin of hers

and risk it getting infected

or worse

why must this world be so cruel?

why is-

...wait

*stops her ranting because that eyesore starts to look familiar*

is that-

*recognizes the eyesore as their family crest with the first letters of their names (T, K, I) wound around it most artistically*

...

that's-

...acceptable

(she´s already obsessed)

just this once

(also because her letter comes first, as it should)

don't get used to it though

(how about "Tanya" for a next tattoo? quite a nice ring to it, if you ask her)

...

excuse her-

*proceeds to drag MC away to a place where she can thoroughly inspect the eyesore*

yknow, just to make sure it looks...as it should

no infections or anything

that´s her job, after all

ensuring the safety and well-being of her coven members

especially her mate

she´s just the best leader, is she not?

and the best mate

so very...thorough

Kate Denali:

unlike Tanya, recognizes what the tattoo is meant to represent immediately

...

are you kidding her?

...

how fucking awesome is that??

she loves it

especially the way the "K" wraps around the other two letters, partly covering them

(besting her sisters in everything, it seems)

(who´s the top dog now? 😏)

she can´t get enough of it

(she just wants to lick-)

also because she kinda thinks of it as war paint

MC strutting about, showing off her clan as well as her wives like a true Warlord

her little warrior

(so hot)

also because MC´s now literally saying "I belong to Kate Denali"

(so.fucking.hot)

...fine

and to her sisters

but still

(the "K" covering the other letters is all she needs to see)

she fucking loves it

in fact

she already has an idea for the next tattoo

"If lost return to Kate the Great"

don´t that sound nice?

...

...fine

"Kate the Great" will do too

...

...fine

she´ll also make do with "Kate"

...

oh CMON!

(this world is cruel)

Irina Denali:

...

oh...honey

what is she to say to that?

has her sweet baby become a punk now??

did Kate encourage her??

(she wouldn´t put it past her rowdy sister)

they´re going to have a serious conversation about this

what´s next??

a piercing??

one of those dreadful tunnels??

green hair???

not on her watch-

*sees MC blinking at her with those big innocent eyes*

...

*sees MC pouting at her with those lush lips*

...

*sees MC looking all hopeful, most proud of her newest...addition*

...

sighs

she just can´t deny her Angel anyth-

...hold on

*squints*

...is that-

her name??

well, the first letter of it, but STILL-

that´s-

oh...darling

what an honor

her sweet girl putting herself through agony, just for her??

...well, and her sisters

BUT STILL-

she´s a (huge) sucker for symbolism

to see her name, even if it´s just a part of it, forever engraved into the skin of her darling mate?

she´s always known their love for each other is as timeless as their existence

but now it has been visualized

not that she needed any kind of "proof"

she gets to look at her darling mate every day, after all

that is all the proof she needs

but this? it´s just...different

also because others will know as well now...

(not that anyone with eyes would ever doubt it...or dare question their love)

she´s speechless

truly

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋

.

.

.

EDIT:

The sisters would be most accepting, btw. (Not that they have a choice, lol.) In case anyone has doubts about that.

They might feel a bit smad about it first because MC got a tattoo in secret though. Like, MC should know (and she does) that she can talk to them about anything without fear of getting judged.

Ultimately though, they´ll accept her choice. ✌️

...After some sighing, crossing their arms, muttering under their breaths probs, lol.

[kodapi]

         [✎] to [ @tenebriism ]

     ‹ Another episode — this time a bit more stubborn. An emotional break despite all his work to restrain those feelings, and it nearly consumed his campsite. Lavender and cyan flames had danced upon the lake's edge as it fed upon the lush foliage, unwilling to heed their source for a time as they continued to feast. The rising panic only spurred the flames onward until finally they were subdued and hushed into nothingness again, leaving a young man to stand in the wake of the now-blackened grass with a shaky exhale to mark the release of tension from his muscles. Weary legs would then carry him back towards a cliffside where he would find himself sat upon a small metal pot that served as his makeshift chair, long retired from its days as cookware. ›

     ‹ It had been a few months since he first arrived; a small campsite had been set up within a small crevice offered by the cliffside, the lake and various fruit-bearing bushes nearby all he needed for nourishment and self-care. It would become his new home, long having escaped from Promepolis in the wake of inheriting the accursed flames that tormented him earlier. With that sudden pyre that had just broken forth and was barely contained however, perhaps it would not be his home for long. He would have to consult his map and find a new spot — further away now, further isolated, for if even a single witness had seen the leaping arcs of the unique fire, it was only a matter of time until the uncaring barreled through for him. ›

    ❝ It may need to be further north... ❞ ‹ came his exhausted murmur as he glided his index finger across an old, well-loved folding paper map. It was littered with written notes, marked with key information over his time away from civilization › ❝ Still good conditions, and further away from other cities... ❞

     ‹ By this point, a few hours had passed since the literal flare up, and though he was anxious, the time that had passed had ironically caused a bout of tunnel-vision; any approaching would have the chance to gain the upper hand, at least until they made more obvious or loud noises. ›

[crazysodomite]

I think we should turn the idea of living vehicles into a speculative biology fiction. A universe where flocks of airplanes rule the sky and trains dig and burrow through tunnel systems and cars speed in the lush meadows. Peace and love on Planet Earth. Being a mechanical engineer in this universe technically makes you a biologist btw

that sounds fun ^_^ i was just thinking of turning an electric train into a creature