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oceansblvds · 13 days ago

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tunnel vision ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 2.9k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff. chapter specifics: talk of marriage. snow being lowkey a stalker.

authors note ; please feel free to request fics or headcanons or blurbs! i hope u enjoy :) this is the first part of a series.

You couldn’t remember the last time that your mother didn’t talk to you about the prospect of marrying a wealthy man.

Your family, a powerful family who had multiple different monopolies on the factories in District One, knew that the moment they had a girl they would have to secure the perfect match of the season for her the moment she came of age. Your mother was the cousin of a prince and your father was the first born son of the late viscount, money and station was never anything that you had to worry about. When you were little, you were sure that you would find someone for a love match, something that only happened about one in a hundred times in a courting situation. You dreamed about a wealthy, beautiful man sweeping you off your feet and taking you away to have a beautiful life and marriage.

But for someone like you, born into the family that you were, something deep down in you knew that you wouldn’t have much of a choice on who you were to marry. You knew that your father would want to marry you to the best man who would keep you secure, someone who wouldn’t gamble all of his money away or incite scandal. And although there were many men who asked for your hand over the years, he still insisted that he hadn’t found the right one for you yet.

All of these suitors are mere boys. They don’t know power. They don’t know prestige. He would say to you as your mother held your hand just a little bit tighter when they broke the news that you would still be single for the time being.

It was a new courting season in the Capital. The lush greenery of the beautiful city was at its peak, the summer air flowing through the windows of your rooms as you got ready to go with your family to the first event of the season — a luncheon hosted by a wealthy duke and his mother to start the season on a new foot.

Your maid fastned the final clasp of your gown, a soft lilac shade with white lace — something subtle, but showed the elegance that you prided yourself with. You couldn’t help but stare at your reflection for a second too long, convincing yourself that it wasn’t nerves, it wasn’t excitement, it was something else that was harder to name. Like you were bracing yourself for the day to come. You would be on display for everyone to see, measured for your worth, whispered about in the sidelines of the luncheon. Your mother stood behind you, dressed in pale blue silks that accented her poised skin. She gently touched your shoulders, making eye contact with you in the mirror, subtly adjusting the necklace that braced your skin.

“Remember to smile,” She spoke, as if she hadn’t said those same exact words since you were old enough to remember. All you did was nod, deciding not to reply. You knew better than to speak when her tone turned into quiet warnings disguised as advice. You knew that she meant best, truly, but it was hard to deal with sometimes because of her meddling.

The carriage ride to the estate was long enough for your father to go over the guest list at least twice, which sons of merchants were attending, which distant relatives of the royal house would be present, and of course, which unmarried dukes and barons would be attending. But one name came with a pause. You heard the smallest hitch in your father’s voice, something you hadn’t ever heard before.

“The King may make an appearance.”

Your eyes flicked over to him from the horizon. “The King? At a duke's luncheon?”

Your mother interjected. “It’s a new tradition. He wishes to be seen among the people. Or at least that is what Lady Elinor said to me yesterday at tea.”

Your father, on the other hand, didn’t look convinced by this explanation. “He doesn’t do anything without reason.”

You had never met him, only ever seen him from afar, in newsreels, in portraits hung in the Capital buildings. He was a younger king, his father running up multitudes of debt that was unbecoming of the crown, and suddenly the man fell ill and the new King was put in place to be his heir. He was beautiful in a way that was almost cruel. His eyes always looked calculating, too still. Like he was always watching, always calculating. Clean-shaven, sharp-jawed, impossibly pristine King Coriolanus. He didn’t invite admiration, he demanded it.

You had overheard stories about his private life over the years, although you were never one to count on gossip as much as your mother did. Stories whispered behind lace fans and velvet curtains, how women had tried to charm him over the years. None had succeeded. Some said he had no heart to give, that his heart was only with Panem. Others claimed that he was waiting for someone worthy. You once heard a woman, older and bitter, say that to be chosen by him was like being devoured by fire. He didn’t fall in love; he consumed.

No one had expected him to attend a luncheon like this. This was the type of affair that was meant for gossip, flirting, for families to arrange early betrothals. Kings didn’t typically waste their time with debutantes. Kings didn’t listen to the chatter of eager mama’s trying to put their daughter on a pedestal. And Kings certainly did not need father’s chattering in his ear about how huge their daughters dowry was.

Your eyes scanned the field as you entered with your family, your mother grasping at your arm to start walking around the crowd. There were many different families here, all rich, all powerful, all seemed to have heard about who may be attending considering how many young ladies were glancing over and over at the entrance like the King would magically appear.

It started with a silence, something unnatural. Like the air had been sucked right out from the sky. The quartet who played in the corner faltered for a tiny beat, making a few heads turn. And then more heads turned. And then everyone knew.

He had arrived.

King Coriolanus Snow entered not with a proclamation or with any type of escort. He moved like he belonged to every inch of the space, like the world and all of its matter were merely rearranging itself around him. The duke, who had been standing very tall only moments ago, seemed to shrink as he walked up to the King, introducing him to the luncheon and thanking him for his presence. The duchess curtseyed so deeply that you thought her knees might give out and break.

Your breath caught.

He was taller than you remembered. And there was something unnatural about the way he carried himself, too precise and too controlled. His spine was impossibly straight, like he came out that way from birth, his shoulders squared and his pace slow, deliberate. Regal. And incredibly dangerous. His suit was crisp and dark, not the gleaming white that he had worn in times past. This was something quieter, like he wasn’t trying to make as much of a statement with his attire. Trying to make himself seem more . . . human. The lines were severe and angular, every thread screamed power and wealth. On his collar that covered his pale skin was a single pin: a silver snake coiled tightly around itself, head raised, fangs bared. His hair was a pale, silvery blonde, like the gleam of a golden rose your family grew in your garden. Soft curls fell onto his forehead, which could be misconstrued as messy, but it was just the right amount of messy that still showed how young and fair he was.

And those eyes.

Those eyes.

They were pale blue, nearly gray, so washed out that they looked like the winter sky. They moved slowly and steadily. A predator that didn’t need to rush. He didn’t smile, not even when the duke stumbled over his words in a rushed greeting, not even when the crowd parted to let him farther into the field.

And then those eyes settled on you.

The air in your lungs stilled. Time seemed to fracture and break. Your first instinct was to look away, while the rest of you screamed at you not to look away. He would notice if you did. He would notice if your heart decided to skip a beat despite it being nestled in the crevice of your ribs underneath your bodice. His gaze wasn’t flirtatious or curious. It wasn’t even particularly interested. It was aware.

He hadn’t said a word.

And yet somehow you felt you had already answered a question he hadn’t even spoken.

The luncheon moved on around you, the tension dissipating. But you were no longer part of it. You danced once, with a son of a wealthy arms manufacturer. He was talking about something in his summer house, and you couldn’t recall a single word of the conversation. You smiled when the duchess passed your table and greeted your mother, an old family friend. You complimented a girl’s gloves even though they were particularly hideous. It was all instinct. Automatic.

You were keenly aware, every moment, that he had not looked at you again.

Perhaps it was a fluke. Something he hadn’t planned on doing. Or perhaps he hadn’t been looking at you at all. Perhaps you made it up.

By the time dessert was served, you felt the walls closing in.

“I need some air,” You whispered to your mother, who was too deep in conversation with your father to notice anything, nodding absently and waving you off. You slipped away from the crowd, past the marble columns and into the shade of the private gardens. The moment the gates closed behind you, it was like the whole magic spell broke. You could finally breathe.

The summer air outside was warm and damp, heavy with the scent of roses and lilies. The pale stone pathways of the vast, lush gardens were long and winding. Everything was curated to perfection, like something out of a painting.

Finally, quiet.

You drifted through the paths without much thought, your gloved fingers brushing the blossoms as you walked. You didn’t know what you were looking for. If you were looking for anything at all.

It wasn’t until you turned the corner near the greenhouse, ivy crawling along the windowed walls that you saw him.

King Snow stood beneath a stone arch laced with creeping vines, his hand clasped loosely behind his back. He was alone. He wasn’t looking at you, he was gazing up toward something you couldn’t see. The pale sunlight that was beginning to set filtered through the edges of his hair like a crown.

You should have turned around, left him alone.

But you didn’t.

As if sensing you before you made a sound, he finally looked your way, and his eyes found yours again. Unhurried.

He took a single step forward.

“You’re not fond of crowds,” He said. Like it was a fact. Like he already had you and your entire life memorized in detail. “Neither am I.”

You didn’t answer at first.

His voice was richer than you expected. Smooth, but cool at the edges. Like everything he said had been weight before it ever left his lips. You were sure it had. The tone wrapped around you like velvet. It had weight. You had heard it before, on screens, announcing tributes, making speeches and declarations. But never like this.

Never directed at you.

And you were alone with him.

The realization struck like ice in your veins. Your pulse skipped, then quickened. You weren’t ever supposed to be alone with a man, no matter the station that they hold. Not like this. Not without a chaperone. If anyone was to see you with him alone, they would think that he invited you here, that he seduced you or whatever the women of the ton loved to talk about. This was the stuff that your mother whispered about with her friends, the things that were written about in scandal sheets. You had half a mind to walk away, though the fact that he was the King and you knew better than to dismiss him made things messy.

“I —” You cleared your throat, then dipped into the kind of perfectly measured curtsy that your mother had drilled into your mind and body since you could walk. “Your Majesty.”

His head tilted slightly, as if he was studying you. If it was anyone else, you would think that it was rude. But you couldn’t help the way that you felt like you were like a piece of jewelry under the eye of an appraiser. A flicker of interest, attention. Authority.

“You didn’t answer my observation,” He said plainly.

Your mouth opened and then closed. He was too close for comfort, and yet far enough that you taking a step back would make him notice. You forced a polite smile. “I enjoy them well enough, Your Majesty,” You said carefully. “Though I suppose taking a moment to breathe is someone everyone has to do from time to time.”

He nodded, like your answer pleased him.

“Most people lie to me,” He said.

You blinked.

He took a step closer. “It’s not a complaint. It’s something I’ve grown used to. I find honesty . . . refreshing. Especially from someone like you.”

Someone like you. What did you mean? You wanted to ask, but your tongue felt heavy against the roof of your mouth. Your heartbeat fled to your ears, almost drowning out the extra noise of the gardens from your mind completely.

“I should return inside,” You said. “My mother will be —”

“She won’t come looking for you,” He interrupted gently. “Not just yet.”

You froze.

It didn’t feel menacing, the way that he said it. It was oddly . . . calm. Normal. Like two friends holding a conversation. The way that someone might speak when they’ve already decided how the conversation would end. Did he spend his days like that? Already knowing how everything would end? It must be awfully tiring.

He went on. “You’re very poised.” He blinked. “Trained. You answer well. You look people in the eye.”

The King took another step forward. You could smell his cologne, something clean and sharp. You lifted your chin, just barely. “How do you know who I am?” You asked, your voice came out steadier than you expected.

His expression didn’t change. “I know everyone worth knowing.” He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. It wasn’t flattery or a compliment. It was like a statement of fact. Cold and inevitable. “Your family holds nearly half the manufacturing power in District One. Your father sits on four advisory boards. Your mother's cousin to a prince with an unfortunate gambling habit.”

You flinched at that, just slightly. His eyes flicked to catch it.

“And you,” He said, lingering. “Are your family’s only daughter. Presented late. With purpose. Polished and perfect.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” You replied, before you could stop the question from coming from your lips. “There are a dozen girls at this luncheon, ones that are older than me, ones that are younger than me. There are ones there who are more wealthy and have better titles. You said you like honest people, so answer honest. Why me?”

A breath passed between the two of you.

And then, for the first time in your life, you saw him smile.

It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t cruel. It was something worse — genuine amusement.

“You look at people the way I used to,” He said. “With curiosity. Not greed. You’re measuring the weight of the world and wondering when one person starts and when the other begins. You wonder how much of the world you’re allowed to carry before someone tells you to stop.”

Your mouth had grown dry.

“I saw your name on the guest list days ago,” He added. “I knew who your father was. I remembered your mother. But I didn’t know you. Not until you walked into that field and looked like you belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Silence.

Coriolanus’ head tilted slightly.

“Now tell me, darling girl,” He murmured. “Is that answer honest enough for you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not at first.

The garden had grown incredibly small, like the hedges had grown taller and the weeds were growing up the legs under your gown. Like the vines were listening to every word he spoke just the way that you were. It was agonizing, really. He had peeled you and your character open in less than three sentences. You couldn’t decide if it was cruel or something he couldn’t help but do.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” You said softly.

He smiled again. Just a tiny sliver. Something that said not yet.

“I’d like your company. Privately. Over dinner.”

He didn’t ask if you would like to come.

He simply expected you would.

#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #the hunger games fanfiction #tbosas #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus fic

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pe4cht3a · 3 months ago

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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.”

#killua zoldyck #hxh #killua #killua x reader #hunter x hunter #hxh killua #killua hunter x hunter #killua headcanons #hxh x reader #killua x you #killua hxh

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capricorn-writes2 · 1 month ago

Text

Dream Sans, Nightmare Sans and Reaper Sans Dating S/O who is a Goddess/God of Nature

➽───────────────❥➽───────────────❥

Hello, there @cloudyuphere.

I try my best to make the portrayal of their character based on their personality and I would like to apologize for replying the ask late because I had a horrible carpal tunnel syndrome on my right hand, depression, and I had to focus on finding jobs as well as theraphy. Thankfully, I graduated in July from my university and able to get a quick 6 months of Internship before leaving to find new job.

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Profanities and a little bit of violence

➽───────────────❥➽───────────────❥

Dream Sans

Dream feels naturally drawn to your calming and nurturing aura, like their energies are intertwined, as if your soul with him are intertwined. Being near you fills him with a warmth that feels like sunlight filtering through leaves.

The two of you often walk hand in hand through ancient forests or rest together in vibrant flower fields, where you tell stories of each plant's origins. Dream listens in awe, feeling like he’s witnessing nature's secrets through your words.

Dream weaves delicate dreamcatchers from fallen twigs and enchanted threads, gifting them to you. He tells you these charms will guard your dream just as you protect the natural world.

Together, you and him stand as protectors: Dream guarding the purity of dreams, and (Y/N) safeguarding the balance of nature. The two of you are an unstoppable team, shielding the world from corruption and pollution.

Dream loves when you weaves flower crowns for him, placing them gently on his head. He wears them with pride, even during his duties, believing they symbolize his connection to your love and the earth.

Dream is constantly amazed by how animals are drawn to you, as if they sense the pure magic radiating from (Y/N). Birds perch on (Y/N)'s shoulder, deer approach with calm eyes, and rabbits rest at your feet. Dream jokes by calling the animals “royal court of nature”

When (Y/N) emotions cause a small earthquake becoming bigger, Dream gently holds you, whispering words of comfort and love. He’ll stay by your side, calming the shaking ground until the earthquake stops.

He often tells you that your love is like nature—endless, patient, and deeply rooted. He promises that just as rivers carve stone and forests endure for centuries, his love for you will remain unshaken, timeless, and eternal.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

The golden afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the great oak tree, casting dappled patterns of light onto the grass where Dream and (Y/N) sat together. The gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of wildflowers, their colors vibrant against the lush green earth. It was a perfect day for a garden date, peaceful and filled with the quiet comfort that always surrounded them.

Dream leaned back slightly, his golden eyelights shimmering as he glanced at (Y/N) with a playful curiosity.

"You know," you said with a mischievous glint in your eyes, "I bet I can make a better flower crown than you."

Dream’s head tilted slightly, intrigued by the challenge. "Oh?" His voice was light, laced with humor. "Is that a wager I hear?"

You nodded, your smile widening. "Whoever loses has to plan the next date."

"You're on," he said, reaching for a nearby cluster of roses

(Y/N) grinned, already reaching for delicate stems and blossoms, hands working with the grace of someone familiar with nature’s gentle touch. As the two of you worked, the only sounds were the rustling leaves and the occasional giggle when a petal brushed against your skin. The warmth in the air seemed to wrap around you, encouraging the quiet laughter that filled the space beneath the oak's towering shadow.

Dream worked carefully, stripping the thorns from the roses he chose—reds for love, whites for purity, and pinks for admiration. His hands were steady, thoughtful, ensuring not a single thorn remained to mar your skin. He wove the crown with patience, the colors blending in a simple yet elegant ring of soft beauty. You watched his concentration, charmed by the way he wanted every detail to be perfect for you.

While Dream worked with precision, you worked with intention. Baby's breath for everlasting love, white carnations for pure affection, and pink carnations for gratitude, your hands wove not just flowers, but a quiet message meant only for you to know. It is a hidden message for him.

When the final stems were tucked into place, you both sat back, admiring your creations. Dream’s gaze lingered on his crown, satisfied but curious as his eyes drifted to yours. You held up your masterpiece with a proud smile, and though Dream admired the elegance of it, there was no mistaking it, you had won whereas he had to cut the thorns after wards carefully so it would not prick your head once it is placed.

He let out a dramatic sigh, a playful pout forming on his skeletal face.

"And here I thought I stood a chance" he mutters to himself.

"Looks like you'll be planning our next date," you teased, leaning closer. A giggle escaped from your lips.

Dream chuckled, though there was no bitterness in his tone, only affection. "If losing means I get to plan something special for you… then maybe I don't mind losing after all."

His fingers brushed over the crown you made, lingering as if he could sense the meaning woven into every bloom. Then, with a tender smile, he reached out and placed his own crown gently upon your head, careful as always. The roses sat softly against your hair, warm and fragrant.

"But you wear victory beautifully," he whispered.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

Nightmare Sans

Nightmare is both fascinated and frustrated by how (Y/N)'s energy contrasts with his own. Your power is vibrant and life-giving, while his is dark and corruptive. Yet, he finds himself craving your warmth, like a shadow longing for sunlight.

There’s an almost forbidden allure to their relationship. Nightmare sometimes wonders if he's corrupting you by being close, but you reassures him that even the darkest soil can nurture new life. Your and his love is proof of balance.

(Y/N) is the only one who can calm Nightmare when his corruption surges. A simple touch, a soft word, or the scent of flowers is enough to keep his darkness from consuming him entirely.

Nightmare crafts dark, thorny roses for you, a symbol of his love—dangerous but beautiful. You accept them despite even getting pricked sometimes, knowing that even thorns hold meaning, and she/he/they plant the roses where they bloom in the darkness.

There are times when Nightmare worries his power will poison their bond. But (Y/N) proves him wrong by growing plants even in the darkest parts of his realm, showing him that beauty can bloom even from corruption.

When Nightmare is consumed by negative emotions, storms often gather. (Y/N) uses their/her/his powers to calm the winds and soothe the skies, reminding him that even his storms can be tamed.

Nightmare respects your strength. Nature may seem gentle, but it is ancient and unforgiving. Their ability to control life and death fascinates him—how one moment they are soft and nurturing, and the next, fierce as a storm.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

The garden behind Nightmare's castle was a place of shadows and silence, where the moonlight struggled to pierce through the dark haze lingering over the earth. Among the twisted, thorn-laden stems stood his black roses, their velvety petals rich with a darkness that shimmered beneath the pale glow of the sky. Each bloom was dangerous, their thorns sharper than any blade, but beautiful—like obsidian carved into delicate shapes by the hands of fate.

Nightmare stood there, still and thoughtful, his glowing eyes lingering on the flowers. He wondered if they were too cruel a gift, too dangerous to be given to one as radiant as you. But there was beauty in them, a dark kind of elegance that reminded him of the strange balance between his shadows and your light. With careful hands, he reached for the stems. The thorns were merciless, biting into his skeletal fingers as he worked, but Nightmare didn’t flinch. Pain was a small price to pay for perfection.

He stripped away the sharpest edges, weaving the stems into a small bouquet. Shadows coiled around his hands, holding the roses together as if the darkness itself wished to be a part of this offering. He tied them with a single, dark ribbon and looked down at his creation—dangerous, yet softened for you. It felt fitting, this fragile, fierce beauty. Something only you could truly understand.

Satisfied, Nightmare opened a portal with a simple twist of his wrist. The dark energy hummed, pulling open the veil between his realm and yours. Stepping through, he was greeted by the quiet calm of the night. The park was cloaked in silver moonlight, the air cool and still. And there you were—waiting for him. You sat beneath a tree, eyes turned toward the star-strewn sky, your silhouette glowing softly in the night.

There was a quiet grace in you, as though the universe itself paused to admire your beauty. For a moment, Nightmare stood still, observing you with an intensity that he rarely allowed himself. You, who greeted him without fear, who accepted him even when shadows clung to his very soul. His steps were silent as he approached, the darkness curling around him like a second skin. When he stood close enough, he let his presence be known, his voice low and smooth.

" Why hello there, darling," he said, a slow grin pulling at his skeletal features.

The bouquet of black roses appeared in his hand like magic, held out for you.

"I have a little gift for you before we go," his tone was playful, but beneath it.

There was a quiet vulnerability—an unspoken hope that you would accept this shadow-touched offering.

You turned, surprise lighting up your features before your expression softened. There was no fear in your eyes, only warmth. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the dark petals with care, as though you understood the sharp beauty within them.

"Thank you," you said gently, your smile delicate but real. Carefully, you took the bouquet, cradling it like it was something precious, not dangerous.

And in that moment, Nightmare knew the truth. You were the only one who could see past the darkness, who could hold something sharp and love it regardless. His heart, hidden beneath layers of shadow and corruption, ached in the softest way.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

Reaper Sans

Their love is a delicate balance, Reaper represents death, and (Y/N) represents life. Yet, neither sees the other as an enemy. Instead, they understand that life and death are two sides of the same coin, forever entwined.

Despite their divine responsibilities, they respect each other’s roles. Reaper gently reaps the souls of withering plants and animals, while his S/O nurtures new life from the remnants, creating a cycle that neither can break nor escape.

You often visits the graveyards Reaper tends to, planting flowers and vines over the resting places of souls. It’s (Y/N) and his way of honoring life even in death, and Reaper secretly cherishes the beauty you bring to his otherwise somber realm.

(Y/N) finds comfort in the rustling of leaves, saying it's the voice of those who have passed, whispering to them. Reaper listens too, finding peace in knowing that death isn't the end, just a change.

Whenever Reaper feels overwhelmed, (Y/N) gives him seeds to plant. "So you can remember that even after endings, beginnings are waiting," she/he/they say, reminding him that his role holds hope, not just finality.

The two of you often take slow walks through graveyards, Reaper sharing stories of souls long passed, while you ensures every grave is adorned with a bloom. Together, the two of you honor the dead in both your own quiet, respectful way.

You often leave him little flower arrangements, each with a secret meaning. Reaper learns their language, recognizing when a sprig of rosemary means remembrance, or lavender means peace.

Reaper built a small sanctuary in his realm, a garden where (Y/N) could visit, untouched by decay. It became both of your secret haven, a place where love and life could thrive in his world of endings.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

The sanctuary stood quiet, bathed in the soft golden light of the afternoon. Reaper paused at its entrance, his dark cloak brushing against the delicate grass beneath his feet. It was a small haven he had crafted, a place untouched by the weight of his duties. Yet, even in his absence, the space had changed. Flowers now bloomed along the edges, their vibrant colors breaking through the shadows. His gaze lingered on one in particular—honeysuckle.

The meaning was not lost on him. Bonds of love, it whispered, as though nature itself acknowledged the connection between them. A small, solemn smile tugged at his lips. Despite the divide between life and death, their love had rooted itself, blooming quietly like the flowers that surrounded him.

And there you were, seated at the simple wooden table beneath the outstretched branches of a tree he had planted. The sunlight caught in your hair, a soft glow surrounding you like a halo. In the center of the table sat a small box of teas and a pair of insulated bottles, steam curling lazily from the spouts. The scent of herbs drifted in the air, mingling with the sweetness of the nearby blossoms. You looked up, eyes lighting up as Reaper approached. There was no fear in your gaze, only warmth.

Reaper's steps were soundless as he crossed the threshold, dark robes trailing behind him like the whispers of forgotten souls. He lowered his hood, letting the sunlight touch the pale bone of his skull, and offered you a soft smile.

"Hello, sweetheart," he greeted, his voice low but warm.

"I brought something for you." His eyes, dark as obsidian, glimmered with a rare tenderness.

You tilted your head, curiosity brightening your features.

"What is it, Reaper?" you asked, your tone as light and sweet as the honeysuckle that framed the sanctuary.

Your hands were already reaching, ready to accept whatever gift he offered, no matter how strange or shadowed it might be.

From beneath his cloak, Reaper withdrew a small, delicate tree. Its leaves shimmered like silver in the soft light, and its branches cradled fruits unlike any other—apples split down the middle, one side black as night, the other pale as moonlight.

It was simple, yet ancient, holding a quiet power that hummed in the air. He placed it on the table between you, his fingers lingering for a moment on the fragile trunk.

"A Tree of Life," he said softly, as though speaking the words too loudly would break the moment.

"When I'm busy, when I cannot be here… let this remind you that I will never truly leave you." His eyes lifted to meet yours, and there was something raw in them—something soft, and painfully human.

You reached out, your fingers brushing the smooth bark with a reverent touch.

"It's beautiful," you whispered, voice laced with emotion.

Your gaze lingered on the black and white fruit, a symbol of balance, of life and death entwined in harmony.

"And so are you, Reaper," your words were simple, but they struck deeper than any blade.

And though Reaper had known centuries of silence, centuries of endings, it was this, your soundless-veil love.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

#undertale au #undertale alternate universe #undertale multiverse #undertale imagines #undertale scenarios #undertale headcanons #dream sans #dream sans x reader #dreamtale au #dream sans headcanons #nightmare sans #nightmare sans x reader #nightmare x reader #reapertale #reaper sans #reaper x reader #reaper sans headcanons #nightmare sans headcanon

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acupofcoffee-asia · 2 months ago

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Taroko National Park/ Part Two

After retracing the Shakadang trail, heading towards the bus stop, we immediately realized something was wrong: the bus scheduled according to the timetable didn’t seem to be arriving. While we were waiting, we met a French family in the same situation, who asked us for some tips. The little I could do was try to act as a translator between them and Yun Xia, who, being familiar with the area, was the only one who could help us in some way. After a while, we lost sight of the family, but the bus still hadn’t arrived. So, who else but my amazing, newly-met travel companion could come up with a solution?

A few minutes after deciding to hitchhike, a car with a family of three stopped, and not only did they take a detour to drop us off at what would be our next stop, the Nine Turns Trail (九曲洞) but they were so kind and generous that they didn’t make us feel uncomfortable about it at all.

This second path was shorter, but its unique feature lay in how the trail was structured: it was almost entirely inside a tunnel, with tall pillars lining both sides. Looking out from them, you could catch glimpses of views that, despite the unkind weather and overcast sky, were nothing short of stunning. I believe, and I’m pretty sure, the photos I managed to take don’t even come close to capturing the beauty and grandeur of it all.

In any case, the stop was short, it was getting late, and Yun Xia had to head home to Taipei (to take care of her cat). It would take her a bit longer than me, as I was staying in a hostel in Hualien that night. Fortunately, the return bus passed by, almost on time!

Instead of heading straight back to Hualien, to the hostel as I had thought, while chatting about this and that with her, I decided to go to the last bus stop: I really wanted to see the sea. I got off at the terminal, Tianyang, to head to Qixingtan Beach: 七星潭 (Qīxīngtán).

Imagine arriving, just after getting off the bus, to a rather isolated street with small local vendor stalls on either side, surrounded by lush greenery that leads to the pebbles of the beach and then the blue of the sea, with stray dogs wandering around alone.

The encounter with these stray dogs was one of the few (maybe the only) moments during this week-long solo trip when a red flag went off in my mind. But it wasn’t until I realized I had wandered into what seemed like the entrance to an aboriginal reserve—an area that, as I later found out, held cultural significance for the local people but wasn’t formally designated as a reserve—that I had to fight my curiosity to keep going. I realized that I was all alone, in the middle of a barren field with a few trees, and at least two large stray dogs by my sides, not looking at me too kindly. Calmly (my movements were, but not the beating of my heart), and with all the composure I could muster, I got out of that uncomfortable situation and made my way toward the beach, where I stayed afterward.

The beach!

As soon as I got close, I felt an urge to do something that was a bit unusual for me. You should know that when I travel, I tend to not stay very much in contact with my loved ones; I check in with a simple "I'm fine, hi, how are you?" But in that moment, I felt the need to make a video call to my parents because I had to share the vastness and power of what was in front of me. They were with my grandmother when I tried to give them a taste of what was a very rough, threatening sea, yet at the same time so fascinating and powerful. It had the power to send adrenaline through my veins, and a feeling that, neither with words now, nor on the phone with them that day, I think I was able to convey.

I walked from one side of the shore to the other, until, after meeting some Taiwanese children who called me "美国人," (měiguó rén - American), (different from mainland China, where I was mostly called "俄罗斯,"(Éluósī - Russian), I headed towards the bus stop. It was there, after an hour of waiting for a bus that I thought would never come, that I met a Vietnamese family, with the father speaking perfect English, and we exchanged some travel information.

Just as we were talking and trying to figure out how to get back, since the bus still hadn’t arrived, a tourist bus driver showed up, a private one, to replace the one that was supposed to pass. With a kindness that continued to surprise me, despite having encountered not one person who wasn’t kind during those days of traveling, he explained that we had to go with him. And so, after a long journey (I was at one of the last stops, having reached the terminal), I got off and headed towards the hostel, which was still an unknown to me.

When I saw the alley I had to go down, it seemed anything but reassuring, since it was dark. But as soon as I stepped inside, I understood that this wasn’t just any hostel, and that it would be hard to find one as beautiful as this in the future.

I was greeted by a girl at check-in who gave me some directions, explained that I could check out on my own by leaving the key on the desk, and told me that the room I was going to stay in had girls from all over the world. "You’ll get along well," she said. "You’ll have so much to share, I’m sure of it." And that’s how it was.

Without even realizing it, I was plunged into the story of Charlotte (a fictional name), from France, who was taking a gap year from work and spoke a little Italian. During this year, Charlotte had sailed on a boat with strangers and planned to surf in Taiwan. Charlotte had a diary in which she asked everyone, including me, what happiness is. I think I told her that happiness, for me, is like a quest, something you never stop searching for, traveling, meeting people, and having experiences. But what struck me the most were the answers, so different, that people gave her. The simplest ones were the ones that touched me the most. I don’t have any contact with her at the moment, but I’m sure she’s gathered many more interesting ones.

We went to bed early, and the next day, when I went out to explore the east coast of Taiwan, I didn’t meet any of them. I said goodbye to this place with a bit of melancholy, and I hope to return one day. I hope it didn’t suffer too much damage after the 2024 earthquake.

This part of my journey has come to an end, but the more I write, the more I realize how much happened in those six days in Taiwan, and even the seemingly insignificant details, when I think about them now, take on a new hue. For example, how cozy was the little room and the bed I slept in at Hualien? I felt so at peace, and so at home. A year may have passed, but when I think about it, the feeling of gratitude remains.

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shallowseeker · 1 year ago

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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.

#yaaay #i'm doing the thing #and learning along the way #come hell or high water #truth & despair #truth & despair by shal #spn fics #destiel #sam pov #i can't believe i'm writing things now who says fandom doesn't enrich the mind #weird lil fix in my weird lil sandbox corner

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atlas-nsfw · 2 months ago

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Olivia and Abris

Ship: Abris x Olivia (f!lamiax f!human) Tags: oral Desc: While exploring a cave, Olivia discovers a lamia's abode. Lucky for her, the lamia in question is very friendly.

Please consider tipping if you can at my Ko-Fi!

Olivia furrowed her brow, grip tightening on the rock as she pushed herself up with a single back leg. The trip into the new cave she found was leading her through several, shockingly accessible tunnels until now. She had entered a larger chamber where a wall had formed of collapsed stones. At the top, she saw light and smelled fresh air. The assumption was that there was a way out of the cave.

She scaled up the side, peaking her head over the top. She didn’t find the surface, at least not exactly. Beyond the cavern was a chamber that opened at the top, to the sky above. The walls were hollowed out and in the middle of the sinkhole was a large pool of water: a cenote.

Olivia crawled over the edge and stood, looking around in awe at the scene. There was a wet plop, and she swiveled her head, spotting something move in the water. Instinctually, she moved to hide behind a bolder, peaking out.

To her utter shock, a lamia rose from the cenote, her blue scales dripping with water. She was eight, nine feet long? Perhaps more. Dark straight hair streaked down her back, stopping at her waste. Olivia bit her lip, struck by the creature’s beauty.

“I can smell you, human, and your interest,” the lamia flicked her tongue, tasting the air.

“I- I’m sorry,” Olivia stepped out, fear and attraction mingling.

“Don’t be,” the creature gave a fanged smile, cocking her head playfully, “I am plenty interested too and I know you mean no harm. Shall we fulfill both our interests?”

“You mean…”

“I do,” she slithered over to Olivia, looking down at the human. “You’ve been staring at my tongue.”

Olivia gulped but found herself nodding. This was the greatest adventure she could have hoped for.

“I am Abris,” the lamia leaned down, lifting Olivia up and placing her on the boulder. “Your name?”

“Olivia,” she trembled as the serpentess ran hands along her jeans.

“Olivia… I like it. Sounds lovely on the tongue, as I am sure all of you will be.”

Abris no longer wasted time on chit chat, carefully tugging Olivia’s pants down to her ankles. The human’s skin was soft and warm, and the lamia stroked the soft of her inner thighs to soak in the heat. Olivia for her part found the cold fingers thrilling.

Abris hooked her nail on Olivia’s underwear, pushing it out of the way to reveal the lush garden underneath and its sweet-smelling fruit. She licked her lips then lowered her head.

Olivia jumped with a yelp as the tongue slipped right inside, squirming and twisting as it explored the cave. It felt nothing like a human tongue with how it could turn and fold and push deep inside. It coiled, filling her so she moaned, leaning back on the stone. It took nothing for the lamia to push and tease her g-spot, sending Olivia’s back arching and her head spinning. She stared up at the sky as she came on the Lamia’s face.

Abris drank down the slick flow, lapping and rolling against the soft warm walls of Olivia’s flesh. It was as sweet as she imagined and it took all her self-control not to bite. She smiled as she withdrew.

“You must come play with me again.”

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legacygirlingreen · 2 months ago

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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.

Tag List: @leenathegreengirl @asgre @badbatch-bitch @cw80831 @heidnspeak

#the bad batch #star wars #tcw wolffe #tcw oc #tcw #sw tcw #sw tcw fanfic #sw tcw oc #commander wolffe x oc #commander wolffe fan art #commander wolffe art #oc perdita halle

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pazzapalooza · 4 months ago

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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.

#fraggle rock #mokey fraggle #red fraggle #wembley fraggle #gobo fraggle #boober fraggle #minecraft

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icwasher · 12 days ago

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Chapter Four of Accidentally in Love is up! I have been very excited about this chapter, so I hope y'all enjoy it!

As per usual, have a snippet:

Ursa stepped forward and placed a hand on Sabine’s shoulder. “Don’t be. If you two truly love each other---and I believe you do---then there is nothing to fear.” If only that were true. Sabine accepted the words anyway, smiling tightly at her mother before entering the greenhouse. It was a beautiful building, with thick panes of one-sided glass set between intricately wrought durasteel frames. The metalwork reached up several stories, all of which were lush with greenery that thrived in the controlled atmosphere of the greenhouse. But Sabine wasn’t here to admire the several varieties of tomatoes growing in their pots. She crossed the first portion of the greenhouse and entered the second, a large pond that contained stone pathways raised only a little ways up from the water. Brightly-colored koi fish swam throughout the water, passing under lily pads and through little stone tunnels submerged in the pond. Ezra was waiting for her, sitting on a stone-wrought bench. He had a pebble in hand and was using the Force to spin it lazily in front of him. When he saw Sabine, he dropped the pebble back into his palm.

#one wedding down one more to go #star wars #star wars fanfiction #accidentally in love #sabezra #sabine wren #ezra bridger

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queenmuzz · 4 months ago

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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?”

#dmcsecretsanta2024 #devil may cry #nero devil may cry #eva devil may cry #vergil devil may cry #my writing

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