#rare traditional art moment from me

[paper-cities]

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hiii I really love the one with the harbingers where reader calls them words of endearment from their homeland, can you do one where reader cooks for them food from their homeland? pantalone's part was so cute <33

✦ You cook them their favorite home meal, based on their homeland

(Or trying to guess what food the not-yet-playable characters might like based on their region, culture, or language. ) 

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe 

✧ It is to no one’s surprise that Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, would easily drop everything to grant your needs. Just blink and the world’s spoils are at your feet, bestowed by your beloved. Expensive clothing, jewelry, art pieces, weaponry, or lavish dishes. With his money and status, plus being a connoisseur of the ancient lores of Teyvat, The Jester can easily acquire anything you require on a silver platter. 

But this time, it was you who tried to gift him something on a silver platter.

On an unsuspecting day, Pierro returned home only to be greeted with a strong scent of baked goods. The smell wafted all around the living quarters, warm and sugary. Glancing curiously, the Jester marched to the kitchen, where he found you grumbling to yourself. You stood with your oven mittens, a tray of voluptuous Kanelbullar presented in front of him; some were cut as you tried to take an analytical bite of the cinnamon rolls.

“Trying your hands at familiar recipes, my cherished?” - The man asked with a welcoming glance while you mulled and judged the taste of your cooked goods.

“Ah, Pierro, you’re right on time. Here, try this one for me. Does it resemble traditional cinnamon rolls?”

When the Jester took a bite, even his icy eye widened for a moment. A wave of nostalgia and warmth lanced his memories, ones he thought were long forgotten. The cinnamon rolls you baked were not the average confectionaries one could easily purchase, as the taste resembled traditional Khaenri’ahn Kanelbullar. A simple treat that all children and adults used to enjoy in their free time.  

“Well…? Oh no, don’t tell me it’s that bad?” - you awaited his response, but Pierro quickly shook his head.

“It’s rich and potent in taste, but not too sugary. Just like the ones in our Homeland… I didn’t think replicating such intricacies was possible. What did you add this time?”

Your eyes light up. Finally, some progress. “Really? I’ve been mulling over it for hours, I thought my taste pallet was going numb. I tried to find any local ingredients that might add the flavor of saffron and cardamon.”

“Like the golden Saffron…? They were a local specialty back in Khaenri’ah. Although some variants exist in Teyvat’s soil, they are not used as cooking ingredients here.” - Pierro pondered, amazed at your ability to combine other local spices to imitate the taste of the past.

As both of you mulled over how to achieve the most accurate results for these traditional Cinnamon Rolls, half of the tray was already gone.

“Although now that I think about it, my divine, I don’t think it would be an issue to send an expedition to obtain that rare spice for you. Especially if the result is such exquisite home pastry.”

✧ In this house, Il Capitano is the master chef. The man is proficient in the art of survival, thus, his skills in outdoor cooking are especially shown. From simple meat and vegetables, the Captain can come up with the best meat skewers you ever ate. Not to mention the topic of sustenance and growth is intertwined with a good diet. A man his size and capabilities puts immense care into outdoor survival and health.

But even a strong Captain deserves some spoiling for his hard work. 

After a wearying day spent honing the skills of his Fatui troops, a group of soldiers that will prepare for an upcoming expedition, Il Capitano was greeted with a surprise visit from you. You arrived right on time for their break, and as always, the Fatui soldiers couldn't help but eavesdrop on the Harbinger’s exchange with his beloved…

“I brought you your meal for today, Bife de chorizo. You need lots of protein.”

“Thank you.” - The Captain stood obediently, holding the lunchbox you brought.

“With Pico de Gallo and avocados. I also put some almonds and walnuts as a snack.”

“I understand.” 

“You are preparing for another important expedition. You must take care of your body after such intensive training, Cappy.”

“You are right, you are right.”

“And I don’t want to see anything left from the lunch boxes. Make sure to eat all of it, okay?”

“Understood!”

It sure was a sight. One would think the Harbinger was the student as he stood nodding vehemently while you scolded him. With one hand on your hip, you gave him an earful as you checked up on him, generously providing him a full-course meal neatly packed in a mealbox.

The Fatui soldiers were slightly jealous. Even they could easily tell that behind that pitch-black helmet, Il Capitano was absolutely joyous to have his beloved visit him and provide such mouthwatering nourishment. 

✧ Today, you were ready to tackle and kill Il Dottore. Why? Because that man barged into your kitchen and confidently announced himself as the culinarian for today’s dinner. A simple and kind gesture, right? You would rather starve than have The Doctor implode your kitchen again.

“Stop exaggerating as if I let your Serenitea Pot house crumble. It was just a little fire.” - Dottore defended himself, watching closely as you made him stand back from the stove. 

“I had to replace the whole walls, Zandik!”

The two of you stood in the kitchen, with the Harbinger peeking from behind your shoulders as you claimed dominion over the frying pan. The whole day, he was made watching you prepare Sumeru Kibbeh meatballs, since the last time he decided to dabble in the art of cooking, your house was put at stake.

He was a scholar, not a chef, unfortunately. But The Doctor is not ashamed to admit his impatience and lack of skill in the kitchen. Hence, he helped you as much as he could while you diligently taught him how Kibbeh is properly made. He remained silent but pleasantly subservient. The sight of your sleeves raised, hands tactfully molding the Kibbeh was oddly amiable. Especially when your face was so focused on the task, he couldn’t help but stare. 

Yet every time you fried the meatballs and set them aside on a pan lined with paper towels to drain, a sneaky hand would try to steal some. You’d slap his hand away.

“Nope. Hands off! Wait till dinner”

“They’ll end up being consumed anyway. I’ll just have a small tas-”

Slap!

And it continued for a long while, all the way to the end once you finished cooking. When the two of you finally sat down and began eating, Dottore would often remain silent. You were too busy relishing the dish, unaware of the Harbinger’s appreciation for your home-cooked meal. Sustenance is just a waste of time that the human body must go through to gain its energy. But it’s not the same when he is sitting with you casually, the warm afternoon sunlight wrapping the dining table, and the warm food steaming with an appetizing aroma.

For him, eating with you was different. It was simple, but it was home. 

✧ Scaramouche may huff and scoff all he wants, but when it comes to appraising your Unagi Chazuke, no master can compete with you. Perhaps because he is a puppet, but Scaramouche has a delicate pallet. He despises strong flavors and always preferred simpler dishes, to appreciate the unique flavor of a singular ingredient. He would never admit it vocally, but he would often crave your chazukes, and it was easily written on his grumbling face.

“Come on, just say it.”

The Balladeer lamented.

“Say it. My home cooking is the best, and you just want me to cook for you today.”

“...I won’t. I don’t have use in consuming any human meals.” - he mumbled in response, arms crossed. You sighed and with a wide smile, you turned away.

“Oh well. Guess you don’t want any, huh…? And here I thought I could prepare your favorite Unagi Chazuke today. But I guess it’s foolish-”

“No, Wait-!” - The Harbinger wished to bite his tongue but it was too late. He already called out to you in a moment of weakness, and your goofy grin only widened with his desperation. 

He gave up. With reluctant embarrassment, the Balladeer admitted your victory - “If you may… Can you prepare another one of your signature Chazuke? Please.”

And that’s how you two ended up by the dinner table. You couldn’t just deny him after such a heartfelt request. You prepared the unagi meat and rice diligently, showing him how to prepare green tea to add mild bitterness to the salted rice. Topping off with some dried Nori leaves, and sesame - two bows of Unagi Chazuke were ready and looking artistically grandiose.

Light and sublime, that’s what Scaramouche thought. A true definition of soul food, as he held his bowl and chopsticks close. A rare but sincere smile would always grace his features whenever he ate your cooking, but he of course would conceal it by clearing his throat.

“Hm, okay fine. Maybe your cooking is adequate after all. Especially when you don’t make it too sweet.”

You’d laugh at his reaction. At the end of the day, it was you who taught him how to cook what later would become his signature dish, even if his identity as a Harbinger was wiped away. 

✧ Being the richest man in Teyvat like Pantalone means dealing with lots of bureaucracies and business. Sometimes, after a prolonged day in the office, the sight of stacked papers becomes dreadful and negotiations with the Snezhnayan elites may go fruitless. Thus, The Regrator would often slum by his desk, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and sigh in exhaustion.

Now what would the richest man in Teyvat do to relax after a bad day at work? Go to the most expensive five-star restaurant? Perhaps purchase a fancy drink that costs more than his subordinates' monthly salary? No. He would head straight back home, where he knows you are awaiting him with open arms.

A single look at him and you would know he is fatigued. Leaning up to embrace him, you plant a tender kiss on his cheek - “How about I make us a quick snack, hm? You can go and take a shower in the meantime.”

Pantalone would try to conjure up a faint smile and nod. As he winds down for the day, subconsciously he knows your home cooking is like a balm to his soul. No matter how many exquisite restaurants he tried, he’d easily sacrifice all of them for a bite-full of your culinary.

And here you are, merrily handing him his childhood favorite - Mora Meat Roujiamo. A simple meat sandwich, but a staple street food in Liyue’s culture. That’s all the Harbinger desires after a tough day at work, as he gobbles the sandwich wrapped with a paper towel.

“Made your favorites. I added some extra meat since I know you like it juicy.” - you gave Pantalone soothing pats on the back as he ate up.

“You’re a lifesaver, honey. You would not believe how frustrating work has been today,”

Pantalone would rant and confide in you about his work. He would rather do that than delve into the nostalgic feeling that Mora Meat sandwiches gave him. It was indeed his childhood favorite. Yet it also reminded him how in the distant past, when food or money was scarce, starvation and desperation were his only companions as a lowly child. Thus, on better days when he acquired some change just to purchase simple Mora Meat - these sandwiches felt like a king’s feast.

Such an unadorned dish, but one that brought warmth and sustenance to a starved child, telling him that everything would be okay. Today, this starved child is the richest man in Snezhnayan. Nevertheless, he still relished these sandwiches from your hands like divine wealth, telling himself once more that everything would be okay. 

✧ Tartaglia was bedbound for some while, bandaged heavily after a massive battle he faced during one of his missions. The young Harbinger would never tell his family where his scars hail from, except for you and his father maybe. But after an earful of scolding, you took care of your reckless boyfriend and sighed.

“You made me worried, you know. I don’t want to see you move a muscle around the house these days, are we clear? You must recover first.”

“Y-yes, captain.” - Childe chuckled humorously, suppressing the soreness his cuts provided around his body. “It’s just… there is only one remedy that could save a fallen soldier like me.”

“Hm? What is it? Do you need something, Ajax?” 

“Please, dear… come closer.” - he said with a pained expression. 

You did so he could whisper to you what he wanted. Your concern was only heightened, oblivious that his dramatic words were playing you - “The secret to my healing… is…”

“Yes?” - you leaned even closer.

“... Some yummy food.”

You blinked at him, and Tartaglia immediately gained a comically “passed out” expression on his face, as if your cooking were his last death wish. You let him plop to the pillow and gritted your teeth - “Why you little-...! Ugh, you’re lucky I am worried about you. You just want me to pamper you.”

“Oh, come on, is that such an unrealistic request? You told me not to move a muscle and I would receive your scolding no matter what. Please, sweetheart, just anything you would like - cook it and I would happily gobble it up!”

You crossed your arms. You hate to admit it, but his puppy eyes were working effectively and if his appetite was returning, that means he is on a good path of recovery anyway.

“Fine… I’ll make something nutritious and easy for your stomach.”

Tartaglia's eyes lightened up in an instant. He was a simple man - if you cooked him something, he would drop on his knees for you instantly. That day, you pondered whether you’d make him some Piroshki or Borscht, but he needed something light. His health was your priority, after all. Even though Childe fancied himself a master at concealing his painful whinces, you are no fool. You always notice them.

Thus, your beloved was presented with Ukha fish soup. A warm bowl with fresh herbs, imported calla lily, and nutritious fish.

“Easy now, I know you like Calla Lily Seafood Soup, since you often had it in Liyue… So I decided to go with the local version of it. Now make sure to eat all of it, or you won’t feel better.”

Like an obedient child, Ajax felt pampered and delighted. Lunch by the bed? His sweetheart feeding him? The injuries were worth it as he happily ate the Ukha fish soup.

“If getting injured makes me taste food more worthy than the gods themselves, maybe I should get wounded more often, haha- Ow!”

Your response was another fistful nudge to his shoulder.  

Kanelbullar - in Swedish, Cinnamon Rolls Bife de chorizo - in Spanish, Argentinian beef cut Pico de Gallo - in Spanish, Mexican salsa/dip Kibbeh - in Arabic, bulgur parcel stuffed with minced meat filling (in Genshin, they just called it meatballs lol) Chazuke - in Japanese, green tea poured over a rice meal (Scara's signature dish)  Mora Meat - had to look this one up, apparently Genshin is referencing RouJiaMo (肉夹馍) meaning “meat in a bun". Ukha fish soup - in Russian, also known as fisherman’s soup. Childe’s signature Calla Lily Seafood Soup is probably a variation made with Gēng found in Chinese cuisine. But there is a Slavic variation that reminded me of his signature dish. 

[jobean12-blog]

A Stolen Moment

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 1.6K

Summary: The General has been busy as of late and you miss him.

Author's Note: I can't exist without being horny over this man...they post a new picture of him sitting down and I'm like OH WELL- now I need to sit in his lap, kneel between his legs and do all these other filthy things because his legs and hands and thighs exist. UGH. I mean how am I supposed to survive this, he can't even sit in a chair without me losing my mind...guess I have to write out the horny. LOL anyway, thanks for listening to my rants and thanks so much for reading, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy! 🥰

Warnigns: soft sweetness, tension, teasing, semi-public sex (I mean it is the Colosseum), Marcus is perfection.

Marcus Acacius Masterlist

The rare quiet of the arena is almost unsettling, the usual raucous crowd nonexistent and the commanding power it exudes masked under the veil of darkness that slowly settles with the descending sun.

The imperial box is empty and the gilded seat on which you sit grows cold as you wait. The fabric you wear is different from anything you’ve ever worn before and perhaps different from anything that’s been created yet.

Due to tradition, you’ve been trained in the art of sewing and because of this you were able to make the silk garment that’s currently draped seductively over your body. You know your husband will approve, however, how he will react to you wearing it in such a public place, is an entirely different story.

The silk is layered, giving the illusion of coverage, but even in the dimness of the setting sun, you can see the outline of what teases beneath.

Heavy footsteps echo behind you, and you recognize the steady pace of his feet.

He walks slowly up the steps, dressed in his more formal toga, outlined in gold that glints as it catches the dying light.

His eyes find you and he stops.

“My gods wife.”

A heated smile starts at the corner of his mouth and lazily stretches across the other as he peruses you from head to toe.

“I’m not forgetting some celebration today am I?”

You shake your head and stand, walking over to him.

“No, nothing to celebrate today. Just you.”

He stills, his eyes lowering to sweep down your body. “Me?”

“Yes,” you say. “You’ve been too stressed lately. I want to help.”

“I see,” he says with sparkling eyes. “And you thought displaying yourself…so… temptingly… in one of the most coveted seats of the Colosseum was going to help?”

You run your hands up his chest to the buckle near his left shoulder. Loosening it, you continue, “I know how to best help you relax General and I knew this would get your attention.”

“You always have my full attention,” he whispers.

You smile, knowing the truth his words hold.

He looks you over again then reaches up to drag the calloused pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

Normally you might kiss it. Tonight, you bite down. He pulls back with a little gasp.

“You’re irresistible.”         

His hands slide forward and frame your hips, and he pulls you into his chest, running his nose along your neck with an inhale.

“What do you plan to do with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You push his hands away and slide off his cloak.

“I’m glad you asked.”

Your fingers fall to his belt, and you start to loosen it, remaining silent.

“Well?” he asks with an amused smile.

“Whatever I want,” you say simply, your hands deftly pulling the belt from his waist.

“I suppose I’m at your mercy then.”

With a tilt of your head, you step back. “Take off your tunic.”

He holds your gaze, testing your restraint, before he relents and gives you what you want.

Slowly, he pulls the fabric off, and you struggle to keep your attention on his face, knowing that every inch of the skin he’s revealing will distract you.

When he begins to loosen the fabric at his hips you’re unable to resist reaching forward and running your hands lightly down his chest. His breath hitches and you love it, skin tightening beneath your fingertips.

He toys with the material again, and you can tell he’s teasing you, waiting for you to meet his eyes.

“Keep going,” you tell him.

The undergarment falls to his feet and it’s all you can do to not slide down to your knees and take him into your mouth.

But somehow, you manage to resist, even as he reaches down, circles his large hand around his cock and holds it out as an offering.

When he starts to remove the first of his wrist cuffs, you still his hand. He raises a questioning brow, and you demurely smile.

“Leave those.”

You push lightly on his chest, toward the ornate chair he found you in. “Sit.”

He does as you say, and you follow him, straddling his thick thighs.

“I miss my husband,” you say with a pout. “You’ve been busy, and your attention has been elsewhere lately.”

You see his expression soften at your words before the corners of his mouth turn down.

“You know you’re all that matters…”

You press a finger to his lips to silence him.

“I’m not blaming you General. I’m just taking matters into my own hands…taking what I want.”  

You rest your ass on his thighs and then slide forward, giving his cock the briefest bit of friction against you before you move away again.

Beneath your palms, his shoulders bunch and he lifts his hands to touch you.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Or I’ll bind you.”

“Does it make you wet to take control like this my beloved?” he whispers.

You answer with the slide of your hand between your legs, the slip of your fingers under the silk. Your eyes close and you moan quietly as you touch yourself, rolling your hips.

You can hear his breath hitch and feel the muscles of his thighs flex and strain. Pulling your fingers away, you capture his chin with your free hand and paint a wet line along his upper lip.

He groans, pained and gravelly and you look down to see his cock hard and arching up toward his belly button.

Your mouth waters. “Marcus.”

He hums but doesn’t move and you look up to see him lick his lips, tasting you on his skin. Staring intently at you, he pushes his hips up, his cock a heavy presence between you as you gaze at his face.

“Are you feeling more relaxed?” you ask him as you lean forward and kiss his jaw.

“Tortured, might be a better word my love.”

You can see it in the way his pulse flutters in his throat and you press a steady hand to his chest.

He relaxes in pieces: his legs beneath you first, then his abdomen, shoulders and finally his expression.

“That’s better,” you murmur.

With a deep exhale he lifts his hands, the gesture tentative as he slowly reaches for your shoulder and traces the soft curve with his fingertips.

“I think it’s time I take what I want,” you remind him.

You lean forward and kiss along his neck all the way up to his ear and he huffs out an impatient breath. Every muscle grows tight and urgent beneath your roaming hands as you tease him once more.

Faster than you expect, he grabs you by the hips and jerks you forward, sliding the wetness between your legs over his cock and griding up into you with a groan.

Without thinking, you move with him, rocking on top and feeling the hard press of him against your clit.

“I can feel your need for me soaked through the silk,” he hisses.

You tug the silk fabric from your body and let it drape over the large and elaborate seat. In a blur, he pulls you closer and pushes inside you with a steady, hard thrust.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, then stops, his breath choppy so close to your ear as he kisses your neck and sucks gently. “I can’t control myself.”

You open your mouth to speak but all the comes out is a moan when his large hand cups your breast, thumb passing back and forth over the peak.

His tongue slides over your collarbone, his breath, his fingertips across your skin and he begins to move inside you.

“You tease and taunt me wife…it’s impossible for me to let you play out this fantasy of control.”

A curl falls over his forehead and he looks almost boyish, but his words are coarse, and his movements are powerful.

“Next time I will bind you then,” you say, the words breathless.

He growls out your name, digging his fingers into your skin with his barely controlled restraint.

You feel the rush of blood to your legs and the heavy ache between your thighs build and he grows more and more frantic. He uses your hips for leverage, his grip bruising as he slams up and into you over and over.

One large, rough hand ghosts along your stomach and teases the base of your neck before his fingers close around your throat.

This new sensation brings you to the edge until you’re begging for it. His groan vibrates along your skin, his whispered words of love pushing you over until you tighten around his cock and cry out his name.

Your face falls to the crook of his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, cradling you to his chest. Your heavy breathing is in sync, your sweaty skin pressed close while he gently runs his fingers along the curve of your spine.

“I am sorry,” he whispers into your skin. “I know there has been much that keeps me away from you as of late.”

You lift your face and place your palm against his cheek. Your fingertips trace the lines around his eyes before you dip your head and softly kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips.

“I know Marcus. I know.”

He reaches his hands between your arms and frames your face, holding your gaze intently with the soft brush of his fingers.

“My love for you remains and always will be as infinite as the stars.”

[reaper2187]

Caitlyn kiramman x female reader

The escape plan

Ghosts of the Past

The safe house Caitlyn had arranged was a modest hideout on the outskirts of Piltover. It was quiet, secluded, and far enough from prying eyes to allow them time to regroup.

Y/N stood at the window, gazing out at the city lights in the distance. Her posture was relaxed, but her mind was far from still. Vi sat at the small table, drumming her fingers anxiously, while Caitlyn was in the corner, tinkering with her rifle.

The silence stretched until Vi finally spoke. “You’re gonna tell me what’s going on, right? About Jhin?”

Y/N’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though her gaze remained fixed on the window. “You really want to open that box, Vi?”

“Yes,” Vi said firmly, leaning forward. “You disappeared for years, and now I find out you have a brother—a brother who’s infamous, by the way. How does that even work?”

Caitlyn looked up, intrigued. “You’re Jhin’s sister?”

Y/N sighed, turning to face them. “Jhin and I...we’re complicated. He’s my brother, yes, but we’re not close in the traditional sense. We share a bond, but it’s one built on understanding, not affection.”

“What kind of understanding?” Caitlyn asked, her tone cautious.

Y/N stepped closer to the table, her expression unreadable. “We both see death as more than an end. For Jhin, it’s art—a masterpiece to be created with precision and care. For me...it’s a host. Something inevitable, something I’ve embraced. Death isn’t cruel or kind. It simply is.”

Vi frowned, her frustration evident. “That doesn’t explain why you never told me about him.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through. “Because it wasn’t your burden to carry, Vi. Jhin and I have our own paths, our own ways of dealing with the world. Bringing you into that would’ve only made things harder.”

As the conversation settled, Caitlyn found herself drawn to Y/N’s perspective. “You speak about death as if it’s a friend.”

“In a way, it is,” Y/N replied, leaning against the wall. “You’d be surprised how much clarity it brings. Most people fear it, run from it, but it’s the one constant we all share.”

Caitlyn studied her, her curiosity growing. “And Jhin? Does he share that clarity?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Jhin sees the beauty in it, the symmetry. For him, every kill is a performance, a statement. I respect that, even if I don’t always agree with his methods.”

“You respect him?” Vi asked, disbelief lacing her voice. “The guy’s a psycho.”

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, shrugging. “But he’s also a genius. You can’t deny that.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of Y/N’s words settling over them. Caitlyn found herself wondering what it would be like to see the world through Y/N’s eyes—a world where death wasn’t something to fear but something to understand.

Later that night, while Caitlyn and Vi were sleeping, Y/N sat alone by the window. The faint hum of the city outside was a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, intricately folded piece of paper.

Unfolding it, she found a single line written in Jhin’s precise, elegant handwriting: “Every stage needs its performer, sister. When will you embrace yours?”

Y/N smirked, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. Jhin always had a flair for the dramatic. She folded the paper carefully and tucked it back into her pocket, her thoughts drifting to their shared past.

Jhin had always been the artist, the perfectionist. Even as children, he had a fascination with detail, with creating something beautiful out of chaos. Y/N, on the other hand, had been the realist, the pragmatist. Where Jhin sought beauty, she found purpose. Their views aligned just enough to coexist but diverged enough to keep them apart.

The next morning, Caitlyn found Y/N sitting on the steps outside the safe house, her expression distant. She hesitated for a moment before joining her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Caitlyn asked.

Y/N shook her head. “Too much on my mind.”

Caitlyn sat beside her, her rifle resting across her lap. “I’ve been trying to figure you out.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “Good luck with that.”

“You’re not what I expected,” Caitlyn admitted. “When Vi mentioned you, I thought you’d be...different.”

“Different how?”

“Angrier. Bitter. But you’re...calm. Like you’ve made peace with everything.”

Y/N turned to her, her gaze piercing. “Making peace doesn’t mean forgetting. I’ve done things I can’t undo, Caitlyn. But I’ve also accepted that those things are part of who I am.”

Caitlyn nodded slowly, her respect for Y/N growing. “You and Jhin...do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

“Probably,” Y/N said with a faint smile. “Our paths tend to cross when we least expect it.”

Caitlyn hesitated before asking, “And when they do, what happens?”

Y/N’s expression softened, a rare glimpse of vulnerability breaking through. “That depends on him.”

As the days passed, the group worked on building a plan to stay ahead of the enforcers who were undoubtedly hunting them. Y/N proved invaluable, her experience and resourcefulness keeping them one step ahead.

Despite her initial reservations, Caitlyn found herself drawn to Y/N—not just her skills but the quiet strength beneath her stoic exterior. There was a complexity to her, a depth that Caitlyn couldn’t help but admire.

Vi, too, seemed to be healing. Though she and Y/N still had their differences, the bond they shared was undeniable. They often sparred in the mornings, their playful banter a reminder of the sibling-like relationship they had once shared.

But the shadow of Jhin lingered over them all, an unspoken reminder of the danger that still lay ahead.

Hope you enjoy part 4 someday now, if you have any requests send them my way, and ye hope you like it

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine, Dr Veritas Ratio (my pookie), Jing Yuan and Jiaoqiu with a really cozy lover who loves to make them cute food? Like they pack them little bento lunchboxes with cute designs and wake up super early to make it for them so they can take it to work, they take them out on picnics as a weekly date and stuff, maybe they're into crochet and crafts or something, sorry this is so self indulgent 😞 i just wanna make these boys something yummy, tis what i had in mind about the food omg this is so long im so sorry

(All art by @/eggbuttertoast on insta btw go check them out)

“You are the best thing, that ever happened to me”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Established Relationship, Romance, Fluff, Comfort, Picnic Dates, Domestic Moments, Caring Relationships.

A/N: DON'T WORRY!! I TOTALLY GET YOU!! 🤭 I'M OBSESSED WITH THOSE CUTE BENTO BOXES!! HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS!! 🫶💖

Aventurine was no stranger to indulgence. Life was a gamble, and he played it with style and cunning, always chasing the next high-stakes thrill. Yet, as he strolled into his office at the IPC’s Strategic Investment Department, today’s highlight wasn’t a lucrative deal or a cunning scheme—it was the bento box you had lovingly prepared for him.

You’d been up since dawn, crafting an intricate lunch. Inside the box were bite-sized sandwiches shaped like playing cards, each adorned with edible glitter and tiny suit symbols cut from vegetables. A roulette wheel of fruits sat in the center, with a gold-painted chocolate coin at its hub.

When Aventurine opened the box, his eyes lit up. "My, my," he murmured, admiring the effort. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, darling. How am I supposed to focus on work after such a masterpiece?”

He loved how you infused warmth into his otherwise calculated world. It wasn’t just the food but the care and thought you put into every detail. Every Friday, you insisted on a picnic, dragging him away from the chaos of his work.

Today, you’d set up a cozy spread under the shade of a towering tree. You crocheted a new blanket for the occasion, its patterns inspired by roulette wheels and peacock feathers—a nod to his unique style. Aventurine leaned back, his hat tilted over his eyes, a rare moment of vulnerability.

“You spoil me.” he said, watching you unpack.

“That’s the idea.” you teased, placing a cookie in his hand.

Aventurine smirked. For all his charisma and confidence, he found himself marveling at how you could make even a gambler like him feel safe, cherished, and loved.

Ratio had always prided himself on precision, intellect, and order. Yet, as he peered into the meticulously crafted bento box you had left on his desk, he couldn’t help but smile. The rice was shaped into an owl, its wings made from thinly sliced seaweed. Around it, neatly arranged vegetables and protein formed an edible diorama of his Intelligentsia Guild office.

When you greeted him later that evening, Ratio’s tone was teasing but fond. “Do you think a brilliant mind like mine requires sustenance shaped like birds to function?”

“Maybe not,” you replied, grinning. “But even geniuses deserve to feel loved.”

Ratio adjusted his glasses, feigning exasperation, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. Your weekly picnics were another tradition he secretly adored. He admired your crocheted blankets and little crafts, treasures you’d offer him with shy excitement.

Today’s picnic was at a quiet park, where you’d prepared another feast. As he lay beside you, Ratio spoke softly, breaking the silence. “You know,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, “you’ve done what even the greatest minds of the Guild could not—bring balance to my chaotic thoughts.”

Jing Yuan, the so-called "Dozing General," had a knack for finding peace amid the chaos of his duties. But nothing soothed him more than the love you poured into his bento boxes.

The moment he opened today’s lunch, a fond chuckle escaped his lips. A lion cub, shaped from rice and adorned with omelet details, stared back at him. Around it, a battlefield of sausages and broccoli seemed to depict one of his strategic victories.

When you picked him up for your weekly picnic, his eyes softened as he took in the sight of you carrying yet another crocheted blanket. This time, it bore a swirling pattern inspired by the Cloud Knights’ insignia.

You spread the blanket under the cherry blossoms, unpacking the food with care. Jing Yuan leaned back, his long hair catching the sunlight. “You’ve truly turned even a General’s life into a dream.” he murmured.

“Good,” you replied, nudging him. “Because you deserve every bit of it.”

Jiaoqiu couldn’t see your creations, but he could feel the care in every bite. Despite his blindness, he often remarked how your lunches seemed to brighten his world.

Today’s bento box was no exception. You’d spent hours crafting it—a flower garden of colorful ingredients, each carefully arranged. When Jiaoqiu ran his fingers over the edge of the box, he smiled.

“I can tell you woke up early for this.” he teased, his voice warm and melodic.

“Of course,” you said, guiding his hands to the first bite. “I want you to feel loved, even when I’m not there.”

Your weekly picnics were his favorite. Though he couldn’t see the landscapes, you described every detail—the way the sun dappled through the leaves, the soft hues of the sky. He sat beside you, tail swishing contentedly as you crocheted a new blanket.

“Another masterpiece?” he asked, running his fingers over the textured yarn.

You smiled. “I made it with you in mind.”

Jiaoqiu tilted his head, his golden irises sharp even as he kept his eyes closed. “And I carry it with me, just as I carry your love.”

[femboyclownpierce]

the "how do you define rpf in the mcyt space?" question is SO interesting to me coming from a bandom background, because i feel like a lot more people in the mcyt fandom have more experience with more "traditional" forms of story-telling: shows, movies, video games, art where there is VERY CLEARLY a line drawn between character, actor, and writer. those lines very rarely, if ever, exist in mcyt content. oftentimes a creator will fill all three roles, and sometimes they arent even aware theyre acting or aren't always acting.

so, let me ask this question: is writing fabulous killjoys, "fab 4," fanfic, rpf? party poison, fun ghoul, jet star, and kobra kid are all played by the members of my chemical romance, and are based on them as people, but at the same time there is a line of separation between them and mcr; they are characters the members the played. is it rpf? mcr fanfic based on any other era of the band undeniably is, but because they're playing characters in danger days, the line blurs.

it doesnt really matter where you draw the line because the answer to "is this rpf? is yes and no at the same time. they are putting on a persona while they stream/record, and then sometimes that persona is playing a character on an smp. is the creator intentionally playing a character, or are they just messing around? does it matter?

if you want my opinion, i think it becomes rpf without a doubt when you leave minecraft. "real person" is 2/3rds of the acronym, after all, and the minecraft world is very much not real. are you writing about bdubs and etho having a tense moment across the fence in their last life base, or are you writing about john booko standing in the canadian wilderness after etho s lab sent him a set of numbers he thought were coordinates? i also think that rpf is morally neutral, and that as soon as you stop caring about if you're writing rpf or not and focus more on if you're having fun, then the whole debate goes out the window.

[xaharadesert]

MC Who Sleeps Like The Dead - Headcanon

Arcana Characters (Main 6) x MC

A/N: for another lovely anon! I just finished drawing one of my OCs to prepare for art fight, so I’m feeling a bit more inspired than usual! Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes :) requests are open!

❤️Julian❤️

This is a man who runs on stress and caffeine, so he’s always up at ungodly hours of the night

Your ability to sleep through every instance of him stubbing his toe or bumping his head, or just generally swearing at whatever script or medical case he’s having trouble with at the moment is a blessing in his opinion

Of course, on the rare occasions that you manage to get him to bed, he’ll be as out of it as you are, if not more so

He flails in his sleep, and since it won’t be waking either of you up any time soon, there’s a good chance you’ll both end up with some mystery bruises

He’ll feel a bit bad about it in the morning, but it’s nothing some kisses can’t fix

🧡Portia🧡

Considering how tired she usually is by the end of the day, she’s a surprisingly light sleeper

This can be a problem for her when Pepi decides she wants to make biscuits and Portia’s the only potential victim around

So when you two start sleeping in the same bed, she sacrifices you to Pepi and makes sure she’s the one sleeping next to the wall

Pepi seems satisfied with this arrangement and leaves Portia alone, meaning she gets the sleep she needs and you get a cat to cuddle with while you’re unconscious

It’s also great for when she needs to get up early for work; she can make as much noise as she wants while she’s getting ready, and you’ll sleep right through it

💛Lucio💛

No no no, this will not do

Lucio operates under the assumption that if he’s awake, you’re also supposed to be awake

So if he’s having trouble sleeping while you’re snoozing away next to him, he will be trying his best to wake you up

His attempts will start with whispers and a couple gentle pokes, but when you don’t look like you’ll be getting up soon it quickly becomes less subtle

This man will fully kick you off the bed and onto the cold floor to get you up

If you sleep through that, he’s gonna get really close to your ear and scream

For the sake of everyone else nearby, you may need to learn to sleep less heavily

💚Muriel💚

He’s a light sleeper thanks to anxiety, and he doesn’t really understand how someone can sleep as deeply as you do

In the early days of your relationship he was a bit worried that there might be something wrong with you

Once he settles into the idea that you Will Not Be Woken Up before you’re good and ready, he takes full advantage of the extra alone time it gives him

It’s nice to just coexist with you and go about his day without worrying about waking you up

Once Inanna took a nap on you and he thought you may have actually suffocated under her, but turns out you were fine

He does not mention this to you when you wake up

💙Asra💙

While he certainly sleep often, he does not sleep heavily

If he’s sitting down, then he’s probably already at least 10% asleep

He doesn’t usually sleep in the traditional sense, and instead takes a few extended naps throughout the day

So when you’re getting your proper 8 hours, he may be laying awake beside you, gently rubbing your back and reading a book

He likes that his sleep schedule doesn’t affect yours, and that he gets to see you so peaceful and far from the stresses of life

💜Nadia💜

Most of her life is on a pretty tight schedule, so your sleep habits are not something she’s particularly fond of

If you’re asleep when she wakes up to begin her day, then she’s learned not to bother trying to wake you

She’ll kiss your temple and try to find some time to spend with you at the end of the day, but she misses the quiet moments you two could share while the rest of the world starts to wake up

Overall it’s not a hassle, just something she has to adapt to

Unless of course there’s an early morning event that you’re also supposed to attend with her

Then she’s trying to figure out the most gentle way to pry you from the hands of sleep (she may quite literally drag you out of the bed and start getting you ready before you wake up)

[hrrtshape]

miss emma !! what was your fav thing from ur recent dr visit ? 🩰

what was miss emma’s favourite thing? oooo….let’s go !!!

late november. paris. technically a school trip, but let’s be honest, no one was treating it like one. st. lazarus. either in a moment of rare magnanimity or a complete lapse in judgement, decided to shuttle the seniors off to france under the guise of scholarly enrichment. we were meant to be studying art, culture, history. and we did. but we also did a lot of other things.

first, the logistics: the school, inexplicably, booked us into the ritz. like, *THE* ritz. as if we were 1920s debutantes instead of sleep-deprived teenagers with questionable decision-making skills. me and lily rose roomed together, which meant our suite very quickly became home base. every night, we’d fling ourselves onto the beds, exhausted but wired, dissecting the day in between bites of something expensive and chocolate-drenched. the ceilings were high. the curtains billowed dramatically. it was the kind of place where nothing unimportant could possibly happen.

on our first night, we went to dinner at le relais de l’entrecôte because, you know, tradition. steak-frites and that sauce no one can ever replicate. we sat in a loud, warm corner of the restaurant, still delirious from travel, half-shouting over each other in excitement. someone knocked over a glass of wine. someone else declared this the *best night ever*, which, admittedly, we say at least twice a week. but still. it felt like it.

our first full day was when the school still pretended to exert control. we went to the musée d’orsay in the morning, which, to be fair, was breathtaking. i stood in front of a monet for so long that even the tour guide looked concerned. the whole place felt alive in a way i wasn’t prepared for. like the paintings were watching *us*.

then, lunch at café de flore, because obviously. it wasn’t good at all (saying as a french person in my better cr ) croque monsieurs, espressos, an unnecessary amount of cigarettes. it was all very existentialist-coded, very we are young and in paris, take our photo immediately

then, in an act of truly outstanding negligence, the school gave us a free day on day 4. naturally, a few overzealous classmates orchestrated a trip to la vallée village. it was equal parts stupid and exhilarating. bundled up in coats, wind whipping through our hair, dashing between boutiques like our lives depended on it. coryo bought me a silver heartshaped necklace, which he fastened around my neck with the kind of casual certainty that made my brain short-circuit. no hesitation. just a decision, made and executed. i spent the rest of the day touching it absentmindedly, as if to confirm it was real.

that night, we dressed up and went to lapérouse for dinner. candlelit, gilded walls, the kind of place where the air itself feels expensive. we lingered over duck confit and crème brûlée, talking about nothing and everything. at some point, we took turns sneaking sips from a bottle of wine that none of us were technically supposed to have. after, we walked along the seine, laughing too loudly, spinning under streetlights like we were in some forgotten scene from a godard film.

somewhere in between all of this, me and lily rose went to galeries lafayette and bought matching chanel keychains. it was impulsive, unnecessary, and immediately felt like the most important thing we’d ever owned. the saleswoman found us vaguely amusing. we were fine with that.

angelina was another highlight. we chain-smoked on the way there and sipped hot chocolate so rich it felt obscene. we sat there until 11am. letting the world move around us. we felt decadent. we felt untouchable. in reality, we were all irresponsible rich teenagers !!!!

and then, of course, there were the ritz nights. technically, we were meant to stay in our rooms, but technically, no one expected us to. me and coryo found excuses to cross the halls to each other’s rooms.

so . yeah. that trip. wow . IM TALKING MORE ABOUT THIS . like what i did daily !! just !!! have to organise these frantic 3 month thoughts

[viiioca]

[ day 11 - thirst ]

I ought to be flattered. Truly.

When I was younger, I recall getting a glance at Perette's personal ledger book; separate from the house's business dealings, this was where she tallied family matters specifically. Verain's prestigious boarding school, trips to the country estate, money set aside in trust for eventual grandchildren -- the sort of thing that might cause strife if too many eyes fell on it and felt the numbers were misapportioned. Indeed, I spied my dowry and thought for a moment I might require reading glasses. Such a princely sum! I was flattered then, too, for a brief moment. I must be valuable, no? I must be so valuable that Perette, with her iron grip on the House's accounts, would be willing to part with so much. Verain would have pitched a fit to see it.

Folly to believe it, of course. I grew older, and the dowry went unclaimed, and I came to realize that it was not a matter of value. It was a taunt. Perette did so enjoy breaking taboo; if there was an opportunity to spit in an eye that would not seem unladylike, she would seize it with tremendous satisfaction. Here, she has her prized lowborn orphan -- a mixed blood mongrel -- and in Ishgard, where station is so bound by blood that even the High Houses' hands are tied, there are none who would risk the ignominy of dirtying the pool, as it were. She was certainly not desperate to hand me off, nor was House Laussienne particularly hurting for alliances that a marriage could secure. She simply saw an opportunity to make a statement. She looked at all the waning lower houses, the ones in danger of losing their titles in a generation or two, and said to them: all your family's salvation will cost you is your pride. Any willing to rebel against precious tradition will find a bounty waiting for them, and you will not take it, because you are cowards.

There is some distant part of me that can appreciate a brazen gesture. In the art of the tactful insult, Perette was a rare talent.

Of course, it is only after I have given up on my home, left, and returned that I have found conditions have changed. How charming it is to have admirers -- with no financial incentive, at that! I spent so many years diligently molding myself into the definition of a perfectly proper lady, but it turns out that such efforts were wasted. All that was required of me to be seen as a worthy daughter of Ishgard in the end was to move heaven and earth. Simple! I shall go among my lowborn brothers and sisters and tell them this: all that is required of you are acts of such heroic magnitude that, were you a Temple Knight, they would struggle to find room to pin all the medals on your dress blues. Go kill a sum of dragons. Prise the Garleans out of their entrenched position in our ceruleum fields like a barber-surgeon pulls a rotten tooth. Kill a famed Legatus. And don't stop there while you have momentum. Kill the beastmen's gods while you're at it. Form the van during a historic attack on our own holy Steps of Faith. Done properly and you too shall be worthy of Ishgard's most well-connected bastards. You too will be allowed to take your meals at the high table -- this and no more.

I am being uncharitable to Haurchefant. I know this. He is a good man and it is not fair that I would spurn him for matters outside of his immediate control. But what was done to me -- what is done to those like me -- was not fair either, and the result is that no one will get what they want. If love were nourishment, we are all of us starvelings dying of hunger and thirst. We are all of us doomed to look for love in its negative spaces; to understand its shape not by where it is, but only by where it isn't.

[rainforestakiie]

Adamsapple Month Harvest

Pumpkins~

@adamsappleweek

whoa! i got it finished it in time! i wanted to write more and i might come back to this idea later! but for now, enjoy a creepy pumpkin twist! hope you all like it!

For as long as Adam could recall, he had dwelled in the shadowy embrace of Hallow-Eve, a town steeped in autumn's eerie charm. He had never ventured beyond its mist-shrouded borders; his family’s roots run deep in the soil of this peculiar place.

Even during their rare escapades, they merely retreated to the heart of the town, seeking solace at Miss Sera's Inn, where the air was thick with the whispers of the past. Hallow-Eve revelled in the spirit of Halloween year-round, its streets adorned with gnarled pumpkins and sinister decorations, dismissing the likes of Christmas or Easter. Instead, they celebrated with a chilling twist—exchanging sweets nestled in coffins for Easter and gathering around a 'dead tree' come winter, its branches draped with ghostly ornaments.

Adam had only ever known life on the town's enchanting pumpkin patch, a sprawling expanse of vibrant orange nestled among shadows, where townsfolk flocked daily in search of the most haunting harvests. While he supposed there was never a mundane moment amid the revelry, a weariness clung to him like a thick fog, suffocating his spirit.

He longed for the warmth of a traditional Christmas, the intoxicating aroma of a festive feast wafting through the air, instead of the relentless onslaught of skeletal decorations and pumpkin pies. Halloween’s nightly escapades, filled with children donning ghastly costumes, left him yearning for the innocent delights of chocolate eggs and lavish dinners that never seemed to grace their table.

It was as if Hallow-Eve existed in an eternal autumn, with summer and winter shunning its gloomy charm. The trees stood in perpetual decay, their leaves a tapestry of gold and crimson, forever caught in the throes of a hauntingly beautiful fall, the air crisp and unyielding.

Leaning against a towering stack of pumpkins, Adam's piercing green eyes surveyed the patch, glistening under the pale light of a waning moon. In a matter of hours, families would arrive, their excitement palpable as they sought the most spine-chilling pumpkins to carve. His mother, with her uncanny knack for the macabre, often hosted spirited carving mornings, teaching eager youngsters the art of transforming innocent gourds into grotesque visages. Renowned for her chilling creations, she wielded her carving knife with a flair that sent shivers down spines, bringing the town's Halloween spirit to life in the most haunting of ways.

A black crow suddenly soared overhead, its ominous shadow flitting across the ground before it landed directly in front of Adam. With a haunting croak, the bird flapped its sleek, obsidian wings, bobbing its pointed head as if sizing him up. Adam frowned, a wry smirk creeping onto his lips as he regarded the feathered omen. “I don’t suppose you’re here to warn me of misfortune?” he teased dryly. “Black crows are notorious harbingers of bad luck.”

The crow squawked again, flapping its wings and pecking its long beak beneath its wing, as if unconcerned by Adam’s quips. Clicking his tongue in dismissal, Adam turned away, a soft hum escaping his lips. In Hallow-Eve, it was common knowledge that a black crow’s appearance foreshadowed calamity. His grandmother had been the sort to throw salt at the birds whenever they crossed her path, and don’t even get him started on the folklore surrounding black cats.

Returning to his duties, Adam began inspecting the pumpkins, removing the rotting ones or the less desirable specimens. It was hard work, and while he had once relished tending to the vibrant gourds as a child, a suffocating boredom now clouded his enthusiasm. He craved something more, a taste of adventure beyond the confines of his routine.

“Adam!” a melodic voice called, pulling him from his reverie. His mother waved him over, beckoning him toward the towering wooden archway adorned with a macabre display of skulls and bone-like decorations.

“Can you come here for a moment?”

With a sigh, Adam straightened up, tugging off his gloves and tossing a small pebble aside. He approached the archway, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves lingering in the cool air. As he emerged from the wall of pumpkins, he noticed three figures standing with his mother. One appeared noticeably shorter than the other two, and he squinted, trying to discern the peculiar scene.

“Adam, come meet our new neighbours!” His mother beamed, excitement dancing in her eyes. “They’ve just moved in.”

Just moved in?

Adam’s eyebrows shot up at the revelation. He’d never heard of anyone moving to or from Hallow-Eve; it was a town steeped in tradition, and this was utterly new.

“Hi,” he mumbled, shifting to stand beside his mother.

He blinked awkwardly, taking in the sight before him. The shorter figure seemed older than the two taller females. The blonde girl, with her cascading golden curls and flawless porcelain skin, could easily be mistaken for royalty—save for the unsettlingly vibrant red of her lips and the strange way her cheeks seemed to glow. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn they both had red circles on their cheeks and no noses, but when he blinked, they were just… normal.

Weird.

The other girl was a stark contrast, with her long, thick braids of purple and grey that cascaded down her shoulders. She was slightly shorter than the blonde, sporting a hooked nose and soft, grey eyes that held secrets. Her black lips curled into an expression that straddled the line between a smile and a frown, leaving Adam uncertain of her feelings.

“Hello!” the shorter man exclaimed cheerfully, thrusting a gloved hand toward Adam. “Nice to meet you! I’ve just moved in with my daughters!”

Adam hesitated, eyeing the man’s gloves, which appeared oddly oversized, hinting at something more claw-like beneath the soft fabric. When his mother nudged him with her elbow, he sighed and reluctantly extended his hand. He jolted in surprise as the man’s grip tightened around his, nearly yanking him off his feet.

“My name is Lucifer!” the man declared, his eyes twinkling with mischief as a soft blush painted his cheeks. “This is my daughter, Charlie!”

The blonde girl beamed widely, her eyes sparkling with an unsettling charm that sent shivers racing down Adam’s spine. Dazed from the force of Lucifer’s handshake, he could only nod.

Charlie chirped, bouncing on her feet with an energy that felt almost infectious, “It’s nice to meet you!”

“And this is Vaggie, my daughter’s girlfriend, but I’ve taken her under my wing as my daughter as well!” Lucifer added, gesturing proudly to the purple-haired girl beside him. He flashed a bright grin at her, and Vaggie returned it with a delighted smile that still felt shrouded in mystery.

Adam slowly nodded, bewildered. He pulled his hand to his chest, stuttering slightly, “Wait, did you say Lucifer? Like, the devil?”

The look on Lucifer’s face sent a chill down Adam’s spine, his cherry-red lips curling back to reveal a row of sharp, gleaming teeth. His blue eyes sparkled with an unsettling allure, his long lashes fluttering as he leaned closer.

“Yes,” he hissed, his forked tongue slipping between his lips in a way that made Adam’s heart race. “Exactly~”

“But don’t worry, compared to what it looks like, he doesn’t bite,” Charlie joked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Lucifer gasped dramatically, turning to his daughter with mock horror. “Don’t say that, Charlie! I like biting!”

The two burst into laughter, and even Adam’s mother joined in, her voice light and melodic. Vaggie, however, still smiled but facepalmed with a groan, leaving Adam feeling like an outsider in a bizarre joke he didn’t quite understand. He took a step back, a strained smile plastered on his face as the odd energy radiating from the new family felt too peculiar to bear.

Lucifer’s gaze bore into him, as if he were contemplating a delicious meal. As if reading Adam's thoughts, Charlie flashed a wide grin that revealed too many sharp teeth, her eyes gleaming like a predatory cat.

“Um, right…” Adam laughed awkwardly, glancing at his mother in disbelief.

His eyes screamed, ‘Are you seeing this bullshit?’ but his mother seemed blissfully oblivious to the spectacle unfolding before her.

“Er, I... I think I’ll go... you know, get back to work…” Adam stammered, desperate to escape from this sharp-toothed stranger who was eyeing him as though he were a delectable morsel. “Because, you know, these pumpkins won’t prepare themselves for the kids.”

His mother shot him a look that was both perplexing and disconcerting, one he couldn’t quite decipher and truly didn’t want to. He took another awkward step back, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave toward his bizarre new neighbours, preparing to make his escape.

“Oh! Please wait!” Charlie exclaimed, her delicate hand darting forward to grasp Adam's arm. Damn, she had her father’s strength, practically yanking him off his feet. “We’re actually here to pick up a couple of pumpkins; you can help us choose some, right?”

Adam’s green eyes widened in disbelief, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. That was the last thing he wanted. He had no intention of spending time with them, not at all!

“I have to be honest; we don’t know a thing about pumpkins,” Lucifer chimed in cheerfully, perhaps a bit too cheerfully, his grin stretching wide enough to reveal his unnerving teeth. “We’ve got rocks for brains~”

Adam’s mouth opened in protest, the words of refusal hanging on his lips. He had too much work to do and didn’t want to deal with them. But as he caught sight of his mother’s face, which brightened with an unexpected glimmer of relief, his resolve began to waver.

“Of course! Adam would be thrilled to help you all out, wouldn’t you, Adam?” she said, her voice a strange mix of encouragement and something else he couldn’t quite identify.

Faced with that knowing look, Adam felt his stubbornness melt away. His cheeks flushed crimson as he noticed all three of his new neighbours’ eyes fixed intently on him. With a deep, resigned sigh, he nodded, gesturing for them to follow.

“Um, sure, yes, just… follow me,” Adam mumbled quietly, his heart racing as he led the way into the patch, feeling the weight of their curious gazes on his back.

His skin prickled with unease, every hair on his body standing on end as he led the trio down the winding pumpkin patch trail. A palpable sense of danger loomed in the air, as if something predatory lurked just beyond his peripheral vision, ready to pounce. Fear coiled tightly in his throat, making it hard to swallow.

Adam felt like a timid mouse, surrounded by three hungry cats—each one more menacing than the last. The weight of their gazes felt like a tangible force, pressing down on him, and he was filled with an overwhelming urge to bolt, to flee from the chilling atmosphere that seemed to thrum with unspoken threats. He had never experienced such a sensation before, the instinctive drive to escape prickling at his every nerve, urging him to run from the impending danger.

As Adam guided them into the sprawling rows of pumpkins, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground beneath his feet was somehow shifting with each step, as if the earth itself were alive and aware. Charlie’s reaction was immediate and infectious. She gasped, her eyes widening like bright, gleaming orbs of wonder, and she squealed with pure delight that echoed through the crisp autumn air. Her smile was so radiant, so sweetly innocent, that for a fleeting moment, Adam found himself questioning whether he had judged them too harshly at first.

“Look at all the pumpkins!” Charlie exclaimed, her voice a melodious chime as she clasped Vaggie’s hand, practically bouncing on her toes. “They’re stunning! Absolutely perfect!”

Vaggie chuckled, a warm, rich sound that wrapped around Adam like a comforting shawl.

“Calm down, babe, or you’ll lose your hair,” she teased, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Charlie pouted for a second before pressing a soft kiss on Vaggie's cheek, her exuberance bubbling over as she practically dragged her deeper into the patch, fully intent on selecting the finest pumpkins. Adam couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Vaggie, watching her struggle to keep up with Charlie's electrifying energy. Yet there was a glow on Vaggie’s face, a happiness that seemed to radiate like the golden autumn sun, making Adam second guess his first impression of her.

But as they ventured further into the patch, leaving Adam momentarily isolated, he suddenly realized he was not alone. The air around him felt charged, and he stiffened under the weight of Lucifer's gaze, intense and unwavering. Adam turned his head to meet those striking blue eyes, deep and captivating like twin oceans swirling with secrets. An involuntary shiver danced along his spine as Lucifer broke into a grin, one that sent a fluttering thrill through Adam’s chest.

“Um,” Adam stuttered, sheepishly smiling back, unsure of how to bridge the strange silence enveloping them.

Desperate to dispel the eerie tension, he glanced around, his eyes landing on another black crow that had landed behind Lucifer, its glossy feathers glinting ominously in the fading light. The crow flapped its wings, adding an unsettling rhythm to the moment.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, Adam blurted out, “So, where did you live before moving to Hallow-Eve Town?”

Lucifer rocked on his heels, a low hum escaping his lips as he considered the question.

“Somewhere far away,” he mused, his voice smooth and melodious. “You’ve never been there before. It’s not like Hallow-Eve.”

Intrigued, Adam pressed, “What do you mean?”

With a fondness that surprised Adam, Lucifer’s gaze drifted across the autumnal landscape, lingering on the fiery hues of leaves swirling in the crisp breeze. “The place I came from was very hot and humid. It’s different from Hallow-Eve Town,” he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I like it very much.”

A chill skittered down Adam's spine at Lucifer’s words, the way he spoke made the hairs on the back of Adam’s neck stand on end. “I can’t say I agree with you,” he admitted awkwardly, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.

Instantly, Lucifer’s expression sharpened, those azure eyes widening as they locked onto Adam’s. “You don’t like Hallow-Eve Town?” he asked, his tone almost conspiratorial, as if he had uncovered a secret. “Do you want to leave, then?”

The way he asked it felt like a victory, as if he had struck gold in the midst of their strange exchange. Adam felt a heat rise to his cheeks as he sheepishly shrugged, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t want to stay here… I really want to leave.”

Lucifer’s grin widened, revealing those sharp, gleaming teeth once more, as he leaned in slightly, his voice dripping with intrigue. “Where would you go? Somewhere hot?”

Adam paused, a flutter of uncertainty swirling in his chest. Somewhere hot? He had never truly contemplated a destination, only the fervent desire to escape. He released a soft hum, his thoughts swirling like the autumn leaves dancing around them. The idea of venturing somewhere beyond the pumpkin patch, away from the creeping shadows of Hallow-Eve Town, ignited a flicker of hope within him.

“I— I don’t know,” he finally admitted, glancing away, as if the weight of Lucifer’s gaze would pin him to the earth. “I’ve just… always wanted to go.”

With that, the air thickened with unspoken possibilities, the autumn night closing in around them like a velvet curtain, leaving Adam teetering on the precipice of something both thrilling and terrifying.

Adam hesitated, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he shifted on his feet.

“Yeah, maybe somewhere hot,” he mused aloud, letting his imagination wander. “I could see myself enjoying the sun... maybe a place where the warmth seeps into your bones and the nights are still.”

Lucifer’s pleased hum broke through the crisp autumn air, almost like a purr of satisfaction. The sound was unsettling, too intimate, as though Adam had unknowingly revealed something far deeper than a passing thought.

Lucifer's piercing blue eyes never wavered from Adam’s face as he asked, his voice low and curious, “Would you ever come back? To visit your family, I mean.”

The question caught Adam off guard, and he frowned, giving Lucifer a strange look.

“Of course I would,” he replied, confusion lacing his tone. “I love my family. Sure, they can be a bit... much sometimes, but they’re still my family.”

Lucifer’s grin stretched wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the soft light of the fading day.

“I like that,” he said, his voice rich with approval. “A family man. That’s perfect.”

The way Lucifer said "perfect" made Adam’s skin crawl, a strange mixture of flattery and something darker curling around the word. It felt like there was a hidden layer beneath his words, something Adam wasn’t catching. He opened his mouth to ask what Lucifer meant, but before he could, Charlie’s excited voice pierced the air.

“Dad! Come here, you’ve got to see these pumpkins!” she called, her voice like honey, dripping with enthusiasm.

Lucifer’s grin deepened, and without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and strode toward his daughter, leaving Adam standing alone in a swirl of confusion. Adam stared after them, feeling a sense of unease creep into his bones. It was as though a vital piece of the puzzle had slipped through his fingers, something important, something he should have caught but didn’t.

Awkwardly, he trailed after Lucifer, his steps slow and hesitant, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the strange interaction. His eyes flickered toward Vaggie, who was standing just beyond the rows of pumpkins, her purple-and-grey braids swaying slightly in the breeze. As his gaze met hers, he noticed something odd—her eyes held an emotion he hadn’t expected: pity.

Adam’s confusion deepened, his brow furrowing. Why would she look at him like that? Did she know something he didn’t? He wanted to ask, but the weight of her gaze made him feel even more out of place. He tore his eyes away from her, glancing back towards his house at the edge of the pumpkin patch.

His stomach twisted as he spotted his parents standing on the porch, their arms crossed, silhouettes dark against the dimming sky. He was too far away to make out their expressions, but something about their posture made a chill creep down his spine. They were just standing there, watching—watching him, Lucifer, the whole scene. The air around the house seemed to thrum with a strange, unsettling energy.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Adam’s eyes lifted to the roof of the house. His breath caught in his throat.

A dozen black crows had gathered there, their sleek, inky feathers shimmering in the dying light. They stared down at him, silent and still, their dark eyes glinting like polished onyx. It was as if they were waiting for something, their presence an ominous, creeping shadow over the house. Adam’s heart hammered in his chest, a gnawing sense of dread settling in his gut.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible.

The crows didn’t move, their eerie stillness amplifying the strange, heavy atmosphere that had been building all afternoon.

Adam’s mind raced, the strangeness of it all closing in around him. He didn’t know what was happening, but something in his gut told him this day wasn’t like the others. Something was shifting, and he was at the centre of it, though he couldn’t see how—or why.

He swallowed hard, feeling as though the world was watching him, waiting for him to make the next move. And as Lucifer’s voice floated back to him on the breeze, that same low, pleased hum, Adam couldn’t help but feel like he was being pulled deeper into something he didn’t fully understand. Something dangerous, something he might not be able to escape from once it had fully wrapped its tendrils around him.

Adam was ripped from his spiralling thoughts at the sound of his name, the touch of a hand sending a jolt through his body like ice water down his spine. He jerked around, blinking furiously as his gaze landed on Lucifer, standing much too close for comfort, his hand resting lightly on Adam’s arm.

The touch burned, though it was cold, and Adam bit his bottom lip nervously, trying to suppress the strange fluttering that came with it. His eyes darted awkwardly from one face to another, realizing all three of them—Lucifer, Charlie, and Vaggie—were staring at him again.

“Er… yes?” Adam managed, voice a bit too high, sheepish as he shifted under their combined gazes.

Lucifer’s pout was almost cartoonish, lips pursed in a teasing mock of disappointment. “What’s got your attention, Adam?”

His voice was smooth, too smooth, like silk wrapping around his name. Lucifer’s eyes flickered toward Adam’s house, the movement almost imperceptible, but Adam followed the glance instinctively.

He turned just in time to see the murder of black crows on the roof take off all at once, their wings exploding into the air like thunderous shadows, spiralling into the darkening sky. The sight was eerie, unnatural, as if the crows had been waiting for some silent cue. The flurry of feathers and ominous cawing made Adam’s blood run cold.

Lucifer snorted beside him, an amused sound that seemed too casual for the unsettling scene.

“Don’t pay attention to crows, Adam,” Lucifer teased, his grin widening as he tugged at Adam’s arm with surprising strength, pulling him away from the sight. “They flip-flop all the time—never can decide what they want.”

Adam barely had time to process Lucifer’s words before he was being dragged—rather forcefully—toward Charlie and Vaggie, who were still standing in the pumpkin patch. Charlie’s face lit up when they arrived, her smile bright and innocent, though something about it sent a shiver down Adam’s spine. Vaggie, always the quieter one, still had a small smile on her lips, but her gaze was steady, a little too knowing.

“Do you like apples, Adam?” Charlie chirped, bouncing on her heels as she reached out to pick up a small pumpkin, cradling it like a prize.

“No, not really,” he said, unsure why the question had been asked. Adam blinked; his confusion clear on his face.

Lucifer chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the autumn air, but he said nothing, though his grin deepened, almost feral. Adam’s frown deepened in response, wondering if he was the butt of some joke he didn’t understand.

Vaggie shook her head, still smiling, and nudged Charlie playfully.

“Stop teasing him,” she chided lightly, though her own chuckle betrayed her amusement.

Adam furrowed his brow, glancing between them. “What’s going on? What’s so funny?”

Charlie waved her hand dismissively, still giggling. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke. Don’t worry about it!”

She grinned wider, eyes twinkling with mischief, and before Adam could pry further, she pointed to a large, misshapen pumpkin with a crooked stem. “I want that one.”

Adam blinked, staring at the pumpkin with a perplexed look. “You sure? It’s… kind of ugly.”

Vaggie snorted beside him, nodding her head in agreement. “I’m with Adam on this one, it’s not exactly winning any beauty contests.”

Charlie gasped dramatically, clutching Vaggie’s arm in mock offense.

“How dare you gang up on me with Adam!” she exclaimed, but her laughter broke through, her voice light and airy. She looped her arm through Vaggie’s, giggling as Vaggie leaned in to kiss her cheek teasingly.

Adam couldn’t help but smile at their playful affection, the sweet way they moved together like a pair of dancers caught in their own private rhythm. For a moment, the weight of the eerie atmosphere lifted. There was something undeniably charming about the way they looked at each other, like they were in their own world.

But just as Adam began to relax, that gnawing sense of unease slithered back in. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he became acutely aware of Lucifer’s gaze once more. It was intense, almost predatory, and when Adam met his eyes, he was caught in them—blue and impossibly deep, like staring into the abyss of an ocean.

Lucifer wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression was unreadable, but those eyes… they burned with something. Something that made Adam’s heart race, not with excitement, but with fear.

A cold sweat formed at Adam’s temples, and his throat tightened as he tried to break the spell Lucifer’s gaze had cast. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Adam suddenly wished he could disappear into the earth like the pumpkins they were surrounded by. There was a weight in Lucifer’s stare, something that made Adam feel like prey—like he was being sized up, toyed with.

His mouth went dry as he forced out a nervous chuckle, trying to break the tension.

“So, you really like that pumpkin, huh?” he said, addressing Charlie but feeling Lucifer’s presence looming beside him, a shadow that refused to go away.

Lucifer finally grinned again, but this time, it was slower, more deliberate.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, his voice almost a purr, low and sweet. “There’s something… perfect about it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Adam’s stomach flipped as he glanced at the misshapen pumpkin. It wasn’t just the pumpkin Lucifer was talking about, was it?

~#~

The following weeks were strange—too strange. Adam couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something off, something sinister weaving itself into the fabric of Hallow-Eve Town. The air had turned thick and heavy, almost oppressive, as though the atmosphere itself was conspiring to smother any sense of normalcy. The clouds hung lower now, swollen and dark, blocking out the sun more often than not, casting long, eerie shadows over the town. It wasn’t just the weather either; something darker, more intangible, had crept into the town. The shift was subtle but unmistakable, like the sensation of being watched when you’re certain no one is there.

And then there was the strangest part of all—Adam. Or rather, the way people had begun to treat him. It hurt more than he’d expected, like a knife slowly twisting in his chest. He’d grown up here, known these people his entire life, and yet suddenly, it was as if they no longer saw him. People who used to greet him with smiles and nods, who would chat with him on their porches or wave as they passed by, now acted like he didn’t even exist. It was like they were ghosts, or maybe he was. The town’s children, once eager to run up to him, to beg him to play guitar, now hurried past with vacant eyes, their laughter hollow, distant. No one met his gaze, no one asked him how he was doing, no one cared.

It was painful. Adam felt adrift, as though some invisible force had severed his ties to the town he once called home. He couldn't shake the suffocating feeling of isolation.

One afternoon, desperate for some kind of connection, Adam picked up his pace when he spotted Lute and Emily, the twins who’d been his childhood friends. They were as much a part of his life as the pumpkins in the fall or the first snowfall in winter. Surely they wouldn’t ignore him too, right? His heart lifted for the first time in days, and he called out to them, waving with a hopeful smile.

"Lute! Emily!" His voice sounded too loud, echoing unnaturally in the stillness of the street.

Lute didn’t even acknowledge him. Emily glanced at him for a fleeting second, her eyes unreadable, before turning her back and walking off, Lute following her without a word. Adam came to a halt, his chest tightening, the familiar ache of rejection spreading through him. His hands dropped limply to his sides, the air around him growing colder. He muttered to himself, “What did I do? Why am I losing my friends?”

The sting of tears pricked at his eyes, and he wiped them away roughly with his sleeve, not wanting to cry in the middle of the street. It hurt more than he cared to admit. But just as the loneliness started to suffocate him, a dry, familiar voice broke through the fog.

“It’ll get easier. Eventually, it won’t hurt at all.”

Adam blinked, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Vaggie standing there, her presence as sudden as a shadow slipping into view. She was leaning against a post, her grey bomber coat zipped up to her chin, the silver cross on her chest gleaming faintly in the muted light. Her braids swayed slightly as she pushed herself off the post and walked up to him, hands stuffed in her pockets.

“I didn’t notice you there,” Adam admitted, surprised by her words. He tried to smile, but it faltered.

Vaggie returned the smile, though hers was sharper, more knowing.

“People like us, we’re used to being ignored.” She gestured for them to walk together. “You look like you could use the company.”

Adam gave a small, grateful smile. “At least someone’s still willing to talk to me.”

Vaggie shrugged, her hands still buried deep in her pockets. “Don’t worry about them. It just proves no one here really cared about you in the first place. They can all fuck off.”

The sudden vulgarity from her caught Adam off guard. He hadn’t expected it from her, someone who always seemed so composed.

“You swear?” he asked, half amused, half surprised.

Vaggie raised an eyebrow and grinned slightly. “I do when it’s deserved. And trust me, they deserve it.”

Adam chuckled softly, the sound more sad than amused, and they fell into step together, the autumn streets unusually quiet. The carved pumpkins lining the sidewalks stared back at them with jagged, crooked grins, their hollow eyes flickering with candlelight. Everywhere they walked, the pumpkins watched, their expressions twisted, as if they knew something Adam didn’t.

Vaggie’s voice broke the silence again. “You can talk to me, you know,” she said, her tone softening. “I’ve been through something similar.”

Adam glanced at her curiously. “How similar?”

Vaggie sighed, her breath fogging in the chilly air. “Let’s just say that everyone I thought cared about me—family, friends—they turned on me the moment it suited them. Threw me under the bus to save themselves.”

Adam winced, the pain in her voice hitting too close to home. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything to me,” Vaggie snorted, though there was no bitterness in her tone. Still, Adam couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry you had to go through that,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

Vaggie smiled again, this time a little softer. “You’re a nice person, Adam. Too nice for this place.”

As they walked, the conversation turned lighter. They passed by more pumpkins—hundreds of them—each more grotesque than the last, their grins sharp and menacing.

“I didn’t care for pumpkins at first.” Vaggie confessed, her cheek turning pink. “I didn’t care for a lot of things until Charlie. She made me see the beauty in them.”

Vaggie’s face softened in the dimming autumn light as she spoke, her voice carrying a wistful note that Adam hadn’t heard from her before. "It’s been a long time now, me and Charlie," she said, her gaze distant, almost lost in memory. A faint blush crept over her pale cheeks, and her usual cool demeanour melted away like frost in the morning sun. “She was there when I needed someone the most. When everything felt like it was crumbling, when I didn’t think I had anyone left... she was there. No questions, no judgments. Just open arms.”

Adam smiled softly, teasing just enough to lighten the mood. “You must really love her, huh?”

Vaggie gave a half-shrug, her expression unreadable for a moment.

“I didn’t at first,” she admitted, her tone more vulnerable than Adam had ever heard from her. That caught his attention, and he tilted his head in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, curiosity piqued. He couldn’t imagine anyone not loving Charlie instantly—she was so full of life, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Vaggie sighed, her breath curling in the cool, thickening air. The pumpkins that lined the streets seemed to flicker with a ghostly light as she spoke, their crooked smiles and jagged teeth casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones.

 "It’s complicated," she said, her voice quiet, almost as if confessing to something she hadn’t shared with anyone in a long time. “For a long time, I resented her. Blamed her for... a lot of things. Things that weren’t even her fault. But I was hurting, and it was easier to be angry at someone than face what was really going on inside me.”

Adam frowned, slowly processing her words. There was an unspoken weight in her voice, a history thick with pain and regrets. He didn’t push for more, sensing that whatever had happened was something deeply personal, something that had shaped her in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.

“But Charlie...” Vaggie continued, her eyes growing distant as she spoke of her past, “Charlie never gave up on me. No matter how cold or distant I was, she stayed. She was kind, patient. She didn’t try to fix me—she just... she was there. She saw something in me when I couldn’t see it in myself.”

Her lips curled into a soft smile, almost bittersweet. “Eventually, I realized my life had become so much better because of her. She chose me, and I’d rather spend my days happy with her than be stuck in my own darkness.”

Adam stared at Vaggie, his heart warming despite the chill creeping through the air. There was something deeply moving about the way she spoke of Charlie, like the two of them were bound by something far stronger than mere affection—a kind of love that had been forged in the fire of hardship, shaped by resilience and trust. He found himself envying that connection, that deep, unwavering loyalty.

But before he could ask her more, a familiar, excited voice cut through the air, breaking the moment like the snap of a brittle twig.

“Adam! Vaggie!”

Charlie’s voice rang out with infectious joy, and when Adam glanced up, he saw her bounding toward them, practically glowing in the fading light. Her smile was radiant, her golden hair bouncing as she hurried toward them, and just behind her, as always, was Lucifer.

And of course, Lucifer was staring at Adam again. His intense, unnervingly blue eyes never seemed to leave him, watching him with a gaze that felt too sharp, too knowing. It was like being caught in the gaze of a predator—silent, patient, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

When was he not watching me? Adam thought with a shiver, his pulse quickening under that piercing stare. He tried to shake off the unease, telling himself it was all in his head, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the way Lucifer’s presence seemed to suffocate the air around him.

Charlie skipped toward Vaggie, her steps light and playful as autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet. In her hand, she held a small brown bag adorned with pink bows—delicate, almost childish, but in Charlie’s hands, it radiated a sweetness that made the dreary streets of Hallow-Eve Town feel just a little brighter.

"You have to try these apple slices," Charlie said with a breathless excitement, practically bouncing as she reached Vaggie. Her voice sparkled with enthusiasm. "They're so good!"

Vaggie smiled, a rare softness touching her lips as she watched Charlie. Her grey and violet hair swayed gently as she leaned in closer, her dark eyes glimmering with fondness.

“Oh yeah?” she teased, glancing at the bag with curiosity.

Charlie didn’t miss a beat, quickly retrieving an apple slice covered in sugar and cinnamon from the bag. She held it up in front of Vaggie, the sugary coating catching the dim light like a dusting of frost.

“Here,” Charlie said, almost shy, her voice sweetening like honey.

Instead of taking it, Vaggie leaned forward, sinking her teeth into the apple slice right from Charlie’s hand. The crunch echoed faintly in the cool air, and Vaggie’s lips curled into a smirk as she chewed. Charlie gasped, a blush blooming across her cheeks, her eyes wide and bright. There was something almost adorable about how flustered she got, like the simple act of feeding Vaggie had caught her off guard. She blinked, then beamed at Vaggie, the pink in her cheeks deepening.

Adam, standing just a few steps away, couldn’t help but smile, even as a pang of sadness twisted in his chest. Watching the two of them, their love so obvious, made him feel a strange mix of warmth and loneliness.

“It’s really good,” Vaggie said softly, her voice carrying a hint of affection. Charlie’s eyes flickered to Vaggie’s lips, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

“Can I...?” Charlie whispered, her voice trailing off, leaving the question hanging in the cool air between them.

Vaggie didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned in, closing the space between them as Charlie’s eyes fluttered shut. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, one that seemed to momentarily pause the world around them. Adam quickly turned away, his face flushing with bashful awkwardness, trying to give them their privacy.

Just as he did, though, a warm hand gently cupped his elbow, pulling him out of his own thoughts. The touch was soft yet firm, guiding him up the street. Adam’s heart skipped a beat as his green eyes met the deep, intense blue of Lucifer’s.

There he was again.

Lucifer grinned, his golden hair catching the faint light of the streetlamps, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He held up a small brown bag, identical to the one Charlie had been carrying.

“Don’t worry, Adam,” Lucifer said in a voice that was both playful and unnervingly soft. “I got you something too. Pumpkin slices, your favourite.”

“You... didn’t have to,” he stammered, feeling a strange flutter in his chest. Adam blinked in surprise, his cheeks warming despite the chill in the air.

Lucifer’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he reached into the bag, pulling out a pumpkin slice dusted with cinnamon.

“I know,” Lucifer replied, his voice lowering to a velvety purr. “But I wanted to.”

Before Adam could protest, Lucifer held the slice up to his lips, much like Charlie had done for Vaggie. The air between them thickened with an odd tension, something that felt both sweet and unsettling all at once. Adam hesitated, his heart racing, but then he leaned forward, biting into the pumpkin slice.

As the warm, spiced flavour spread across his tongue, Adam’s gaze dropped to the cobblestones, too flustered to meet Lucifer’s eyes.

He mumbled a quiet “Thanks,” his cheeks burning with embarrassment. When he dared to glance back at Lucifer, he noticed the blonde was still staring at him, a look of almost surprised warmth softening his sharp features.

Lucifer’s blue eyes widened briefly, then his lips curled into a slow, gentle smile that made Adam’s chest tighten in an odd way. Lucifer lifted the rest of the pumpkin slice to his own lips and—without warning—bit into it, finishing what Adam had started.

“Sorry,” Lucifer said, chuckling softly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Adam’s face turned even redder as the realization hit him—Lucifer had just shared an indirect kiss. He swallowed hard, his heart beating too fast, his mind whirling.

“It’s... it’s fine,” he mumbled, desperately trying to ignore the way his gaze kept flicking to Lucifer’s cherry-red lips.

Lucifer watched him for another heartbeat, his gaze intense, searching, before finally looking away, seemingly satisfied with Adam’s response. He turned to glance at Charlie and Vaggie, who were still wrapped in each other’s arms up the street.

“What were you two doing before this?” Adam asked shyly, trying to break the tension, his voice a little unsteady.

“We were just out doing some grocery shopping,” Charlie beamed at him, still holding Vaggie close.

Vaggie leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder, her usual stern demeanour softening in the glow of Charlie’s affection. “Do you need a hand in taking the bags home?”

“Don’t worry about it Vaggie!” Lucifer chimed. “They’re already back at the house!”

 “We were about to head home now.” Charlie sang before gasping, her eyes widening gleefully. “You should come with us!”

“Yeah, you should,” Vaggie agreed, though her voice was quieter, more casual.

“Wait, your groceries are already back at the house?” Adam blinked in surprise. “But... your place is, like, an hour and a half from here. How...?”

Before he could finish, Lucifer squeezed his hand—when had he taken Adam’s hand? —and grinned up at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lucifer said with a wink. “We’re efficient.”

Adam wasn’t sure what to make of that, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted as Lucifer’s grip tightened slightly.

“Come have dinner with us,” Lucifer said, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive whisper. “I’d love for you to join us.”

“Dad’s the best cook! You must try his pancakes, Adam!” she begged, bouncing excitedly on her heels. Charlie squealed in agreement, her golden eyes sparkling with hope.

Even Vaggie, usually more reserved, smirked and added, “They’re damn good. Best pancakes you’ll ever have.”

Adam hesitated, still feeling the weight of the town’s strange coldness toward him, the way people had started to ignore him. But here, with these people—the odd, charming, and slightly unsettling family—he felt... wanted.

Adam smiled, albeit shyly. “Pancakes are for breakfast.”

“Pancakes are an anytime food, Adam,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. Lucifer snorted in amusement.

Charlie clapped her hands, practically glowing with excitement. “Please say you’ll come!” she begged, her voice full of warmth and sincerity.

Lucifer leaned in just slightly, his voice soft but compelling. “Please.”

Adam’s resistance crumbled. How could he say no?

“Okay,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll come.”

Charlie cheered, her joy infectious, while Lucifer’s blue eyes sparkled with something more intense, a warmth that lingered just a moment too long. Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just crossed some invisible threshold, and there was no turning back.

The crows cawed ominously overhead as they walked together into the deepening twilight, and the shadows seemed to stretch a little longer behind them.

~#~

As they walked through the dim, winding streets, the dying light of the autumn sun fading behind jagged rooftops, Adam couldn’t help but feel at ease. Talking with Lucifer, despite his unsettling name and the sharp, enigmatic aura he seemed to carry, was unexpectedly comforting. The crisp Halloween air swirled around them, carrying the faint scent of smoke and pumpkin spice, but the chill wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Adam found the warmth in Lucifer’s presence more soothing than he'd anticipated. He had definitely misjudged him.

Their hour-and-a-half-long walk felt like a strange, enchanted passage, where time stretched in peculiar ways. It was as though the shadows grew deeper, the streets quieter, but within that eerie silence, Lucifer’s soft humming provided an odd sense of peace. Up ahead, Charlie and Vaggie had broken off, giggling to each other like a pair of mischievous ghosts, leaving Adam and Lucifer trailing behind in a more intimate solitude.

Adam glanced at Lucifer, who was kicking a small stone out of his path with casual indifference. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle, almost too quiet for the cool evening air.

“Charlie’s mother didn’t want her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark, like a cloud of mist creeping through the barren trees. Adam winced as they hit him, feeling a sudden surge of regret for even asking. He stammered out an apology, his mind racing as he realized he had wandered too far into sensitive territory.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—"

Lucifer’s smile was soft, warm despite the cold sting of his revelation.

“It’s fine, Adam,” he assured him, his blue eyes meeting Adam’s with surprising tenderness. “It’s been a long time... and I’ve never really had anyone to talk to about Lilith.”

Adam blinked, taken aback by Lucifer’s openness, and the mention of that name made his stomach twist. He tried to shake off the unease, but Lucifer seemed to notice. With a playful chuckle, he leaned in slightly, nudging Adam with his shoulder, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I can tell what you're thinking,” Lucifer mused, grinning slyly.

Adam flushed, his face heating up despite the cold that lingered in the air. “I-I’m not thinking anything!” he insisted, flustered, trying to look anywhere but at Lucifer.

“You’re wondering if everyone I know is named after a demon,” Lucifer said, his voice rich with amusement.

“I wasn’t!” he lied, but the way Lucifer’s sharp grin widened told Adam he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Well,” Lucifer's eyes twinkled with mischief, his voice dipping to a playful purr, “You’ll just have to stick around and find out.”

Adam swallowed hard, feeling his heart skip a beat. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, he muttered shyly, “I... might.”

Lucifer didn’t miss a beat. He reached out again, curling his fingers around Adam’s hand, and squeezed gently. The contact sent a jolt through Adam, not unpleasant but unexpected, like a spark of static in the crisp October air.

“I was with Lilith for a short time,” Lucifer began, his tone softer now, almost reflective. “I was lonely... and she was looking for something—or someone—to entertain her. But when she became pregnant, everything changed.”

Adam’s breath hitched, and his gaze flicked toward Charlie, who was still walking ahead, blissfully unaware of the conversation behind her. He couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting Charlie in their life. Her joy was infectious, her kindness so bright that it almost hurt to think about her being unwanted.

“Lilith didn’t want the child,” Lucifer continued, his voice growing heavier. “I had to beg her not to...”

Adam gulped, feeling the weight of what Lucifer was about to say. His heart raced as he thought of Charlie, her sunny demeanour masking what must have been deep hurt.

“Not to abort her,” Lucifer finished, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though the words themselves were a curse.

Adam’s eyes widened in shock, the cold autumn air suddenly feeling a little more biting. He could only imagine the desperation Lucifer must have felt, pleading for the life of his daughter. And then, to his horror, he learned the price.

“Lilith only agreed to carry Charlie to term on one condition,” Lucifer continued, his voice tightening slightly.

“I had to give up half my King—” He stopped, catching himself before he revealed too much, then quickly added, “Half my estate.”

“She sounds like a... gold digger,” Adam muttered, trying to process the cruelty of it all. He blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“That’s exactly what she was,” he replied with a sharp edge in his voice. Lucifer snorted, a dark, bitter chuckle slipping through his lips. “She got what she wanted, and once Charlie was born, she slammed the door. Never looked back.”

Even though Lucifer spoke with a casual tone, there was something broken in his words. Adam could feel the weight of those memories pressing down on him. And then, the final blow—Lucifer spoke of how Charlie, years later, had gone searching for her mother, yearning for a connection that Lilith would never give.

“When Charlie finally went looking for her... Lilith didn’t want to know her. Didn’t even want to look at her.” Lucifer sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Charlie was heartbroken. But Vaggie helped, more than I could ever thank her for.”

Adam exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening slightly. Relief washed over him knowing that Charlie had Vaggie by her side during that painful time. He couldn’t bear the thought of Charlie—bright, joyful Charlie—being so hurt.

Without thinking, Adam squeezed Lucifer’s hand, offering him silent comfort.

“Charlie’s lucky to have you,” Adam said softly. “You’re... a wonderful father.”

Lucifer stopped walking for a moment, blinking in surprise. His usual mischievous grin faded, replaced by something far more genuine—something vulnerable. He looked at Adam, a blush creeping up his cheeks, as though the compliment had caught him off guard.

“I...” Lucifer started, his voice almost shy, a rare crack in his confident exterior. His lips curled into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Adam.”

As they continued walking together, the shadows seemed to close in around them, the eerie glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickering from porches and windows, casting long, twisted silhouettes that danced along the ground. Despite the creeping darkness, there was something warm between them—something real and tender beneath the surface.

And for the first time in a while, Adam felt... not so alone.

Lucifer’s fingers remained firmly intertwined with Adam’s all the way to his house, and no matter how much Adam tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t ignore the fluttering warmth in his chest. It was absurd. Maybe Lucifer was just naturally touchy-feely, and Adam was overthinking it. The man was clearly lonely. After all, Adam had learned that Lucifer’s past was a tangled mess of betrayal and heartbreak. No family to speak of beyond his daughter, and, apparently, no friends. So perhaps this was just… friendly.

But then, why did his heart keep racing every time Lucifer smiled at him?

By the time they turned the corner and reached their destination, Adam’s train of thought came screeching to a halt. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed up at the house—a towering, three-story Victorian marvel painted a rich, velvety red. It was framed by a glossy black roof, the eaves lined with elegant filigree and ivy that curled like skeletal fingers around the trim. Massive, arched windows with intricate latticework peeked out like watchful eyes from every floor, glowing faintly in the dusky light.

But it was the front yard that stole his breath completely.

Dozens of jack-o’-lanterns grinned wickedly up at him, filling the garden in rows and clusters, each one meticulously carved with its own unique expression. Some were twisted and monstrous, with gaping maws and crooked, wicked smiles; others were hauntingly beautiful, delicate patterns of swirling vines and spiderwebs etched into their skins. The flickering candlelight inside them seemed to dance and sway, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the yard and up the house’s red facade, making the entire place look as if it were caught in a ghostly, enchanting dream.

Adam could only gape, utterly stunned. He’d carved pumpkins every year with his mom, and she was the best pumpkin carver he knew. But this—this was something otherworldly.

“You… you live here?” Adam finally managed to choke out, his voice filled with awe.

Lucifer’s grin was smug, sharp as the crescent moon rising behind them. “Impressed, are you?”

Adam nodded; his eyes wide. “Of course I am! This is—this is amazing!”

Charlie, who had skipped ahead, spun around to face him, her blonde curls bouncing. She beamed at Adam; her smile as bright as the jack-o’-lanterns surrounding them.

“We love trying new things! We’re so happy you like them!” she chirped, practically glowing with excitement.

Adam blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wait—you’re saying… you’ve never carved pumpkins before this?”

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a knowing glance, sharing a secret smile.

“Yeah,” Vaggie replied with a nonchalant shrug, brushing a stray lock of silvery hair behind her ear. “This is the first time we’ve ever really touched a pumpkin. We only started after moving to Hallow-Eve Town.”

“You’re amazing,” Adam’s jaw dropped, the words slipping out before he could think.

Lucifer squeezed his hand, and Adam jolted, looking over at him. The blonde’s eyes glinted with a dark, playful light, and his grin widened.

“Oh, we have many skills, Adam,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety purr. He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto Adam’s, teasing and intimate. “I’m sure you’ll come to learn them all—if you’re brave enough, that is.”

Adam felt his face flush hot. The sudden tension between them crackled like the air before a thunderstorm, sending shivers down his spine. Was he reading too much into this? Or was Lucifer actually…?

Lucifer just smirked, guiding him through the wrought-iron gates and up the cobblestone path. The gate creaked shut behind them with a soft, ominous groan. As they stepped onto the wide, shadowed porch, Adam’s attention was drawn to two dark figures sitting in front of the grand, lacquered doors.

Two black cats, their eyes gleaming like twin emeralds in the gloom, were perched on the stoop, staring up at them. Their sleek fur blended seamlessly into the creeping shadows, but the flick of their tails and the faint glow of their watchful eyes betrayed them.

“Black cats?” Adam murmured, surprised. Black cats were bad omens, a symbol of curses and ill fortune—especially on Halloween night.

But Charlie and Vaggie scooped the cats up without hesitation, cuddling them to their chests.

“This is Razzle and Dazzle!” Charlie introduced them proudly, cooing to the cats as they purred in her arms. “Aren’t they sweet?”

Adam couldn’t help but smile a little. “Razzle and Dazzle? Those are… unusual names for cats.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Charlie named them when she was little,” he explained, shaking his head as if recalling some fond, exasperating memory. “She insisted they needed ‘sparkly’ names.”

“That makes sense,” Adam said softly, watching as the two girls disappeared into the house, the cats nuzzling into their arms. “They’re cute.”

Charlie glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “We’re going to finish up some homework before dinner!” she called, her voice echoing through the foyer.

“Okay! I’ll call you when dinners ready!” Lucifer called after her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Vaggie paused at the base of the staircase, turning back to Adam and offering him a small, genuine smile. “We’ve been looking forward to it.”

Adam blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—um, thanks. I’m happy to be here, too.”

Charlie’s grin widened, and she gave him a quick wave before the two disappeared up the winding staircase, Razzle and Dazzle perched in their arms like living shadows.

Lucifer’s hand slipped from Adam’s, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Come,” he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. “Let me show you around.”

Adam nodded dumbly, following Lucifer deeper into the house. The grand corridor stretched before them, lined with high, arched doorways and rich, dark wood panelling. And on the walls… Adam’s breath caught.

Paintings. Dozens of them. But not the eerie portraits of long-dead ancestors or the grim landscapes he would have expected. These were… different. Angels, bathed in ethereal light, their wings spread wide and luminous. Scenes of heaven, of divine glory and celestial battles. The artistry was breathtaking, almost blinding in its beauty, yet there was something unsettling beneath the perfection. The eyes of the angels seemed too sharp, too knowing. Their smiles were serene, yet their gazes held a strange, predatory hunger.

“You—” Adam swallowed hard, glancing at Lucifer, who was watching him with a dark, secret smile. “I… didn’t think you were into religion.”

Lucifer’s grin turned wicked, his eyes flashing with something wild and dangerous.

“Oh, Adam,” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I’m not.”

“But sometimes,” he whispered, his lips curving into a sharp, predatory smile. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Adam’s, “I like to pretend the stories are true.”

A shiver ran down Adam’s spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something thrilling. And as Lucifer’s blue eyes bore into his, Adam couldn’t help but wonder what other stories the man liked to pretend were real.

Lucifer led Adam into the kitchen, and the moment Adam stepped inside, his breath caught in his throat. The room was enormous, gleaming under the soft glow of pendant lights that hung like eerie moons over the countertops. Every surface sparkled, polished to a mirror-like finish. The stainless-steel appliances reflected the light in cold, sharp glints, giving the whole space an almost sterile perfection. It was ten times the size of Adam’s own kitchen back home—no, more. It was the kind of kitchen you'd expect in a mansion, a place fit for a king. Adam couldn’t help but wonder just how rich Lucifer really was.

Noticing the awe-struck look on Adam’s face, Lucifer smiled smugly and stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. His fingers trailed up Adam’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion, the lightest touch that sent a shiver of sensation rippling across Adam’s skin. When Lucifer’s hand reached Adam’s chest, his fingers began to toy with the buttons of Adam’s coat. Adam gasped softly, startled by the intimacy of the gesture.

Lucifer's eyes twinkled with feigned innocence as he tilted his head, his voice a teasing whisper. "You don’t have to wear your coat indoors, Adam. Why don’t you take it off?"

Adam flushed, his face turning a shade of pink that matched the warmth now flooding the kitchen. He glanced down at himself, realizing the heat had seeped into his bones the moment they’d entered the house. He nodded shyly, fingers fumbling for the buttons of his coat, but before he could begin to unbutton it, Lucifer took his hands.

“Let me,” Lucifer whispered, his voice low, almost a purr.

Adam’s heart leaped into his throat, his mouth opening to respond, but nothing came out. He stood frozen, rooted to the spot, as Lucifer slowly undid each button of his coat, the sound of fabric brushing against fingers the only thing breaking the silence. With an almost reverent touch, Lucifer tugged the coat from Adam’s shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms like a heavy, inevitable weight being lifted.

Lucifer hummed softly, his eyes sweeping across Adam’s form in a way that made Adam feel exposed, vulnerable. His fingers grazed the oversized shirt Adam wore beneath the coat, tugging at the hem with a playful flick.

“There,” Lucifer murmured approvingly. “Isn’t that better?”

Adam, flustered, could only nod, folding his arms awkwardly as he stood there, unsure what to do. Lucifer took the coat from him, moving with graceful ease to hang it up in a nearby cupboard. Adam watched him, his gaze following the sleek lines of Lucifer’s form until the man shrugged off his own coat, revealing something that made Adam blink in surprise.

Lucifer was wearing a Halloween-themed sweater—bright orange with a little cartoon duck in a witch’s hat plastered on the front. The sight of it, so unexpected and oddly adorable, made Adam quickly avert his gaze, but not before Lucifer caught him staring. A smug smirk curled across Lucifer’s cherry-red lips, his eyes glinting with mischievous amusement.

Adam fidgeted nervously, trying to find something—anything—to distract himself from the intensity of Lucifer’s gaze.

“Why did you choose to move to Hallow-Eve Town?” he asked softly, almost to himself. “Surely it wasn’t because of the pumpkins, right?”

Lucifer, now whistling a light, haunting tune, stepped up to one of the many pristine counters. He reached for an apron—one that, to Adam’s surprise, matched his sweater with more little ducks—and slipped it over his head, tying it neatly at his waist. The apron was frilly, white and red, with a cute little bow that sat snugly at Lucifer’s lower back. Adam blinked, wondering how someone could switch from eerie to adorable so seamlessly.

Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater to reveal pale arms with strange, dark patches that dusted his skin like shadows, Lucifer glanced at Adam. The markings caught Adam’s eye, but he quickly looked away, not wanting to be rude.

"No reason, really," he said in that same playful, lilting tone. Lucifer hummed as he tied the final knot. "We won’t be here for long."

Adam furrowed his brow, the cryptic answer making him uneasy. "Are you… planning to move again soon?"

Lucifer smiled, a slow, wicked curl of his lips. "Something like that. We came here to retrieve something." His voice dropped to a low, almost sinister murmur.

A chill crept down Adam’s spine at the way Lucifer said that—"retrieve something." It sounded ominous, like something out of a dark, forgotten legend. Adam shivered, resisting the urge to ask more, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

Before Adam could dwell on it further, Lucifer snapped his sharp teeth playfully in the air, his blue eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

"Come closer," he teased, his grin widening. "I don’t bite."

“You said you liked to bite.” Adam pointed out.

Lucifer purred. “In the bedroom, I meant~”

Adam swallowed hard but managed to breathe in deeply, steadying himself. He stepped up beside Lucifer, his heart still racing.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked, eager to do something—anything—to distract himself from the tension hanging in the air. He didn’t want to just stand there while Lucifer did all the work.

Lucifer cooed softly in admiration, his hip pressing lightly against Adam’s in a casual, almost intimate gesture.

"That’s very sweet of you, Adam," Lucifer purred. His hand grazed Adam’s side as he handed him a bowl filled with fresh ingredients. "I appreciate the offer."

Adam smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. Despite everything—the cryptic comments, the playful snapping of teeth, and the tension that seemed to swirl like shadows around Lucifer—he was happy to help. He liked being useful. Besides, the kitchen felt warm and welcoming now, despite the eerie undercurrents of the house.

As they began working side by side, the tension in the air seemed to settle into something more comfortable, more familiar. Adam couldn’t help but glance at Lucifer every now and then, catching the faintest smile or the sly glint in those sharp blue eyes. There was something about the man—something both unsettling and irresistibly alluring.

And Adam wasn’t sure if he should be afraid of that or if he liked it.

As the two continued their playful banter, the air between them grew thick with an undeniable tension, charged like the crackle before a storm. Lucifer, ever the tease, slid closer to Adam’s side, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savouring every second of their proximity. Adam felt the subtle heat of Lucifer’s body as he leaned in, the smell of cinnamon and cloves clinging to the air between them—a scent that seemed almost too sweet, too tempting for someone so dangerous.

Lucifer’s fingers curled over Adam’s hand, guiding it towards the cutting board. His grip was firm, yet strangely gentle, his skin cool to the touch but leaving a trail of warmth where their hands connected. Adam's breath hitched as Lucifer pressed closer, his body lightly brushing against Adam’s side. The contact sent an involuntary shiver racing down Adam’s spine, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. The heat crept all the way up to his ears as he felt Lucifer’s chest pressing into his back, close enough that every breath Lucifer took seemed to sync with his own.

"Careful now," Lucifer murmured, his voice a low, sultry whisper that sent a ripple of sensation through Adam.

His breath ghosted over Adam’s cheek, cool and soft like a breeze that carried whispers of something darker, something dangerous.

 "Hold the knife like this…" His fingers wrapped around Adam’s hand, tightening just enough to guide the blade as it hovered over the vegetables.

Adam’s heart pounded against his ribcage, the thrum of his pulse quickening under Lucifer’s touch. He swallowed hard, focusing on the feel of the blade rather than the man pressing against him. But it was impossible to ignore the way Lucifer’s breath tickled his skin, how close his lips were to the side of Adam’s neck—so close it felt like a dare, a tantalizing threat lingering just out of reach.

Lucifer’s voice dipped lower, a playful growl behind his words. "If you’re not careful, you might just nip your fingers. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?"

His lips hovered near Adam’s ear, as if sharing a secret. His tone was rich with amusement, the sharpness of it cutting through the air like the very blade Adam was gripping.

Adam blushed even harder, his entire body reacting to Lucifer’s presence, every nerve alight.

"I-I’ll be careful," Adam stammered, his voice unsteadies, betraying the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.

His hands felt clumsy under Lucifer’s guidance, but with every movement, Lucifer’s touch steadied him, controlling the knife with such ease it felt like second nature.

"Good," Lucifer purred, his lips brushing ever so slightly against Adam’s ear, sending another electric shiver down Adam’s spine. "We wouldn’t want to ruin those pretty hands of yours."

The compliment, whispered so close, made Adam’s breath catch in his throat. He could feel Lucifer’s smile, could sense the way he was enjoying every second of this, pushing the boundaries, seeing how far he could go before Adam would pull away. But Adam didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself be drawn in, feeling both trapped and comforted by Lucifer’s presence.

For a fleeting moment, everything else fell away—the eerie atmosphere of the house, the distant rustling sounds of the wind against the windows, even the faint creaks of the old floorboards beneath their feet. It was just the two of them in that moment, Lucifer's cool, almost predatory presence coiled around Adam like smoke. It was intoxicating, dangerous—but it was also undeniably thrilling.

Lucifer’s fingers finally released their hold on Adam’s hand, but he didn’t move away. His presence lingered, almost as if he was waiting for something. Adam exhaled shakily, his heart still pounding, trying to steady himself. He focused on the knife in front of him, his fingers shaking slightly as he continued to chop the vegetables, all the while acutely aware of Lucifer’s gaze, of the way those sharp blue eyes traced every movement.

"You’re a fast learner," Lucifer praised, his voice a velvet purr. He moved ever so slightly, his chest brushing Adam’s shoulder as he leaned in again. His breath was back, close to Adam’s ear, closer this time.

"But you know…" Lucifer's voice dropped, becoming an intimate whisper, "I’m even better at other things."

Adam’s blush deepened, and his hand faltered for a moment. He quickly caught himself, hoping Lucifer didn’t notice the sudden hitch in his movements. But of course, Lucifer noticed everything. Adam could feel the man’s smirk without even looking at him. It hung in the air like a well-placed trap, ready to ensnare him.

"Are you trying to make me nervous?" Adam muttered, glancing sideways at Lucifer, trying to muster some semblance of control over his own embarrassment.

Lucifer chuckled softly, the sound a low, dangerous rumble in his chest.

"Maybe." He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Is it working?"

Adam opened his mouth to reply but found the words tangled on his tongue. He couldn’t deny the effect Lucifer was having on him—the heat, the tension, the way every touch seemed to set his skin alight.

He swallowed thickly, forcing a small laugh. "Maybe a little."

Lucifer grinned, satisfied with the answer, and finally stepped back, giving Adam a little space to breathe. But the absence of his presence was almost worse—it left the air cold, hollow, as if something vital had been pulled away.

"Don’t worry," Lucifer said, his tone light and playful once more. "I’ll let you finish without distraction. For now."

He winked, turning his attention to another counter, where various ingredients were laid out for the meal they were about to prepare.

Adam, now free from Lucifer’s proximity but still feeling the lingering weight of the moment, exhaled a shaky breath. He smiled to himself as he continued chopping, the ghost of Lucifer’s touch still tingling on his skin. This wasn’t just an ordinary evening—it was something far more unsettling, far more electrifying. And Adam wasn’t sure if he wanted it to stop.

Dinner unfolded with a strange mix of warmth and tension that Adam couldn’t quite shake. Charlie and Vaggie bounded down the stairs, clearly eager to eat, their playful energy filling the dimly lit room. The table was set with an array of food that looked and smelled so much better than anything Adam had been used to growing up. His fingers fidgeted with the fork as he tried to summon an appetite, despite the gnawing uncertainty in his chest.

As they all settled around the table, Charlie’s curious gaze fell on Adam, noticing his hesitation to eat. She cocked her head, her big eyes filled with concern.

"Do you have trouble with food, Adam?" she asked softly, her voice full of innocent curiosity.

Vaggie nudged her with a sharp elbow, whispering something about personal boundaries, and Charlie quickly flushed with embarrassment.

"I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to," Charlie quickly added, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink as she ducked her head.

Adam glanced around the table, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. Lucifer, who had chosen the seat beside him, was particularly attentive, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Adam with a soft, almost curious expression. Under the weight of those gazes, Adam swallowed nervously, his fingers playing with the cold metal of his fork.

"It’s fine," Adam muttered after a moment, forcing a small smile to ease the tension. "It’s not a big deal or anything. Growing up, there wasn’t a lot of food around. Not because we were poor, but… my parents didn’t like the idea of me eating too much. They didn’t want a fat kid."

Charlie’s frown was immediate, her brow creased in obvious disdain. She shook her head, muttering something too low for Adam to catch, but her expression said everything. Vaggie, ever her grounding presence, gently took Charlie’s hand in hers, squeezing it as if to remind her to stay calm.

Lucifer, on the other hand, gazed at Adam with a kind of quiet, knowing sympathy. His gaze softened, and he reached out, resting a hand lightly on Adam’s shoulder.

"You should never be ashamed to eat," Lucifer said, his voice low and smooth like silk sliding over velvet. His eyes glinted with something sincere as they met Adam’s. "It would make me very happy if you enjoyed this meal. Eat more than just enough to fill yourself—take pleasure in it."

Adam’s face flushed, heat creeping up his neck as Lucifer’s words hung in the air. Before Adam could respond, Lucifer, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, speared a slice of ham with his fork and held it up to Adam’s lips. The action was playful but intimate, far more than Adam had expected.

"Open your mouth, darling," Lucifer cooed, his voice a teasing lilt that made Adam’s heart skip.

Adam recoiled slightly, a flustered smile tugging at his lips. "I’m not a baby," he protested, trying to sound firm, but his voice betrayed him with its softness.

Lucifer’s grin widened, sharp and wolfish. "Then don’t act like one. Open your mouth and eat the tasty ham."

His voice took on an almost sing-song quality, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or should I make airplane noises? Hmm?"

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged amused glances, their giggles filling the room as Adam’s blush deepened. Feeling like he was in some ridiculous situation he couldn’t escape, Adam dared Lucifer with a soft, "Go ahead, try it."

Lucifer’s grin only grew wider as he accepted the challenge. He leaned in closer, making exaggerated airplane noises, moving the fork toward Adam’s lips in slow, playful circles. The entire moment felt ridiculous, like something straight out of a cheesy movie, but the playful glint in Lucifer’s eyes made it impossible for Adam not to smile.

Finally, with a sigh of defeat and cheeks burning, Adam parted his lips and allowed Lucifer to feed him. The ham was savoury and delicious, but Adam barely registered the taste. His mind was too focused on the sensation of Lucifer being so close, of their playful connection weaving an odd but undeniable bond between them.

Lucifer, ever the tease, didn’t stop there. After Adam had swallowed, Lucifer leaned in and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek. Adam froze, startled by the sudden affection. His heart raced in his chest, and his body tingled with the warmth of the unexpected gesture.

"Good boy," Lucifer whispered sweetly, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he hummed, pulling away as if nothing had happened.

 His movements were casual, but Adam could feel the heat radiating off his own skin, his mind still reeling from the subtle intimacy of it all.

As if to add fuel to the fire, Lucifer continued eating, but not before deliberately using the same fork that had just been in Adam’s mouth. There was something devilishly innocent about the way he did it, as though he were unaware of the unspoken implications. Adam’s eyes widened, his mind immediately jumping to the realization that it was an indirect kiss. He swallowed hard, trying to calm the fluttering in his chest, unsure of how to respond to Lucifer’s deliberate antics.

Dinner concluded soon after, Charlie and Vaggie disappearing upstairs to finish their homework, leaving Adam alone with Lucifer in the dimly lit kitchen. Adam felt a slight pang of nervousness but also an odd comfort—Lucifer’s presence, while mischievous and teasing, had grown familiar.

As Adam began to gather the dishes to clean up, Lucifer waved him off with a soft laugh.

"You don’t have to do that," he said, leaning against the counter with a grin. "I invited you here for dinner, not to work."

Adam shook his head, smiling despite the lingering warmth in his cheeks. "It’s the least I can do. You cooked dinner, after all. I want to help."

Lucifer’s eyes softened at Adam’s insistence, and he tilted his head slightly, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You really are sweet," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. He stepped closer, just enough to brush against Adam’s side, his presence once again invading Adam’s space with an almost magnetic pull.

Adam couldn’t help but smile, his heart fluttering in his chest as he began to rinse the dishes. This house, this moment—it all felt surreal. A little eerie, a little romantic, and something else entirely, something that made his pulse quicken and his mind race with thoughts he wasn’t quite ready to confront.

The air between them thickened with a kind of intensity that left Adam breathless. The kitchen, once filled with playful teasing, now hummed with a palpable tension, something darker and more electric. Adam could feel Lucifer’s gaze on him, a warm weight that made his skin prickle and his face flush. Every glance, every lingering second stretched out, charged with an unspoken emotion that hovered between them.

Lucifer, with his golden hair catching the dim light and his sharp eyes smouldering, stepped closer to Adam, closing the space between them with graceful ease. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost predatory. Adam felt his breath hitch in his throat as Lucifer’s fingers, cool and soft, brushed against his hand. The touch was gentle but insistent, and before Adam could think to resist, Lucifer was tugging him away from the sink, the warm water and dishes forgotten.

"Leave them," Lucifer whispered, his voice low and velvety, curling around Adam like smoke.

Adam opened his mouth to protest, but before the words could form, Lucifer silenced him in the most unexpected way. His lips pressed against Adam’s in a kiss so soft, so fleeting, that it barely registered at first. The world seemed to still in that moment, time itself pausing as Adam’s wide, startled green eyes locked onto Lucifer’s.

Lucifer pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Adam’s face for something, some sign of acceptance or maybe hesitation. His fingers traced a slow, feather-light path up Adam’s arms, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake. Adam, still frozen in shock, felt his heart hammering wildly in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears.

Then, as if finding what he was looking for, Lucifer leaned in again. This time, the kiss was deeper, more deliberate. Their lips moved together, a slow and sensual dance, and Adam found himself instinctively leaning into it. The taste of Lucifer was intoxicating—dark, rich, with a sweetness that caught Adam off guard. His mind spun, and without realizing it, he was kissing back, his lips parting slightly as their tongues began to explore one another.

The sensation of it, the heat, the closeness—it was overwhelming. Adam’s entire body trembled, a mixture of desire and nervousness flooding his senses. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t even imagined it, but now that it was happening, he couldn’t pull away. The feeling of Lucifer’s hands on him, his lips so confident and teasing, left Adam breathless and wanting more.

Lucifer broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against Adam’s lips, his breath warm and full of temptation.

"It’s late," he murmured, his voice low and persuasive, each word sending a shiver down Adam’s spine. "You should stay the night."

Adam’s heart raced; his chest tight with the weight of his pounding pulse. He tried to speak, tried to form some coherent response, but all that came out was a soft, breathless murmur. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his body betraying him with its eager trembling.

"Please," Lucifer added softly.

His voice laced with something almost vulnerable, as if the devil himself was asking for something more than just a kiss. His hand tightened gently around Adam’s, his thumb brushing across his knuckles in a tender, reassuring motion.

Adam’s resolve crumbled. His lips parted, but the only sound that escaped was a soft exhale, and with a shy nod, he surrendered to the moment. Lucifer’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, one that was as wicked as it was tender, before he leaned in again, claiming Adam’s lips once more with a kiss that promised much more than just a night.

The following morning would be first of many mornings where Adam was served fresh pancakes.

[sunny-mercya]

Dressed in Red

Rogue Cheney x Male Reader

Fandom -> Fairy Tail

Requested by -> Anon

Masterlist

The existence of a Blood Dragon, wasn't mentioned in any records or pre-existing documents and books of Fiore and its past history and neither was it mentioned in the index of Dragons—so therefore, such dragon was a false and doesn't exist.

Blood magic, on the other hand, does exist—although, since it's misuse throughout the decades, it had been set—although a long forgotten art now—on a Dark-Magic list and banned to be either learned or to perform.

So it had been a particularly surprise for not only the Fairy Tail guild—which had taken you in, when Natsu had found you during one of his Request missions, unconscious and covered in wounds in a destroyed shrine—but also for Rogue, when he had meet you during the Grand Magic Games, when they discovered your actuality.

At first they thought you only could do blood magic—which had been a hassle for the guild to get a permit of usage for you, from the government—but then, during a feisty moment of battle, you baffled them all when you used Dragon Slayer power.

During the after celebration of the won battle—which had interrupted the Games, those would be continued a few days later (although the Capital looked like a destroyed battlefield still)—Rogues second impression of you was pretty handsome.

Seeing you dressed in all red, probably because of your blood magic—the long traditional robes, which looked like river of blood, fitting your body nicely—was definitely a eyecatcher and Rogue, kinda wished, to have you for yourself.

»C'mon lover boy, just chat him up!« Sting throws his arm around Rogue shoulder, carrying two glasses and a bottle of champagne in his hand, saying such so easily.

Rogue scoffed, shrugging off his friends hold and looking at Sting with a grimace of irritation—easy to say for Sting, who not only has a boyfriend already—which he had to pay free—but also managed to befriend Fairy Tails Water Dragon Slayer as well, like the charming guy he is.

For Rogue it wasn't that easy, he wasn't a loud mouth like Sting nor had he a carefree personality like Natsu—Rogue's more on the silent nature of personality, someone who likes the solace of quiet and lonesome sometimes.

»Oh, please! Don't start with your brooding speech and how you're not easy to talk to! You can snag this dude just fine as well. You gotta be fast tho, because as far as I could tell, Laxus eyeing him too.«

»Would you shut up?!«

And then an argument had broke out between Rogue and Sting, getting slightly physically at one point, to which both Minerva and Yukino had to intervene and break it off.

And while the small Saber-Tooth group was busy with themselves, none of them takes notice how Frosch and Hector wanders off and through the crowd—having both formed a plan, how Rogue will be talking to this red dressing person he seemed to fancy.

~~~•~~~

»Excuse me, do these two Exceeds belong to you?« it was your voice—Rogue recognised it immediately, although only heard a few rare minimal times during the battles.

Gods, you're here! Standing behind him and asking a question—Rogue feels how his body locks up on itself, getting panicked sweaty.

»Frosch says, bawling their eyes out, how they and Lector had lost you two in the crowd and asked me to help them to find you, because I'm the pretty red from Fairy Tail.« you continued, elaborating why you're here in the first place.

Sting had to hold in his laughter, finding the situation funny—especially Rogues red beaten face and embarrassed expression, absolutely priceless to witness—but his amusement vanished just as quickly as it came, when he process what exactly you just had said.

Two Exceeds? Getting lost? Frosch and Lector? Sting had never moved so fast, standing next to the still back turned Rogue and looking from you to their shyly acting Exceeds.

Sly—Sting thought, real sly and clever of them to deceive you like this and bringing you here, without Rogue having to do the first move on his own.

»Why, thank you! We were just about to search for them, didn't we Rogue? Well, thanks for bringing Lector, I see you later!« with a pat to Rogue shoulder and flashing you a smile—Sting takes Lector and walks aways.

Rogue turns around, coming face to face with you and Froschs small teary eyed expression—and Rogue wanted to glare at his friend, for leading you here and telling the compliment he calls you in secret.

»Would it be okah for you, if I hold Frosch a bit longer? I don't have a Exceed on my own, so I'm a getting a bit attached to other Slayers Exceeds«

»Sure you can. Frosch looks content in your arms, so it's fine.«

A silence emits between the two off you and while you feed Frosch some cupcakes from the buffet—having walked with Rogue towards it, after Frosch cries out they're hungry—Rogue admits you even more.

Your (e/c) eyes and the (h/c) short cut hair was a stark contrast to your red coloured style of dressing—but it brought such intense colour even more out, making you up close even more gorgeous handsome, than Rogue had thought.

»You have pretty eyes. They're red, I like red.« the compliment you just told Rogue, came out of the blue—bringing a dark flush onto his face, the embarrassment returning.

From a distance, Rogue could hear Sting and Natsu laughing in amusement—definitely at him for being such a shy coward—the girls already reprimanded them for it.

Now or never—Rogue thought, having to say something as well or you would walk away soon and being swoon off by Laxus or whomever might fancy you as well.

»You're red handsome too!« Roguee had shouted it so loudly, that—despite it wasn't like this—everyone in the ballroom had stopped and looking at him—Sting and Natsu, followed by Gajeel now, laughed even harder.

You smiled at Rogue, it's by far the best and kindest compliment you have ever received—a honest one even, as most compliments were just a fake to begin with.

»I'm [Name], Blood Dragon of Fairy Tail. Nice to meet you.«

»I'm Rogue.« both of you officially exchanging a handshake now.

»Care to dance?« you asked right away and Rogue nodded, Frosch climbing onto his shoulder now.

[malacandrax]

Hello hello!! Just wanted to say that I really love seeing your traditional drawings, they're so charming 🥺 It's pretty rare to see trad. art on here compared to digital, which is a little sad.. there's just something about the personality it has!

Do you find that the post engagement they receive is less than your digital works? Personally I've had this experience but I'm not sure if it's different for other artists 😯 It's discouraged me a lot from posting since I don't regularly have enough time to sit down and make a digital piece vs drawing in my sketchbook 😓

On a related note, is there a pen you'd recommend for sketching/doodling? All the pen drawings in your sketchbook posts are so pretty 🫶

Thank you so much! That means a lot honestly. Seeing other peoples sketches is one of my favourite things, you're right, it's generally less perfect but I think it has more charm because of that. I feel like *personally* I actually often favour traditional stuff over digital when I see it online- I have a big collection of digital sketchbooks and fav'd youtube flipthroughs.

HOWEVER yeah I think we are in the minority. To be completely honest on itch.io I've actually only made 4 sketchbook sales*, I assume there's a market out there but I ain't hitting it haha! I do have a good chunk of patrons that comment and like my sketches, which is wonderful, and I often get sweet tags on the doodles I share here- but you're right that engagement is lower. I'd encourage you do just do it for yourself, though! There's nothing like having a big stack of art in real life. Maybe that's a privileged position for me to have, at the moment I don't need to worry about engagement on my sfw art, but also it's a shame to not do something you enjoy because of numbers. (I would recommend using a scanner if you want to catch more peoples eyes. Mines crap but it's way better than photos were.)

Pen wise I am a picky bitch, I like things that don't require pressure, make a uniformish line, and ink that flows easy- so I prefer gel pen styles or fountain pens. My most recent fav were some lyreco retract gel 0.7's my partner randomly brought home from work lol, but I lost the black one and replaced it with a uniball signo 0.7 [UM-120*], honestly they're just regular gel pens though, I generally try them out in a shop and pick ones that don't blob or scratch.

My fountain pen is a pilot kakuno, which atm has that blue grey ink in (sailor 224) and I really love it. (also I put it into a water brush pen) I've also used carbon platinum for a good waterproof ink.

Good luck with your sketchbook endeavours, and thank you again!

*there are...at least two types of uniball signo, and the other one with a soft grip is bad imo.

**thank you to those sweethearts who bought the sketchbook!

[legacygirlingreen]

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

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

Pairing: Wolffe x OC Perdita Halle

Word Count: 13.5k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•—⟪=====> 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bump.

Bump... Bump.

Bump.

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

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

Bang!

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

Someone was out there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•—⟪=====> 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wolffe.

She could feel him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wolffe, she thought. The name suited him.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They weren’t out of danger yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ𓃥✧:･.:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did this matter?

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

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

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

More troubling still, for whom?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shit-solkat]

How I personally see x-shippers in the Homestuck Fandom

Based on my perceptions, based on my opinions, based on my expiriences! :] Nothing directed to anyone in particular.

If you have x-ship as your OTP, this is how I see your "category" VERY generally, let's say.

Johnkat / Communism shippers

I don't even ship Johnkat, but y'all are the sweetest people out there?? The chillest people ever. Like, if they asked me with what shipper I would spend ten hours trip with, it'd be a Johnkat shipper.

Davejade / Spacetime shippers

LITERALLY the same as Johnkat, but y'all are also so fucking talented too?? Any art skill possible (traditional, digital, animation, 3D, paper puppet, etc) Y'ALL CAN DO THAT!!! How do y'all even exist!? 😭

(Btw, yes, you're chill too, but a lil less than Johnkat shippers)

Dirkjake / Pumpkin shippers

Annoying.

You're annoying.

There are two types of Pumpkin shippers though.

Type 1: less annoying. You like toxic yaoi, you recognize they're in a toxic relationship and I can respect you.

Type 2: "toxic yaoiiii 🤪🤪🤪" but when someone points out the actual toxicity of Dirkjake those shippers will come after their ass.

Rosekan / Rosemary shippers

Hard to find people who have Rosemary as primary ship, since they're established in canon, so people ship them in the background because it makes sense and they're actually a thing.

BUT I am convinced the primary Rosemary shippers aren't rare at all, I think they simply don't use socials as much as other HS fans. So they're normal, basically.

Solkat / MUTANT2 shippers

I won't count myself because 1- I'm not so pretentious, 2- I don't think I act like the average MUTANT2 shipper AT ALL!!!

The average: Some Dude™. Yes, even the girls act like Some Dude™.

Weirdly, most of them don't know Fandom culture that well. Maybe cuz they're all Some Dudes™.

Erifef / Make a wwis)( shippers

They do not deny what happened in the comic, they just ignore it. And somehow they are able to ignore it even when someone points out what happens in the comic.

"But Eridan killed Feferi." "Ok *not listening*"

Y'all are in a constant Zen State after years of meditation and acception, probably.

Nepfef / Octopussy shippers

"FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF NOTHING BAD HAPPENED FLUFF FLUFF FUNNY 2000 MEME FLUFF"

"But Nepeta and Feferi died-"

"FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF FUNNY CAT RAINBOW VIDEO AH AH PUSSY FISH FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF"

Davekat shippers

No.

Go read the comic.

Karezi / Adorabloodthirsty(?) shippers

Y'all died??? I SUPPOSE you all were too annoyed with canon and Hussie to actually care to continue reading, or stay in the Fandom. Or I can't explain how y'all literally imploded and disappeared.

Daverose / Dersecest shippers

Same as Karezi, but I can see you every now and then reblog stuff, mostly due archive reasons.

Johnvris / Spider8reath shippers

Their personality is a mix between John and Vriska's. That's the only way I can explain it.

Equinep / Meowrails shippers

Same as Rosemary for the first part, but there are more people loving Meowrails as their OTP. And those fans usually are the sweet & respectful memes side. Their pages often feel like an Internet Checkpoint where to rest and see cute and mindlessly funny stuff for a moment.

Please, never leave the Fandom.

Some of y'all are dumb af tho.

Vrisrezi / Scourge sisters shippers

The ship isn't bad and it makes sense even, the shippers, on the other hand, have to chill the fuck out and actually read the comic and not only the second part of Act 6 or, worse, from the Epilogues and on.

Katnep / Katnip shippers

You all just wish the best for Nepeta. That's like your whole personality in the Fandom. Nepeta deserved a better treatment. The end.

Vrisfef / Spider8each shippers

Never met a Spider8each shipper who isn't obsessed with Spider8each like I'm obsessed with MUTANT2. You make EVERYTHING about them; every and all quadrants; every and all situations. You WILL scream "THEM!!!"

Any Dancestor x Dancestor shipper

You care too much about the Dancestors, but your real problem is that you're annoying. And probably also 15 too.

Any Ancestor x Ancestor shipper

You're a rare breed. A really special and important one. I love you. You're my parent now.

Summonfang / Summoning the 8ooty shippers

What I've said before, except that you're actually not my parent, but my annoying little cousin.

Spades Slick x Karkat / Bloodsworn shippers

I love you. If you exist (I've seen only a couple of people), just know that you're right, always, you're cooking, keep going, I love you. Also you make the sexiest scenarios.

Davejohn / Pepsicola shippers

Most normal people in the world. Not in the "chill person" way like Communism shippers or "Some Dude" way like MUTANT2 shippers.

You're normal. Average even. You could be called "annoying" at times, for making jokes like "red and blue = pepsicola ah ah", but it's just a joke you make sometimes, in the most normal way. You're normal. You're ok.

Beta OT4 shippers

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

EDIT: I apologize to DirkJake shippers. DaveShitKat shippers are definitely far far far far far far far far far far far more annoying.

[jurimaart]

rare traditional art moment from me, also! I got him after a thousand years!

[blanketorghost]

Unlike the waves of the Suminoe

Word count: 2,793

Summary: It's Azul's birthday, and despite Azul's policies about gifts, Yuu insists on giving his crush a birthday present.

Pairings: Azul Ashengrotto x Yuu Fujisaki (implied)

A/N: Happy birthday to my bestest boy mwah💕

Companion/continuation fic can be found here! Also I will add the companion art tmrw im so tired fr

Taglist: @kazumify @the-trinket-witch @yavya

~

"I know you don't usually accept these, but... happy birthday." Against his better judgment, Yuu extended the carefully gift-wrapped package to Azul. His eyes glued to the floor as a sudden bashfulness filled his body. For once, he was grateful that Vil had forced him to wear that full-coverage foundation.

Somehow, someway, Yuu had been roped into being Azul's interview host for his birthday party, whatever that was supposed to entail.

It was a long-standing tradition in Night Raven College to make these grandiose celebrations for students; The entire dorm would be decorated to its max splendor and the birthday boy would be awarded all sorts of gifts; even receiving a specially tailored suit that fit the year's theme. Is that where the budget to fix Ramshackle dorm went? Either way, Yuu couldn't really complain. After all, he was awarded the same luxuries when his own birthday came along. Kalim and Vil made sure of that.

The festive atmosphere that engulfed the Octavinelle dorm was also a welcome change of pace. With the VDC approaching, practice was getting more and more intense. So when the opportunity arose to finally relax and pig out on junk food and sweet treats, practically everyone jumped at the chance— even if the birthday boy wasn't particularly well-liked by most members of the NRC Tribe.

It also was exciting to be able to candidly ask Azul about himself for once. Whenever they met up, they seldom talked about each other, often their conversations being engulfed by work or contracts rather than other, more casual topics one would normally talk about with friends. Yet, as host, Yuu was allowed the rare opportunity to run an honest-to-goodness interview without running the risk of being blackmailed by the octomer, something he couldn't just pass by.

It was pleasant to hear about Azul's birthday memories first-hand, and he even got to learn about his family traditions. He spoke plainly and happily about his parents, the ristorante they had back at the coral sea, and his own thought processes behind his management of the lounge. Yuu reveled in that moment of subtle vulnerability. It was nice not having to read between words for once.

Now that the interview was over, though, Azul went back to his all-business persona as he cheerfully greeted guests and accepted well-wishes, often recommending dishes in-between or proposing deals. It was only until the very end of the party that Yuu could catch his attention again and pull him aside to an empty table.

The wrapping paper crinkled as he clutched the gift harder and slightly bowed— his body moving on its own before he could even think. Despite being in Twisted Wonderland for more than a semester now, he still couldn't shake up some of the rigid mannerisms from back home.

Perfect, now he looked more like a fool.

"Ah. I think you've wished me happy birthday... three times already?" Azul's laugh ringed on Yuu's ears. Melodious and sweet. Genuine even, compared to his usual tone. "But if you know my rules, then you should've known already I can't take it." Despite his statement, Azul tentatively took the package and examined it.

It didn't look like anything special. A flat, hand-sized rectangle that was wrapped in modest striped lavender paper from Sam's shop. Yuu had done this intentionally. He thought if the gift looked inconspicuous enough, Azul would accept it without protesting, but it seemed he had underestimated his crush's stubbornness.

"It's a dumb rule." Yuu quickly retorted. "I don't need or want anything in return, Azul. It's literally your birthday." He finally found the courage to look up. As his eyes were met with Azul's smile, he couldn't help but return it with his own, his only hope being that it wasn't too dopey or lovesick. "And honestly, you're already allowing me the joy of giving. Isn't that enough payback?"

"If you word it like that, I suppose that's enough." He laughed again, and Yuu's heart did a flip. "What is it?"

"You'll have to open it to find out."

"Can't you just tell me?"

"That's not how this works, come on—" Yuu let himself laugh as he finally sat beside him and averted his gaze towards the cutlery on the table. Maybe if he didn't have to look him directly in the face, his anxiety would fade slightly.

He nudged the present closer and held his breath as Azul unwrapped the package, careful not to rip the paper. If he were from earth, Yuu thought, Azul would be the type of person that would save them to wrap other gifts.

"A bookmark?" He held the wooden charm up. The delicately carved slab was decorated at the bottom corner with a wave pattern— the closest Yuu could guide Rook to paint on with his limited artistic talent to reflect the ones he'd seen at home. At the top, a braided satin tassel was looped through a small hole, tied into a rope.

"I- I'm not good with crafts like these, so I commissioned Epel and Rook to help me out with some—... I wanted to give you something you could use." Yuu tried his best not to trip over his words as he explained. Why was he even explaining himself, though? His plan was to just give him the package and dip, but instead, Yuu was now hunched forward, one finger pointing at the details he wanted Azul to take notice of.

"Thank you. It is indeed quite a useful gift." Azul's voice softened, but Yuu couldn't really gauge what he truly thought about the gift without looking at him— something he refused to do. "Is this design common where you come from?"

"Yes, the pattern here is called a seigaiha. It's meant to represent ocean waves. Though Rook did take some artistic liberties on his interpretation."

"And this?" Azul's hand slid to the complex knot at the top. His curiosity slightly encouraging Yuu.

"It doesn't mean anything specifically, but I wanted to mimic an omamori— a good luck charm." He answered before averting his eyes again in embarrassment. "That's the only part I contributed with manually."

"It's still very intricate. Though I'm a bit insulted that you think I need a lucky charm." He felt Azul's weight shift beside him as he leaned on him for a few seconds. He knew it was a friendly nudge, but that still didn't help Yuu feel any less flustered.

"Everyone needs a little luck every once in a while, besides—" Yuu guided Azul's hand and flipped the bookmark to its backside, which had a small, white rectangle painted at its center. "It doesn't have the spell that makes it lucky written on it."

"So there is magic in your world." Azul's voice gained a smug tone, that one he used so often whenever he wanted to tease Yuu. Usually, he would just laugh along and reciprocate with a quip of his own, but his brain was already working overtime with just maintaining his composure. Thankfully, Azul didn't seem to notice as he continued. "Then, shouldn't you write something? It's your gift, after all."

"I am magicless, remember? It wouldn't work. Besides, my handwriting's kind of ugly. I didn't want to ruin it."

"I don't think— nevermind." He felt Azul's posture falter for a second. "What I meant is that... It'd be nice to get a message from you. But if you say so, I suppose it's for the best then."

Yuu's eyes darted up. Did Azul sound... disappointed? If he did, he didn't show it. His expression was as inscrutable as always, his lips curled into that all-business smile as his delicate fingers ran through the blank slate.

God, he was gorgeous.

And it was getting very difficult to keep denying him, especially on his birthday.

"I may... know something I could write on."

"Oh?" Azul turned to him, head tilting in curiosity. "What do you have in mind?"

"I don't want it to be something menial like a 'happy birthday' or a regular well-wishes message. That'd be a disservice to Rook and Epel's work. So instead, I thought.... I know a certain poem I could write instead."

"You're writing me a poem?" Azul's smile widened, and he crinkled his eyes smugly, having found the perfect opportunity to tease Yuu. "I didn't take you for a romantic. Or a writer for that matter."

"And I didn't take you for an insufferable tease, and yet here we are." He flicked a finger to Azul's temple, Azul flinching in return. "I'm not writing you a poem. I'm writing a poem. Pragmatics, 'Zul-kun."

"But it is directed at me, no? So you are writing it for me." The boy chuckled as he moved a hand to his forehead, rubbing the spot where Yuu flicked at him. "Shame I won't be getting an original. It would skyrocket the bookmark's value."

"You can't afford me." Yuu retorts, returning Azul's smug and cheeky smile with one of his own.

"I doubt that. What are your rates?"

"I'll discuss with my associates and get back to you."

The two let out a low chuckle as the conversation naturally veers back to their usual dynamic. And Yuu gives himself the luxury to lightly nudge Azul, extending their contact for just a little precious second longer. "Now I'm curious, though. What poem are you going to write for me?"

"It's just a short thing. Back from a collection of poems that are pretty famous back home." Yuu explains, not truly wanting to get into the thick of it just yet. If only to make their conversation longer.

"And?" Azul leans closer, not buying Yuu's humble description. They have known one another for long enough that Yuu wouldn't just bring it up if it was that trivial.

"And, it's also become a kind of card game because of its fame. It's called Hyakunin Isshu karuta."

"A hundred people, a hundred poems, huh?" Azul perks up, leaning forward and placing his palms on his chin. "Must be quite a challenge to memorize all of them."

"Oh, not really." Yuu smiles in spite of himself, and he sees Azul frown in return. He quickly wipes the smile off his face and coughs. "I mean- they are quite short. Just 5 verses each, split in two. So they're not that hard to memorize. Much like a couple of songs or an album by your favorite artist..."

"I get it. A simple game of memorization." Azul's interest seemed to have returned. "So what you're telling me is that if I memorize all 100 poems, I could win this game?"

"Well, yes. But you also have to be quick enough. Some competitive players can spot the matching card to a poem in seconds."

Azul hums, straightening back on his seat. "That's an interesting premise. You must come to the board game club one day and explain in more detail, I wouldn't mind investing in creating a deck for us to play."

"Maybe I'll buy you a set for your next birthday." Yuu smiles to himself at the tacit promise of celebrating another year with Azul by his side, even if it's just as friends.

"I'll hold you to that." Azul taps his finger on the table, then leans closer to him. "Now, about this mystery poem..." He trails off, urging Yuu to start writing.

A soft light emerges from his right hand and his signature fishbone quill materializes, shimmering that bright golden hue that illuminated part of the table.

Yuu carefully takes it. The last time he'd used it was when he signed those dreaded contracts in what seemed forever ago. He never expected he would've become so close with Ashengrotto when he was presented with the deals, much less catch feelings for him.

"Since you're being so annoying, maybe I'll just write half of it."

"So you're giving me half a gift? How stingy of you. Since when did you become such a cheapskate?"

"Shush." Yuu turns to Azul, placing a finger on his own lips. "The bookmark is the gift. The poem's just an add on you insisted on." He says, then places the tip of the quill atop the slate, slowly and meticulously starting with the first line. "Besides, think of it as a challenge; I'm giving you three fifths of a full poem. Can you guess what the last two lines are before next year?"

"That's terribly unfair." Azul stifles a giggle, his eyes following each and every one of Yuu's movements as he writes. "How will I be able to know?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll come up with something..." Yuu hums, tracing the line of a kanji until he's sufficiently satisfied with its thickness. "You're smart like that."

Azul only hums back in agreement, then chimes in once more "What is a 'Suminoe'? You have to at least explain to me the foreign terms."

"It's the name of a beach. I thought it'd be fitting given the bookmark's pattern." Yuu answers, mentally measuring the length of the third and final line. "All poems of this type have something relating to nature."

"And so, you thought of an ocean themed poem."

"Correct." Yuu nods, flicking the nib to finish his last stroke.

He couldn't quite discern from just Azul's tone if the comment was condescending, interested, disappointed, or entirely neutral about the poem's subject. Azul's voice already had a melodic and dramatic tilt to it when he talked. And the cadence of his words were so meticulously controlled to give so much information about his mood, they were a puzzle in itself.

"... I think I'm done." Yuu hands his finished message to Azul, who adjusts his glasses as he carefully inspects the writing on the slab.

As he reads the few lines repeatedly, Yuu watches his eyebrows pinch and his lips purse, and his heart skips a beat when Azul's expression slowly turns into a disappointed grimace.

"... I don't get it." He sighs, dejected, and places the bookmark down on the table

That was a risk Yuu always had to account for; that his references or sayings would be misunderstood or flew over people's heads. Especially when he'd just chosen to write half a tanka, famously known to need those last two lines to bring out the full context of the message. Usually, Yuu wouldn't even bother to say anything that could incur the confusion of others, but, with Azul, there was a benefit to being cryptic; It kept him interested.

Azul was so curious, so hungry for knowledge, he would eat up any and all information Yuu gave him. And whatever he didn't understand, he was eager to make it so he would the next time it was mentioned. At some point, Yuu started to intentionally include some of Earth's locations and slang, just to have the pleasure to explain to Azul anything that would pique his interest. It was nice to have an excuse to talk about home... especially when the listener was so eager to learn.

"It's incomplete. You're supposed to find the words to make it make sense to you." Yuu chuckles, handing Azul the quill back and leaning his cheek to rest on his fist. "I think it'd be interesting to see what meaning you extract from those words, then later see how closely it matches the authors." He smiles, but Azul only returns his gesture with a pout.

"Fine. I suppose it would be interesting to try out." He sighs and makes the quill disappear with a snap of his fingers. "But I would've rather had a full poem to think about."

"You're no fun."

"Perhaps I am not. But you'll still try to complete the poem?"

"Of course I will. That is, if I can't manage to pry those last verses from you."

"Over my dead body."

Azul chuckles once more, and, as he is called over by one of the employees of the lounge, Yuu watches him leave the table and bids his goodbyes, taking the gift from the table and putting it in his coat pocket.

Success.

He stays there seated for a while, watching as Azul weaves through the crowds and stops at some instances to entertain the guests. No rhythm or pattern, he just melded into the crowd seamlessly only to pop up once again somewhere else.

In a way, Yuu compared it to a delicate dance. A push and pull of socialization and taking times for himself to recharge. A beautiful view in his eyes.

Maybe that's why he chose that poem. Something that reminds him of Azul's nature of hiding, camouflaging, a figure so ethereal he felt it could only be seen from afar.

Unlike the waves that come up to the shore of Suminoe, in the gathered night.