#soapsuds

[soupskkn]

based on @calchexxis’s tweet

Twitter | Instagram

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Golden Dawn Part 2) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]

Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over… 2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss. Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Scheming brothers. Brief miscommunications. Mutual pining? 👀 Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet.

Word-count: 6,743

It did not take little Mir long to find several samples of art and poetry to share with the cluster of curious on-lookers that have grown around her sister while she prepares bundles of incense and dried flowers. Petals and dried leaves are taken in clusters of twenty-seven before being tied tightly with twine, and carefully passed over the fire to the individual by name. Among the first bundles she gives, one is offered to Plo Koon, who has joined you since Mir had to ask for Solladara’s help in finding a particular piece of poetry and it interrupted their discussion. 

“This is for you, Plo Koon.” 

“That is kind of you. Thank you, young Gi.” the Jedi professes his thanks once he’s able to extract one of his occupied hands, more of the Chossi children than before sitting around him or in his lap, now. He has nowhere to put it, for the time being, so while you’re busy reading some of the poetry Mir found, Commander Wolffe takes his general’s bundle of incense and finds a place for it in one of the many compartments in his utility belt. 

The Basic that’s carved into thin sheets of bark may be slightly broken and disjointed, but the verbal painting performed here is no less incredible. So… is it really the doing of the Dinocaeruleus anthos that everyone’s been so… inspired? The mere pollen in the air, where that pleasant and faintly familiar smell has followed you all day long, is responsible for all this?

All the sketches, the thoughtful conversations you’ve had today, even the thoughts you’ve been having about the commander, that could all be the influence of the pollen? You’re not sure how you feel about that. Stars above, you live in such a strange galaxy…

“It will only be effective for those who reach maturity.” Mir’s older sister explains to her curious onlookers and those fielding questions, like Tack, preparing a new incense bundle that will be given to you to take back to the Jedi cruiser. “To those who have not reached maturity, like Mir, the pollen and petal incense will only smell sweet.”

Beside you, you hear Tack now quietly mourning that it will only ever smell nice for poor Orchid under his breath. Orchid snarls back at him to shut up, saying that that was a cheap shot. He can be plenty mature! He is so fuckin' mature, thank you! 

“If you're talking about your language and your choice of reading material, sure… Now pipe down, both of you. Don't be rude to Gi!” Suds mutters, wagging his head disapprovingly of both brothers’ behaviors. “Sorry about them…” 

Gi offers only an impish smile, finding humor in the brothers’ bickering. “It won't work for Mir. But, it would work for you, Arcadia, and Wolffe.” she adds with a nod, offering him his own bundle of anthos incense. “I will make some for your brothers, too. If they are interested.”

“That’s very kind of you, Gi.” Wolffe answers as he pockets his own bundle beside General Plo’s, nodding to show his gratitude for the generosity of your hosts here. The members of their community that were once cold and standoffish before to the battalion have since thawed out some more, making further offers to show elements of their culture, their homeland here with you as off-worlders. 

We’re all just the universe trying to make sense of itself. Shouldn’t that be enough to unify us? Wouldn’t it be nice if that was all it took? 

No. Unfortunately the galaxy was just far too vast for that optimism, that sweet naivete. It would never be enough to settle the differences in Republic or Separatist opinion. 

It would never be enough to bring back Wolffe’s lost brothers, either.

Brothers he forever carries in his heart no matter if he knew them in maroon or gray. Five hundred seventy-four brothers were lost in the Battle of Abregado. As was the original Triumphant: the new flagship is unofficially filed as the Triumphant II, for the time being. If only you had the appropriate leverage to do it (or maybe you talked to enough of his brothers to rally them around the idea) you would propose Resiliency for the Star Destroyer’s new name to honor Commander Wolffe’s inspiring refusal to be deterred from his service, his duty, his creed of brotherhood and loyalty. 

It’s a lovely thought anyway.

One for another time. There’s still so much to do tonight. Gi’s still making bundles of incense for members of the Wolfpack, but there’s been offerings from the Chossi to show more of their homeland, and what they accomplish under the light of the moon as a nocturnal culture. Children Mir’s age are willing to share star stories, naming various constellations you can see when you look in the gaps of the leafy canopy of their community homes. (They’re calling it star-sowing, which sounds adorable.) Children Gi’s age have simple chores to do, and several of Wolffe’s men offer their hands in aid. 

Already, a few have assembled themselves in groups, rather like the squads they’re familiar with, and are ready to “report” to the youth of the Chossi. One rookie admits he doesn’t know what ground-squash looks like, but he’s willing to help with harvesting the ripe ones. They’ve spent all day relaxing. And though they spend more days than not getting their hands dirty, it’s from things like droid oil, and soot, oftentimes blood. Getting a bit of dirt on their hands while digging through a communal vegetable patch? Yes, that’s technically work on a day their General took them here to relax, but it’s relaxing compared to what they normally do.

“Might be the only time we get to dig holes we don’t have to fill back up.” another soldier says with a shrug, deciding he’ll join in after taking anthos incense from Gi. “Wait up, guys!”

“What did he mean by that?” you ask, half turning to Wolffe after noticing his eyes becoming half-lidded in thought. 

“Graves, most likely.” A stiff shrug is offered, showing he’s not sure himself. “Don’t trouble yourself with it.”

Tack, having eaten his hash-sah fruit while you’d been distracted, butts into the conversation between you and the commander before it grows any more grim. “You really got to try the fruit, Commander; it’s delicious. Arcadia’s should be big enough to share.” He can show you how to eat it, too, since it’s best to hold it by the soft rind, otherwise you’ll end up a bit of a mess like Orchid. 

“Ah shit, got my gloves and damn vambraces all fuckin’ sticky.”

Soapsuds hisses for him to be better. “Cool it, fresher-mouth!” he’s displeased that his brother’s not minding his tongue with so many little ones around. The little girl from earlier he’s given his chocolate to still hasn’t let go, for the most part; he’d rather not have one of his brothers prove a bad influence in her galactic vocabulary. 

You agree to get the large hash-sah fruit from amongst the things in your bag, gingerly extracting it when the flint-gray commander takes note of the time and suggests you need something to eat. If you’d returned to the Jedi cruiser with the rest of the crew, you’d probably have gotten dinner long before now. “Can’t have you going hungry, Arcadia.” Wolffe says, another instance of it being more than a suggestion. 

It’s a veiled request.

Afterwards, perhaps together, you can find something more to do. This time it is a suggestion. 

You figure anything will work, so long as it means he’s not about to start patrolling the perimeter of this community like he had in the clearing. You’ll count it as relaxing if you could get him to at least sit while he frets about his brothers. Especially if the brother within his sight is a shiny, thinking back to how he had asked if you could tell who among them were freshest out of the tube while working on his own sketch. 

Teeth and claws.

You really have to apply a firm grip on the soft rind of the hash-sah fruit in order to keep it from slipping out of your fingers once Tack’s gotten it divided equally between you and the commander, nails biting into the outer shell and leaving deep ruts as the juice runs between your fingers. 

“Stars above, scarcely started and I’m already wet…” you say as it drips into the lap of your uniform, catching the lewd innuendo far too late. “Orchid, don’t even.” 

He gives you a smile, but nothing more. 

“I mean it.” you warn him.

Laughing, Orchid now holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Can I at least ask if you think the fruit’s good?”

The commander's opinion of the local produce comes quietly before you answer his brother. ”It’s not rations.” Neither negative or positive, merely neutral. If he finds it bitter, or sweet, or savory, he doesn’t share. It’s simply not rations. 

“‘Anything’s better than rations’, I know. But is it good, Commander?”

Wolffe gives it a moment of thought. “It’s… like eating sweetened rainwater.” 

It doesn’t make much sense, but no one can figure out a way to argue against his description either. The matter gets chalked up to sitting near the fire for too long where Gi had been hard at work wrapping clusters of twenty-seven petals and leaves of a plant responsible for encouraging a person’s creativity and inspiration. 

It’s the pollen talking, you all reason amongst yourselves.

You and Commander Wolffe part ways for a short time, Plo Koon begging for your forgiveness as he explained (a little vaguely) that Wolffe was needed for something Dara had remembered, something they had forgotten to do around the ceremonial welcoming fire. After you had finished your portion of the hash-sah and cleaned your hands best you’d been able of the juices, someone had been by with more trinkets for the battalion to take with them if they wished. Leather bracelets of sorts with three beads of hammered copper, meant to be worn on the dominant arm. 

That’s when Dara remembered there was something special that was meant to be offered. It’s nothing Wolffe or the Jedi have to take, but as a culture that values their generosity, she and the rest of the elders feel it’s important to at least show it. Best guess anyone has is it’s likely some kind of clothing unique to the planet. Maybe art. 

“It would be impolite to refuse without seeing it first, General.” Wolffe agrees with the Kel Dor after briefly conferring with Kwill for the best course of action. He promises to come find you later. If it’s permitted by the elders, he’ll have Kwill take images of the offering in the event it’s something they feel they can’t (or won’t) take, so you can see it. 

“Don’t worry about me.” you promise, feeling safe between his DeeCee in your belt, and the familiarity in the company of his brothers. Though you are a lamb among so many wolves as a civilian, you couldn’t be safer. “I’ll find something to pass the time, General.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Arcadia.” Plo Koon replies kindly, dipping his head into a respectful bow of thanks. 

You’re not sure if it’s a Jedi thing, or a him thing, but you find yourself mirroring the motion this time. Respect earned, respect returned. 

He and Commander Wolffe shouldn’t be gone terribly long with the elders, so you decide to stay relatively close to where he’d departed from you just for now. Your head feels a little clearer than before, distanced from the incense where those stirring feelings had distracted you before. 

Twilight troubles, named for the harm they can do, could be simultaneously helpful. Funny how there’s so many things like that in this galaxy: good things, even good people, with intimidating names.

You’ve met a few troopers with hard, edgy names, their hearts softer than tooka fur. There’d been no bristle or frigid shoulders from men named Bane or Dukes or even a Bonesaw like your co-workers had warned you to steer clear of, what feels very long ago now, when you were very new to the job. They���d been the ones to help you navigate the durasteel halls while you learned where to go, what your duties were, your first few days. There’d been a Scuffle, too, who helped you, even at great inconvenience to himself. (Curiously, his armor bore some paint in sap green. Had he been transferred from a different unit?) Each had called you a rookie, but it was more of a casual, almost affectionate sort of thing, when they offered you their help. 

Here, sir, helped your lost rookie find their way. Got a little turned around in the halls. (Hey. Don’t worry, Arcadia, you’ll learn your way around in no time.)

Clones look so similar at first glance, a sea of sameness and uniformity. But you know better. These brave men are not wholly made of justs and sameness - a Clone who’s been invited to try his hand at throwing at a foot-pedal pottery wheel may have the same fingerprints as a million other brothers, just another Clone made in the after-image of a dead warrior, but his mark in this galaxy is unique because he is the one who put it there as the iron-rich clay squishes between his fingers in his first attempt. He laughs it off as the Chossi woman showing him how to throw encourages him to try again. 

“Well that’s certainly one way to get a feel for the clay!”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” she chuckles while she helps him start again. 

Trying again, he makes a concentrated effort not to immediately squish and squelch the red earth-matter, experimentally scooping into the mound she’s made to try pulling it outwards, like she showed him. Clones are remarkably fast learners, no matter if the result is a bit messy. Specks of clay plip against his stark white armor after he adds a bit too much water, distracted by Sergeant Boost joining the crowd of on-lookers. 

“Waiting here for the Commander, Arcadia?”

Answering somewhat to the affirmative, you tell him you’re mostly just looking around. “Just watching Lasher at the wheel for now, really.” Lasher’s having a good time, and watching the veteran ceramics at work is kinda mesmerizing. 

While you’re distracted, Sinker sweeps up Orchid, Tack and Soapsuds behind you, urging them to be silent. You’re none the wiser.

“Thinking you might add pottery to your list of talents?” Boost asks, teasing lightly. 

You roll your eyes, a sarcastic lilt in your voice. “Yeah sure, if I can find somewhere to squeeze it in between all the poetry and painting and woodworking and a thousand other things I’ve ever wanted to try my hands at with my precious free time since I’m just swimming in credits.”

“Hah,” Boost laughs, bobbing his head both knowingly and sympathetically, “Probably a good thing Clones don’t exactly come by much in the way of credits. There’d be too many half-used hobby kits lying around the cruiser.” 

While you’re asking him where Clones do get the credits for things like the popular Clone bar on Coruscant, Sinker is trying to persuade one of his brothers to do something for him to little success. “Please? It can’t be me or Boost.” It needs to be one of the younger brothers of the battalion who does this. He’ll sweeten the pot if need be, if it convinces them. “A dirty holomag. Round of drinks at 79’s. We won’t make you clean the gunships. Something.” 

“You had me at dirty holomag.” Orchid answers, grinning as he gleefully rubs his hands together. “What do you need me to do?”

Sithspit he didn’t actually have one on hand back at the cruiser, but he knows how to get one. That's a problem for later. “Listen carefully, when the Commander gets back-” Sinker begins, casting a careful look over his shoulder to make sure Boost still had you properly distracted. The two of you are making idle chatter, still. Sounds like Boost has you talking about potentially going back to the gathering fire with him later, where the inviting blaze would keep you warm in spite of the night’s chill. Just in case Commander Wolffe ends up being a while. 

You’re hemming and hawing about it, admitting you’re not sure just yet, but it’s kind of him to offer in the spirit of the oft-shared sentiment from the inhabitants of Little Archossi the Jedi, Clones and you are the humble guests of tonight. 

More friends the merrier. All are welcome under our shared skies. 

“Sure, no problem Arcadia,” Sergeant Boost says agreeably, “Night looks promising to have a lot of excitement still, so I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to - oh, I dunno - step back for a bit and find somewhere quiet. It is pretty late.”

Or, early, rather. It had been well past 1:00 when last you looked at a chronometer, putting you an hour into a new day. It’s probably 2 or even 3:00 am by now. It could be another three hours before dawn, give or take. You’re definitely not getting any sleep tonight, but you may at least need to rest. (You may need a lot of caf to get through the day when you get back to the cruiser.)

There’s a tree not far from here that seems a little more isolated at the edge of the settlement, Boost pointing it out to you when you say you think it might be a good idea, so it may be a good place to rest and work on another of your sketches if you want. 

“Thanks Boost. I think I might.”

From here, the activity and chatter of the settlement has fallen away into a comfortable lull of background noise, punctuated with hearty laughter and dramatic sound effects used by the troopers to spice up their storytelling. In the cold glow of the moon, you could once more study the artwork Wolffe had made of you while you twirled one of the coloring pencils in your hand absentmindedly. 

Color it however you like. 

Trouble is, you keep changing your mind, or run into complications. First you thought about choosing your favorite color, but the end of the pencil was too dull and you couldn’t find a sharpener among your things to remedy that. (How did you not have a sharpener?) Then you thought about coloring yourself in maroon too, the end still plenty sharp, but putting yourself in such a significant color to the history of the battalion felt… strange. Like maybe you felt you weren’t worthy of it. You’ve gone through a few more colors in your bag, putting away one and pulling out another, but you can never seem to bring yourself to put the pencil to paper. 

A rhythmic sound coming from the community, like the beating of a heart, pauses your skylane of thought for a moment. Growing louder, closer, you realize its two sets of boots tromping down the path, one heavy and deliberate to combat the other’s backpedaling. 

“Orchid, what is the meaning of this?!” Commander Wolffe demands at last, realizing his brother isn’t going to stop for anything, not even the threat of refresher and gunship duty. His brother only marches him further and further through the dark pathway where the crowns of the trees keep all the light for themselves. A datapad clipped to his hip rapidly knocks against the plastoid at the pace they’re going. “Let me go, or tell me what’s going on!” 

“Respectfully, Commander,” Orchid begins in a voice that leaves no room for interruption, “it’s time for you to stop circling the gunships and get to the hangar already!” He gives Commander Wolffe a firm shove from behind, sending the man a half-step forward into your small circle of light with a mischievous cackle. “Don’t worry about the rest of the battalion for the night, we’ve got it covered with the General!”

It’s now coming together for Wolffe, piece by piece. “... Boost and Sinker put you up to this, didn’t they?”

“Not quite, Commander. But they know I’ve got just enough younger brother privileges to still get away with this.” Orchid replies with a shit-eating grin, pleased with himself. 

“I’m putting all three of you-”

“Yeah, we’ve got it covered Commander! Have fun!” Orchid calls back over his shoulder as he retreats into the boundaries of the Chossi community. “Elder Row says don’t go any farther than the fifth cairn stack!”

Have fun? Fifth cairn stack?

Gulping back some nervousness, you apologize to the commander. “I’m so sorry that they’re… Well, I don’t even know what. I’m just as much in the dark as you, actually.” You’re not sure what Sinker or Boost had planned, or how exactly Orchid got involved in it, but you’re positive it’s giving Wolffe a headache. “I… might have a theory though.”

“... what?” Wolffe dares to ask, hesitant. 

“Sergeant Sinker told me earlier that I… s-seem to be having better luck than them when it comes to encouraging you to relax, so it’s… part of the reason I keep offering to keep you company.”

He stares at you in silence, contemplating perhaps, but it’s more likely that he’s working up something to say. 

Instead he sighs. “Hmm.” 

Putting your things to the side, you climb to your feet and dust off the seat of your pants, unsure if you should approach him when he’s currently clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. It doesn’t seem to be a completely conscious action as he finally drops his gaze and sighs once more. 

“Damn him.” comes the bitter grumble, a regretful expression cracking the commander’s stoic shell. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have started to lose my temper with-” Swallowing back the rest of the sentence with some difficulty, Wolffe looks at his feet instead, registering just how far he is from the settlement now, too. Sometimes, he finds himself forgetting just how strong the youngest troopers are. 

He’s been in this war for so long now, it feels, that trying to remember his own days fresh off Kamino proves a struggle. He used to be one of the four marshal commanders of the Grand Army, but the man you’ve gotten to know today is just a commander now. 

Wolffe notices something below his left boot just as you find your voice. 

“Wolffe? Are you okay?”

Your concern is touching. “I’m fine now, Arcadia.” he promises, pulling back his foot as he stoops to see what it is. Ah. Must have stepped on one of the Dinocaeruleus anthos after Orchid pushed him. (Anger and annoyance has been replaced with pride for that little pain in the ass.) He plucks the terrible blue flower with smashed petals from its home in the soil, looking regretful. Sorry little thing. He hadn't meant to trod over it. 

“What did Gi say these were called again?” he asks you, thinking to tuck the ruined blossom in his utility belt until he can find Tack. (Maybe even a ruined specimen can serve the researcher, in some way, he hopes.)

“Twilight troubles.” you answer, your voice softer than the gentle breeze. 

His head dips with a thoughtful nod as he plucks the neighboring, uncrushed flower too, “... come here.” Commander Wolffe requests in that golden tone that sends shivers down your spine. Close enough for his liking, Wolffe finds some buttonhole in your uniform to thread the stem through, adorning you with further tokens. “A little more color to catch the moonlight.” 

The stitched, gray wolf head with thread in your favorite color for the eyes was the only addition that graced your uniform just this morning. Now, there was the long leather cord of three copper beads wrapped around your wrist, and the Dinocaeruleus anthos - a delicate and beautiful galaxy when kissed by the rays of the moon - in the buttonhole to your breast pocket. 

“There,” Wolffe says decidedly, “think suits you rather well, Arcadia.” There’s a glimmer of moonlight reflected in the surface of his cybernetic eye, the cold and delicate beauty of it serves for a lure. You’re staring, and he can tell. 

He turns his face from you, eyes growing half-lidded. “Looks strange in the moonlight, doesn’t it?” The murmur is bashful, or perhaps more accurately, more self-conscious. Funny, you’ve never believed Commander Wolffe to be in any way conscious of his appearance like this in all the time you’ve been aboard the Triumphant. Never for a moment would you have pegged him to harbor insecurities, until today and all the many opportunities he has left himself vulnerable under your sight. 

Been permitted to know him better.

He’s allowed himself to be pulled apart, scrutinized and examined all so you can continually paint him with your praises, making your promises that you see him for the whole of the man he is. Beyond the flint. Beyond the designation number. Beyond his status as a commander, or simply just yet another rain-soaked son of Kamino. To you he is not Kaminoan or even Republic property, a mere product ten years in the making, a culmination of what a good, dutiful soldier was imagined to be and nothing further. No. You’ve witnessed too much today to pretend otherwise. 

He’s so much more.

“No. Strange isn’t the word I’d use.” you reply with a somber edge in your voice, “It’s… brighter in the moonlight. Like… like it becomes a beacon of light. Or a moon of its own.”

Instance after instance, you continue to impress Wolffe. Stump him repeatedly. Just when he thinks you can’t possibly offer yet more worshiping words, you conjure more. You’ve never seen him painted in the aching pains of rage that come in the heat of battle, but your tongue lifts only in reverence when you speak of his once-maroon paint and the phase one helmet. You’ve witnessed the hands that comforted and guided his brothers today, the very same hands that show a readiness in drawing his weapon today or any other day; never once did you shy away from such displays. You looked on in awe, instead. Or fear, not for yourself, but for him. 

He hums low in his throat. “Sounds like pollen-talk.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s not. But would you believe me no less if it was, Wolffe?”

“‘Sounds like’ is not the same thing as ‘that is’, Arcadia.” the commander informs you, clarifying his meaning with a soft voice like hissing cinders. “But I never meant to imply I did not believe you…” Of course he believes you. You’ve proven your respect for him today, instance after repeated instance. 

It’s time he showed you more of the same respect in kind. You’ve been… so selfless, and kind, in giving him your time today. You could have told him to fuck off when he got in the way of the tree you’d been drawing, and you didn’t. You didn’t have to keep him company when Plo Koon had gone scouting, but you had. And you chose to remain behind when the rest of the crew left. How better can he repay all of that than to be honest with you?

Hoping he comes across in earnest, he meets your eye. “I would still believe you, even if it was from the flowers, because it’s you talking.” Wolffe promises. 

Now alone, fully isolated from his brothers rather than surrounded on all sides like so much of today, both you and the commander grow bolder, speaking freer than when you find yourself in the midst of the wolves. “Earlier: what was it that Waves said?” you ask, setting your things down now that you’re out of visual range of the battalion. 

Steeling himself with a long draught of his canteen first, Wolffe does not immediately meet your eye. He had taken you a little further away from the edge of the settlement, fearing his brothers would repeatedly come to gawk at the pair of you. What he says next, paired with the location, should be cautious. He’s aware of what it looks like. 

“Orchid seemed - seems…? - to think you'll have my privates standing at attention before morning, as a way to get me to relax, the next time we were alone.” 

It's exactly as you suspected, a sexual innuendo.

Both you and the commander break eye contact with the other at the same time. Yeah. You know exactly what the 104th will think when they learn that you two snuck off alone, staying within the boundaries of the third and fourth cairns - rock formations a whole head taller than Wolffe - in order to get a little alone time. 

“Permission to turn him into flower food, sir?” you request half-sarcastically with a deep groan, face in your hands. Did Orchid get that idea from his choice of reading material? Was the clever if crude play on words involving military rank and one's genitalia something he found on the Holonet? You and the commander… you barely know each other, let alone-! “Fucking hell… I think I’m gonna kill him.”

“He’ll wish you had after a week of fresher duty,” Wolffe says with a mild laugh, now offering you the canteen. “But I’m afraid the general and I need that little pain in the ass in one piece.” 

You chuckle. “Spoil-sport…” With not much in the canteen, you take a small drink with the intention of conserving some for later. The rest of the water was for you, he had said. You thank him after setting the canteen beside your bag, where you once more pull out your sketchbook as well as the second datapad you had offered to carry. When Orchid had shoved the flint-gray commander, the force combined with the weight of the datapad had compromised the clip holding it to Wolffe’s belt. At least that was going to be an easy part to replace. 

“So before I forget… what did Solladara want to show you and General Plo?”

Finding the pictures, Wolffe shows you the items, “Artwork of the clearing, where they found us. And… this.” It looks like it’s supposed to be some kind of shirt, but the material is surprisingly transparent. “You can understand why we accepted only the artwork, I’m sure.” Wolffe adds, shaking his head with a soft laugh as your eyes roam the image, trying to picture him in it while he mentions he’s going to try to get a small fire going to stave off the chill of the night. There’s a shallow pit, kindling and firewood that you can use here already, to your good fortune.

“I’m almost tempted to draw you again, wearing that Chossi attire that was offered to you this time.” you admit with a splitting smile, twirling the 2-besh pencil in your hand teasingly as you continue to study the image.  

You’re not really going to draw him in it, knowing that it’d leave very little to the imagination with a body type like the commander’s. He’s not slender in the same way the peoples of Little Archossi are, certainly much broader, and with well-defined muscle… Well. 

There was no way such a thing would be appropriate to wear anywhere other than the privacy of his own quarters. You’ll end up making the man look like a pin-up model in a state of semi-undress.

Wolffe clears his throat meaningfully. “You really should rest your wrist. I think you’ve drawn enough for the night, Arcadia.” Stretching out his hand, he silently beckons for the sketchbook to be turned over to him once he’s gotten the fire going. 

“Seriously?” You’re less than impressed with him for the moment, and it shows. You want to be touched that he’s concerned about your comfort, but him acting like a parent or other figure of guardianship in your life taking something away because you’ll misbehave with it in your possession is not the way to go about it. “I think I’m capable of showing some restraint on my own, thanks.”

Wolffe gives an unpleasant twitch when he realizes how this looks. How he believes he’s offended you. “I didn’t mean to imply that- Yes of course you are, Arcadia, you’ve proven that. I only wanted to ask to see it for a moment. I’m sorry.”

Oh. 

Oh Maker. Talk about a total overreaction when you don’t have all the facts. 

You hand him the spiral bound, eyes turned away. “I’m sorry. For assuming, and overreacting like that. I shouldn’t have.” The apology comes out in a strained voice, far more choked than you’d like. There are a million half-formed thoughts racing over your tongue right now that will never make it past your lips. You do not trust any single one will be coherent when it’s clarity you feel he deserves. “I think… I think after being around all this creativity-boosting pollen today it kind of just left me… wondering where all the thoughts begin and end.”

“Do you think you need a minute?”

“Yes…” you admit slowly. Wolffe starts to climb to his feet and panic begins to bubble up in your chest. “B-but I’d like you to stay! I’m not asking you to leave.” You don’t want him to leave, because you don’t know when he’ll come back, or if you feel this is worth potentially troubling a medic over. 

He listens, and he stays. The distance between you however, has changed. Wolffe’s put himself much closer to you now. Previously at arm’s length, he’s now close enough to lean against. He has the sketchbook in his hands, flipped open to that page of you in uncolored armor, but it’s you that he studies. In his quiet observance, Wolffe’s expression changes several times in the fluttering firelight, each change gradual and small. Softening brow. Pursing lips. Eyes full and fixed. 

“You’re a hard man to read sometimes, Commander Wolffe.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it, or how he’ll take it after what just happened, but maybe he’ll appreciate knowing what’s on your mind. “I think it makes me nervous. Sometimes.”

You know he doesn’t mean to. But you can’t help the way you feel either.

“I don’t doubt that, Arcadia.” 

He’s sorry that he makes you nervous, as well, Wolffe adds. Of course it isn’t his intention. Of course he understands that feeling this way can’t be helped sometimes either. He’s familiar with that feeling and its cousins. Nervousness and dread. You’ve seen enough proof of it today. The pacing. Safety drills. Lecturing Suds. Arguing with his sergeants. Throwing himself over you to keep you safe. 

Without hesitation. Like you were one of his own brothers… 

“Hey, um-” you start, glancing over at your sketchbook, “H-how’d you draw me so quickly? Can’t just have been ‘inspiration’.” It’s not the question you want to ask first when you disturb the curtain of silence, but it’ll serve as a good starting block.

Commander Wolffe gives you a small, guarded smile. “The idea is to be quick when you’re drawing outdoors, is it not? That’s what you said to me this morning.”

Oh the utter cheek in that reply - whether it was intended or coincidental - could drive someone wild were there not so many questions on your mind. And there’s just so much. 

“Force, I… I almost forgot I’d said that, in all honesty.” you admit a bit numbly, staring ahead into the dark sea of foliage. “You- Well no, you remembering that would make sense. I guess I should be more surprised by how much detail you captured in so short a time.” 

Muttering something to himself in thought, he repeats the word detail several times before coming to an important decision. 

Commander Wolffe's hand darts into the low fire pit, snatching out a charred hunk of wood. As you're wondering what the hell's gotten into him, if he's burned his hand through the gloves, he takes the art book in his opposite hand and flips it to his sketch of you. Sort of tickling the page with one end of the charred wood, Wolffe is carefully smearing the appropriate areas of the armor with ashes, blowing away the excess once he's done. 

“That takes care of gray missing from all of the coloring pencils.” He nods once, stiffly, satisfied with his ingenuity. “Now you truly look the part.” 

Look the part? But you're just drawn in Clone armor and colored in gray, just like the 104th battalion. What's so special about-?

Oh, Force. Oh galaxy and all her stars…

Commander Wolffe means you look like the rest of the one-oh-fourth, that you fit in. 

“Are you saying that…?” 

Osk-nern-esk

The eyebrow above his cybernetic eye lifts just so, nearly missed in the flickering firelight. “Use your words, Arcadia.” he teases. 

Osk-forn

“A-are you saying that I’m… b-but I'm just part of the crew!” you insist, certain that he's not serious about this. He can't truly mean what he's been writing, word by word beneath the first mantra. 

Trill-hesh-esk

“But you are, Arcadia. You're one of us.” Wolffe promises, voice low and reverent. “The 104th would not be the same without you. Not after what I've seen… felt today.” 

Wesk-osk-leth-vev-esk-senth

ONE OF THE WOLVES.

Whether they were still the magnificent maroons of the past, or the grizzled grays of today, you have been added among the names - the number perhaps thousands or more - of his brothers that he will forever carry in his beating heart, forevermore his wolves. This is a silent oath that when he fights for the glory of the Republic and the downfall of the Separatists, he’s doing so for his general, for his brothers, and for you.

For good measure, Wolffe scribbles down his rank and name, bringing the end to the work on his magnum opus with a signature. It's only fitting. Here, at this private fireside, he lays his heart and intentions bare to you. “I’m probably about as poetic as a gargled mouthful of Aurebesh soup, but Arcadia… while I know you well enough to consider you one of the Wolfpack, I'd… I'd like to ask if you'd be opposed to getting to know you better. As new friends do, first, perhaps, or…”

You blink once, maybe five times before finding your voice. Friends. In his own way, he confirmed you were friends. “I wouldn't be opposed at all… I-I’d be happy to, even.” 

You're nearly breathless, heart racing a thousand kilometers an hour, just short of warp speed. 

Does the slight stress to “or” mean he's grappling with other feelings about you on his mind, like you do for him? The love versus limerence? 

“As friends is a… good place to start.” you offer additionally, matching that tender, relieved smile he shows you. 

“Have to start somewhere, Arcadia,” the Commander replies plainly, trying to appeal to his and your own sense of logic perhaps. “Just to make certain of any… feelings.” 

Taking you under his arm, against his side, Wolffe is content with waiting out the remainder of the night under the curtain of stars for the sky to lighten and give way to another glorious, golden dawn. The 104th will depart for the Triumphant at daybreak, and the war efforts will resume as normal. You just hope Plo Koon cooks up a satisfactory excuse in the event someone asks him what happened today. (Or, technically yesterday. (What time is it?)) For all you know, nobody will ever ask or care to know, or it'll be decided what happened on Little Archossi is by-and-large an unspoken secret. 

Which would kind of be a shame. 

It'd be terrible to keep the day you became friends with the flint-gray Commander under wraps, never get to explain the truth behind him coated in maroon while you're in gray in the pages of your sketchbook. Never be able to explain the full context of meeting the Chossi, or what they've taught everyone. 

Or how, murmured under his breath into the shell of your ear after the stars begin melting into the backdrop at long last, Commander Wolffe admits that perhaps for once, he's never been more relaxed since the start of the war.

That's a wrap! Thank you so much to everyone who read this series; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this.🩷If you would like to be join my taglist for future fics, the form can be found here.

Tag list: @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636 @dukeoftheblackstar

[Masterlist]

[Early Morning] [Midday] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Deep Night]

[Golden Dawn part 1] [Finished!]

[fandom-friday]

Hey Karrde, Happy Fandom Friday 🥰!

I want to submit the series by @frostycatblr-fandom-files Poets and Painters a Mature Wolffe x GN!Reader series!

I've been really enjoying each chapter and I really like the quiet moments with Wolffe and I really love the clone OCs antics 😂

If there's one thing Wolffe deserves, it's some peace and quiet after EVERYTHING he's been through, and I love that this fic gives him that. Also, you know me. I'll never stop shouting about other people's clone OCs. I'm collecting them like Pokemon cards at this point. I love seeing this series get recommended. Thanks so much for sending it in!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

[melvinthedepressedrobot]

Some more members of my pirate crew commissioned from @bubblyernie; Ruddy Nick, Soapsud and Badger Stripe

[soapy-soartp]

“…what?”

Was whispered in disbelief, the voice choked and quiet.

“I said, you're good. You've been good this whole time…”

A sigh. Of frustration? Pity? Something else entirely?

“You never needed to prove yourself, you’ve always done enough, and they have no reason to hate you-“

Soft doe eyes look down upon someone then,

“They don't need reason…” was hissed through clenched teeth, a quivering body, hands balled into fists

Angry?

Scared?

Confused?

Overwhelmed?

Thrilled?

“You dont know what the future holds, you can make mistakes but take accountability for them, you can afford to do fun thing, live your life. It’s the only one you’ll have as far as youre aware at least” Calmly stated like they were simple everyday facts everyone would know

The taste of salt falls from two eyes

“The world can be horrible, but you're not responsible to subject yourself to that information, try to stay as well informed but keep yourself safe and be open minded, respectful, and emphatic.” Said simply

A soft hand caresses a face, wipes away tears

“I hear you, I see you, and I’ve always thought you were the most comforting person of all, it’s wonderful and my pleasure to have met you”

A smile, genuine and true.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, yandere, stepcest

fem reader

Creep Step-bro – who steals the keys to your shared bathroom on account that you use too much time in there. He’ll barge in when you’re in the shower in the mornings to take a piss even though you squeal at him to get out. You’ll turn around to hide, still needing to wash out the shampoo from your hair, annoyed “ughs” and curse words leaving you – and he’ll sneak a snide look, watching the soapsuds and water run over the plump of your ass, glossy skin, perfect curve, down between your thighs and legs.

When you grab the towel, you sneer at him, “asshole,” before stomping out. He’ll shrug his shoulders, brushing his teeth with jaded eyes – casually pushing his hips forward against the sink, acting like he doesn’t have a boner he plans on rubbing out to the pretty picture of your wet naked body along with that cute scowl on your face.

You’re practically begging for it walking about the house in those little pajama shorts – so tiny he can see the crease of your cheek, so tight he can see the puffy outline of your cunt. Not to mention the loose tank top you wear with it. Sometimes without a bra on. The round of your soft titties going jump on every step you take.

Of course, he’s going to use any excuse to brush up against you. Coming behind you when you stand in the kitchen – prepping snacks for you and the gaggle of girlfriends held up in your room. He’ll push his crotch against the fat of your ass, pretending to reach for a bowl in the cupboard above you, and you’ll whine out something like “ew, gross, personal space-” but he’ll only savor the struggle even more – only raising his brow at you when you turn around with a strict pointer pressed up beneath his chin, telling him with a frown how he better not perv on any of your friends.

Shit- you’re so clueless…

Clueless as to how he robs your panties from the laundry bin and fucks the silky lace until they fray from his rough handlings – how he winds it so tight it strangles his cock, scrunching his face while imagining it’s your tight pussy before he blows his messy load into the dainty thing – loving the thought of you cluelessly walking around in them. 

Sure, it’s been washed since then, but still… 

JJK – Toji, Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Mahito, Choso, Yuta

BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso, Shoto, Kirishima, Denki

BLLK - Reo

AOT – Eren

CSM – Denji

HQ - Kuro, Kageyama, both Miya twins, Suna, Tendou

[unholyhelbig]

i would love a one shot of nat interacting w ronnie! maybe r is caught up doing a job for nat and nat has to pick ronnie up from school and domesticity w r ensues?

Title: The Carpool Lane [an Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: You get caught up while running an errand for Natasha and aren't able to pick your daughter up from school. You ask Natasha to do it and she has to grapple with some big feelings.

[a/n: Hello! I promise you all that the last official chapter of the Oversight is going to be posted soon. It is a very heavy one so here is some fluff in the meantime! Also, I'm opening my requests again, so feel free to send some my way.]

Warnings: None that I can think of other than horrible grammar, but please let me know if I need to add any!

Check out the full Oversight universe

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven]

The air in the home office had become sticky and cloying. It often did when the sun decided to shine as strongly as it did. Natasha kept her books clean and clear of dust but often times there was only so much she could do. Large particles floated in the crossfire of a golden glow. It almost pained her to wrench the window open and disrupt the flow.

It was difficult for Natasha to keep focus when she could hear the sounds from outside and feel the soft breeze on her skin. She was often known for her dedication, for her focus and her ruthlessness. But on afternoons, she was stuck doing mountains of paperwork when she’d much rather be doing you.

Natasha often drifted into hazed memories of the whimpers that escaped you, your breathless swears interlaced with the intoxicating way you moaned her name. She liked teasing you until you begged for her, until you needed her more than you needed breath, until you arched your back and cried into the thousand thread count sheets.

Of course, her favorite thing was to bring you to the very edge with her just her delicate touch and her sultry words. You’d come undone underneath her, coated in sweat and ready to please as an orgasm rocked through- an annoying ringtone.

Natasha had shoved her phone into the bottom drawer of her desk to gain some focus. It clearly wasn’t working. Her nails scratched across the rich oak of the desks surface before she pawed around.

Yelena had set her ringtone to the loudest, most obnoxious blowhorn she could find. She claimed that Natasha was losing her touch and often couldn’t hear anything past her own thoughts. And so, what if that was the case? Natasha quite liked her thoughts lately.

“Romanoff,” She drawled, voice dripping with annoyance.

“Hi,”

It took one breathless word from you and everything else was forgotten. There was worry in that single syllable and it made Natasha’s world spin for only a second before she got her bearings. She could do this. She was in charge.

“Tell me where you are.”

“You know where I am, you sent me here yourself.” You chuckled in a low whisper. Natasha had sent you to collect rent from your usual charges. She knew your pattern and could hear the low hum of the row of washing machines behind you.

While she prided herself on her ability to train you into the perfect protector with a quick hand a vicious tongue, she wouldn’t dare change a thing about your soft spots. You had particular one for the family that rented the apartment above the Soapsuds laundry mat and ran it seamlessly.

It was nearly impossible for you to say no to the elderly woman that took up residence with her son. She’d make you tea and you’d indulge in cookies as she regaled you with her charming stories from the 40’s.

“She’s a trained killer, ma, she doesn’t have time for this!”

Natasha heard the son’s accented voice muffle it’s way through the phone. She scoffed, and switched her phone to her other ear. You must have put your palm over the receiver because you were garbled too.

“I absolutely have time for this Miss Vazquez.” You returned to your conversation, voice whispered once more. “I don’t have time for this, Nat. I don’t want to break her frail heart. Could you possibly… pick Ronnie up from school?”

Natasha had been rendered silent, which wasn’t a feat that was often achieved in a shocking manner. Usually, if a Romanoff was quiet, they were busy calculating and it was better to avoid the storm brewing behind their eyes. This wasn’t the same kind of soundlessness.

She had to pick her jaw off the floor. Veronica was your entire life, and though Natasha came in for a close second, you would do absolutely anything for that child. You’d walk through fire, and it was testament to your growing trust with Natasha, having her pick your daughter up from school.

“Nat, baby” your voice came through the phone “did I lose you? If it’s too much I can get Darcy to take a later lunch. It’s not a problem at all. I shouldn’t have asked, you’re a busy woman and-“

“I’d love to.”

“Huh?”

“I can pick her up, y/n, really.”

Her palms started to sweat, and Natasha never sweated. She stood up and started to pace the length of her office, entering and exiting the large stream of light that vented in through the window. She listened carefully as you told her word for word how to enter the car line, and what mothers to avoid entirely.

“I’ll call ahead, let them know you’re safe to pick up Ronnie. Thank you for doing this, Natty. I appreciate it.”

She smiled, biting her thumbnail. She stopped at the window and peered out at the newly installed swing set at the edge of the property. So many little things had changed in Natasha’s life over the last year. There were children’s books strewn over the tables and art supplies that Ronnie loved to draw with. This was an extra step. This was the extra step that made her fingers itch for the ring hidden in the false bottom of her desk.

“Darling! Would you like to hear about the night I had with Robert Kennedy?”

“I would love to, Miss Vazquez!” You called back, lowering your voice once more. “I love you, I’ll see you at home. Dinner is on me.”

You had hung up the phone a few moments ago but Natasha kept it against her face for a few moments as if it were an anchor. She had to pick up Ronnie. She had to pick up Ronnie. Natasha was on her feet now, searching the large living room and foyer, and even the nightstands by her bed before she grasped at her keys and sprinted out the door.

Veronia was a girl of very little words, but she was comfortable enough around Natasha to curl into her side during movie nights, little fist clenching onto the fabric of her shirt. Most of the time, she’d fall asleep before the end of the film and Natasha would stare affectionately as you scooped her up and took her to her room.

Now, Natasha sat in the parking lot of the school with blood rushing past her ears. Somehow, the gaggle of mothers that lingered by the release doors were scarier than anything she had ever faced before.

She’d been shot at least four times and had survived them all. She had pulled the trigger herself more times than she could count, but all of curious eyes landing on her sleek black car made her nearly sweat through her t-shirt.

Natasha stalled as long as she could before taking the tentative steps across the asphalt lot. There was a small patch of green grass that seemed to be overwatered if it still held its vibrant color during a late heated day.

Her sunglasses were down over her eyes and she feigned looking at her phone, though she eyed each and every parent that lingered. They were openly staring at her, and she heard a few hushed whispers, absolutely no attempt to muffle their judgements.

“Don’t pay them any mind.”

Natasha startled, not noticing the woman that had sidled up next to her. Her skin was pale, her hair a pitch-black color that must have heated her up on a day like this. She stuck her hand out and Natasha took it carefully, shaking it. “Jessica Jones.”

“Natasha Y/L/N,”

The woman was apprehensive to use her own last name. While she kept a mostly low profile, there were still some people who would clock the name as something familiar. The last thing she needed was someone targeting you, or God-forbid, Ronnie. The words fit perfectly into her mouth like a sweet candy.

“I’ve never seen you around here before, and apparently neither have the vultures with the way they’re circling.”

She couldn’t help but smile “I’m… new. My partner got a little tied up at work and asked me to pick up her daughter.”

“Ah, so you’re that Natasha.” She must have flushed awkwardly, nervously, because Jessica seemed to backtrack. “Nothing bad. There are moms like the women over there who put their entire being into making everything perfectly beige. Then there are moms like y/n and I. Imperfect.”

Natasha’s eyebrows lifted. Each woman that flocked towards the front of the glass doors, waiting excitedly for their children to spill out did have the same look about them. They all wore leggings and different colored pastel shirts. Each one had the same highlights and haircuts, and apprehensive stares.

“We’re out here a lot together, and it was pretty obvious when things started to change for her. With you around, the smile actually reaches her eyes you know?”

The statement warmed Natasha greatly and made the box in her desk weigh heavier on her mind. Of course, she didn’t want to think too much about it, but she also wanted to make sure that you were happy, something you reassured her of over and over again.

Natasha opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the barrage of tiny feet on the sidewalks and grass. There was a sea of runny noses and crinkled papers slathered in different primary colors.

A small boy with dark ringlets of hair crashed into Jessica’s legs clumsily and she let out a large huff of air in response, scooping him up into her arms. He had the most startling blue eyes like his mother and gave Natasha a gap-toothed-goofy smile.

Natasha was searching the crowd for your daughter. It wasn’t like she would call out, that was much too vocal for her and Natasha didn’t blame the girl in the slightest. Through the sea of kids, her eyes locked on Ronnie’s and she gave her an encouraging smile and a small wave.

Veronica’s expression lit up as she dashed the few feet that was separating them. Natasha had the foresight to lean down enough to dampen the impact of her hug. It was quite the rare occasion to be embraced by her, so she savored the spring scent of her.

“Your mama got caught up at work and asked me to pick you up.” Natasha explained, leaning back on her heel, she brushed a strand of hair behind Ronnie’s ear. “What’s that?”

Natasha gently pointed to the picture that was in Veronica’s hand. Her chest welled with pride at the drawing and she would say that it was miles better than any other kid she saw run out with their artwork. Yelena had been right; Ronnie had a beautiful gift that Natasha would pour everything into for as long as she wanted to call it her craft.

This particular scene was a rendition of the large house, too big to fit within the confines of the paper. There was six figures that vaguely resembled each person Natasha knew and loved. A clear grouping had been established.

Kate was smeared in a purple color with dark locks of hair.

Yelena had been drawn next to her, hand and hand.

Clint stood close to them- but not too close- with his signature deep look.

What called to Natasha the most was how Ronnie had grouped her. There was a figure by the edge of the page that was clearly you, down to a tea, and a shorter figure right next to you that was unmistakably Ronnie. The two figures held hands; and on the other side, with her signature deep auburn hair and green eyes, stood Natasha. Her fingers were wrapped around Ronnie’s in the photo, too smudges of color that made the enforcers heart thrum harder than it ever had before.

“This is beautiful,” Natasha breathed, struggling not to let the water that built up in her eyes drip down her cheeks. That would be weird. It would freak Ronnie out. “I love it.”

“You do?” The girl asked.

“I do. In fact, it’s getting framed and hung up immediately.”

It was rare for Ronnie to speak, but it was a prize each time she did. Just like you, Natasha had begun to understand her body language and everything she said with her eyes. It was something she would grow out of, or maybe she would speak with just her art.

Either way, Natasha read her loud and clear.

It was well past ten pm by the time you had pulled yourself away from the laundry mat. You ended up eating dinner with the family despite your repeated refusal. It was some of the best food you have ever eaten and though you missed the quality time with Natasha, the vodka coating on the pasta would have you reeling for weeks.

The house was mostly dark by the time you returned, and you were careful when you let your keys drop into the dish by the door. A soft golden light streamed down the hallway, leading to the kitchen.

Natasha would often partake in a glass of red wine, a record playing softly in the background. It was her time to unwind, to do the dished from dinner and breathe out the stress of the day. Just like any office job. Sometimes she’d use the time to scrub away blood from under her nails as you waited patiently and took sparing sips from her glass despite denying wanting one of your own.

The sink wasn’t on, and the kitchen was mostly silent save for a faucet drip here and there. Natasha leaned against the counter and stared at the moonlit swing set in the yard. It was bathed in just enough pale light to make out the shapes drifting in the light breeze.

You came up behind her, snaking your arms around her waist and resting your head on her shoulder. She shivered against the coolness of your skin, but hugged you tight against her center with a comforting and raspy hum.

“Thank you for picking up Ronnie today,” you mumbled into the side of her neck, “And getting her to bed. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Natasha turned in your arms and had a bit of a pout to her expression that you weren’t expecting. You lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at her. You wanted to kiss that frown right off her lips. You wanted to lull her into a state of content after the long day you’d had.

Almost timidly, she said “We’re a family. That’s what we do.”

God, how long you’d wanted to hear that. This time, you didn’t hesitate to close to the distance between you both. You kissed her softly; you kissed her with so much love that it left you dizzy.

You’d scared away partners before with the prospect of having a daughter. Most of the time, you wouldn’t’ even bring it up until a third date, when you were close to sure. But even then, you’d be left at the restaurant, or the bowling alley, or the movie theatre by yourself once the words left your mouth.

Nothing about your relationship with Natasha had been conventional, however, and each day she shocked you with her tenderness and care for someone she had no responsibility towards. Just letting you and Ronnie move in had been enough. Parenting her? Loving her? It felt beyond reality.

She chuckled into the kiss, running her fingers down your jaw. “I love you too, detka.”

“Mm, seriously, thank you.”

“Do you want to see something?”

You lifted your eyebrows suggestively and earned a light-hearted smack to the shoulder. She wormed her way out of your embrace and crossed the large kitchen to the fridge. When you’d first moved in, it was blank. There was a single wedding invitation tacked up with a magnet for joining the Murdock and Natchios families in matrimony, but even that had been years old.

Now there was something new.

Something that had unmistakably been crafted by Ronnie. The photo was a beautiful mix of colors and mediums and at the very corner in, in blue crayon, were two words; My Family.

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

[apoemaday]

Vision

by May Thielgaard Watts

Today there have been lovely things I never saw before; sunlight through a jar of marmalade; a blue gate; a rainbow in soapsuds on dishwater; candlelight on butter; the crinkled smile of a little girl who had new shoes with tassels; a chickadee on a thorn-apple; empurpled mud under a willow, where white geese slept; white ruffled curtains sifting moonlight on the scrubbed kitchen floor; the under-side of a white-oak leaf; ruts in the road at sunset; an egg yolk in a blue bowl.

My love kissed my eyes last night.

[moonlightdancer26]

Can you give your take on this? Because for the life of me I can’t comprehend why lily started dating James right after the worst memory.

Like yeah you’re upset and rightfully fair too, but I feel like she sorta had a liking for James way before the whole thing with sev, like she must’ve thought he’s amusing or something, and I kinda feel like severus might have seen it too, but of course that’s just my thinking.

Correction: She didn’t actually date James right after SWM, she began dating him in 7th year, which was around 2 years after SWM occurred. I don’t think she could be that cruel to date James right after he did something that awful to Snape lol.

I do think she was at least attracted to James during SWM, JKR herself has even confirmed that Lils somewhat fancied James during that period (“You’re a woman, you know what I mean!” no.. no I don’t, JKR 🤨). Her behaviour with James in SWM was concerning as hell, her best friend was legitimately on the ground after just having been choked with soapsuds and her first reaction was to not even glance at him and automatically start bickering with James and talking about his broomstick and his “stupid hair.” 💀 like Lily ily but.. wtf are you doing??

But to be fair to Lils, when she dated James, she genuinely thought he had changed and became a better person. She wouldn’t have dated him if he was still bullying Snape and other people, she would’ve still been attracted to him like she was in SWM, but she wouldn’t have actually gone out with him. However, my issue with that is the fact that she was willing to go out with him AFTER she saw that he SA’d and bullied her (at the time) best friend for YEARS. Lames shippers like to say “oh but she and Snape weren’t friends anymore!! She didn’t ‘owe him anything!’” but like.. at the time, Snape was her best friend of 7 years, and James (knowing that they were friends) had no issue blatantly torturing him and publicly exposing him and then blackmailed Lily (not Snape, but Lily herself) into going out with him. This isn’t an issue about Snape or them not being friends anymore or whatever, it’s the fact that James—at least at one point of his life—had literally zero issue hurting the person Lily cared about and blackmailing her and threatening to hex her. The fact that he was even capable of SA, choking someone with soapsuds, immobilising them, relentlessly bullying them for years, all while knowing that they were someone Lily cared about, should have sent her running for the HILLS. All of that is putting aside that he also had no problem blackmailing Lily and then threatening to hex her when she wanted to defend her friend (“?? wtf girl? How dare you try to help out your friend after I just SA’d them and blackmailed you?? You better not make me hex you too 😠”).

And to make things worse…… what did James even do to change?? Stop bullying people?? Wow so incredible of him! That’s definitely going to reverse the damage of the people he did all that shit to! We should all applaud him for doing the absolute bare minimum!! I should definitely look past him assaulting my now-ex-best-friend-but-who-was-still-someone-I-cared-about-and-respected-at-one-point-in-my-life for 6 whole years, even though he never actually apologised to my now-ex-best-friend… which… would’ve been the proof that he actually changed… Oh who cares? I’m definitely going to date him anyway!

Like, I don’t even care if I wasn’t friends with that person anymore, the fact that YOU had no problem assaulting that person and making their life miserable for YEARS even though you know how much I care about them and then trying to force me into going out with you would be enough for me to not want to go out with you. Simply knowing that you were capable of doing such atrocious things to ANY human being is horrifying. That isn’t even regarding that he showed no hard evidence of changing, merely stopping the bullying does nothing to heal the victim of what you put them through. Like, if I went out and killed a bunch of people, and I suddenly decide to stop killing people, does that mean I’m not guilty of murder?

So, I don’t hate Lily, but I’m definitely not fond of her character. All her scenes show her being pretty unpleasant and she ended up marrying JAMES of all people, so yeah I’m definitely not going to think very highly of her intelligence level…

Anyway, that’s my take. I’m sorry for how long this got, but your ask really triggered something in me that’s been waiting to rant about this 💀

[soupskkn]

A long day’s light

comic doodles of @calchexxis ‘s fics!

Twitter | Instagram

[mangekyuou]

can I request some light nsfw hcs with nami, zoro, & sanji ( separately ) where gn!reader pampers their stressed lovers & bathes together with them? :3 & if it's not too much, can this also include pet name usage? ( I.e babe, baby, darling, love, etc ) tysm!

✸  headcanons  %  when you pamper them in the bath.

✸    characters! . . .  nami, zoro & sanji.

✸    cw(s)! . . .  light nsfw. mostly because they’re bathing, nothing really happening. no pronouns used. not proofread. minors dni.

✸    notes! . . .  i tried my best. they were not coming out right i don’t know what happened. tried to fit the pet names in, but that wasn’t working either. i am so sorry. but i hope these are okay. thank you for requesting !!

dealing with the straw hats’ shenanigans every day will definitely take a toll on a person. the amount of stress TRIPLES just by luffy alone

no wonder why nami is so stressed often, and you see it

which is why you decide to surprise her with a bath. not like your usual baths together, no, you went all the way, the whole shebang

the nice lightning, the candles, the oils and bath salts, the bath bomb accompanied by the flower petals, the relaxing meditation music, the matching face masks. it’s like heaven

nami has no problem with letting you take the reins and pamper her, she prefers it. she’d never pass up the chance to be spoiled by you

your touch is soothing to her. feeling the pads of your fingers massaging her shoulders. the feeling of your hands as you lather all over her body and wash away the soapsuds

all the while you’re saying how much you appreciate her, paired with a little teasing

zoro will never tell you when he’s stressed out. he wants to deal with it by himself, even if that means pushing you away

before you he never dealt with his stress in a healthy way. he mostly suppressed how he was feeling and just trained harder

now that you’re around, you’re slowly but surely teaching him to not be so hard on himself and ways to de-stress. bathing with you easily becomes his favorite method

is usually not a bubble bath kind of guy. but he’ll manage just this once

him in the bath, is one of the few times he lets up and isn’t so serious

he lowers his head to let you wash his hair. he could fall asleep peacefully as you scratch his scalp and wash away the suds

he nearly does fall asleep as you massage his sore muscles. you don’t know how he walks around with all these uncomfortable knots

he watches you closely, with nothing but love and admiration. if you notice and wink, he’ll look away blushing

sanji, like zoro, will not tell you when he’s stressed. he wants to be the man you can depend on whenever you need him. even if that means not talking about his own emotions

which you obviously hate and wish he would stop trying to be someone he’s not

when you suggest a bath together, he’s already over the moon. when you tell him you’re going to pamper him, he feels so loved but he wants to take care of you too.

he’ll feel bad for making you do everything unless you assure him that it’s okay and that you want to do this. even though he’ll still pout during your bath

a warm bubble bath, candles and a nice bath tray with two glasses of champagne and fruit for you to share is more than enough for him

by force of habit he’s trying to outdo you with all of his praises. it’ll be the two of you going back and forth on how much you love each other

© MANGEKYUOU.  

[yrluvjane]

| 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 |

Chapter One: The Night it Bled

Warning: Angst, self-hate.

Summary: 8 years after the haunting incident of Lord and Lady Potter on 31st of October 1981, Harry and Jean finally visit their parents, However, Harry's feelings towards the trip are concerning .

Harry and Jean were met with the familiar smell of soaps and cleaners and the triggering scents of — well hospitals; which, ironically, made them feel sick as they walked into St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

They were in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests.

The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises... Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards. Jean noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone, crossed.

They followed through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking like giant soapsuds.

More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the passageway as they passed one door, and every now and then they heard distant wailing.

The fourth floor housed the Janus Thickey Ward, which was for the treatment of spell damage. It addressed unliftable jinxes, hexes, curses, incorrectly-applied charms,

"This is our long-term residents' ward. For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement." The nurse introduces. "We usually keep the doors to the door locked to stop patients from wandering about."

"We do, however, allow patients to surround themselves with their personal possessions to make them feel more at home and, in many cases, to help remember who they were." She says, and Harry doubts that anyone other than Remus is listening to her.

His uncle Sirius is busy trying to cheer his sister up with jokes that he doubted was appropriate at a hospital and evidence of that is when a passing nurse gaped at Sirius and immediately rushed to tell another nurse.

Though Harry did appreciate Sirius trying to put a smile on Jean's face, and he was sure she too was grateful. "Mr. Potter, Miss Potter..." The healer calls and faces the siblings with an unsure look, wandering her eyes to the two adults with them before crouching to their level.

Jean crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the Healer.

"This is the first time visiting your parents, no?" The latter asked. Both the ten year old and eight year old nodded. "Your parents were hit with a rather strong charm... when they came here, they were very hurt, and they were missing -"

"We know what happened to them." Jean says with a harsh edge to her tone. "Jean! Don't be rude." Harry stated, looking at his younger sister in disbelief. "Thank you, Mr. Potter, but it's fine. We expect this from everyone. I just want to warn you that they may not recognise you and to ask you not to mention anything related to the events of that night or your relationship with them." The healer asked, and Harry stared confusingly at his uncle Remus, then faced the healer.

"Why not?" Harry asked, sharing a worried look with his sister. Jean finally let her arms down. "Lord and Lady Potter seem to experience an unexplainable surge of pain whenever one brings up that fateful night, and sometimes these surges lead to excruciating mental pain or seizures."

"Why?" It's Jean that asks, her voice is soft and barely audiable with sadness, and Harry can see her chest rise and fall rapidly as she tries to prevent herself from crying. Sirius puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was must have worked cause the next thing she did was playfully push Sirius and send him a narrowed look.

Harry doesn't appreciate the pity he sees the mediwitch gives them, but he understands where it's coming from. After a rather long and partially unnecessary pep-talk from Remus and Sirius, Harry pulls his sister aside and takes her in a hug. The younger girl stares at him sadly before poking his face, "You're too emotional, y'know that right."

"Pads says I get it from dad. And you're too quiet. It's okay to hurt every once in a while." Jean only raises her brows, Harry grins they had only been arguing the other week on how he could lift one brow at time and she couldn't.

"Remus says I'm like mum, I'm taking that as a compliment." She says as she pushes his glasses back up his nose and smiles. Harry looks over her shoulder where the mediwitch is talking to their uncles in hushed tones and wary glances. Remus looks up and catches Harry eyes, he sends the raven-haired boy an encouraging smile.

"If you don't want to go in, we can come back some other time." Harry states, scratching mercilessly at his palm, his sweating in his clothes even if though the room they're in is spelled with cooling charms. "I can handle it, I'm not a baby, Harry!" She hisses at him. "I'm not! I– I'm not–" Harry can feel tear stinging in his eyes as he looks at the small creak between the ward's doors.

Behind those are his parents, his parents. Harry doesn't know what’s worse, this or not having parents at all. At some point in his life he forgot he even had those. It doesn't feel like he has parents. Remus and Sirius are his uncle's but Lord and Lady Potter were like fictional characters to him, they were heroes in the eyes in the wizarding world and for some reason everyone need to make it sound as though they were dead. And he has to wait, wait for that wave of emotion to hit when he realises they may not be buried in a coffin but they don't exist anymore, they don't even exist to each other.

He has to go in, he decides, next year he leaves for Hogwarts and he can't have—He can't have not met his parents! And he knows Jean wants to see them, she's stuck on it too. He doesn't blame her but Harry doesn't want go, he—

It's my fault Harry wants to say. The Dark Lord wanted him. Why did his parents and Jean need to suffer. He'd rather die than let his sister go through this. "I'm scared, Jean." He blurts quietly, and it's clear on his face and in his voice. Harry feels as though his under veritaserum. It comes out of him like a secret, and he feels a bit relieved when he says it. Jean's demenor immediately changes.

Despite Harry being the older one, his sister has always been the mature one. There it is, pity and sadness in her eyes, and Harry wants to hit himself against the wall. He can't handle it, not from her.

"Harry, why didn't you say anything?" She asks, pulling him closer and further to the side. She looks at him as though he's a wounded bird as though she might break him if she looks hard enough. "Because I'm not supposed to be scared!" But he is, he's scared they'll blame him. He knows it he's fault he sees every time Remus or Sirius or Jean look at a picture at mum or dad. But to hear it from them, the thought enough makes him feel sick.

He realises he's been for too quiet and Jean turns around towards their uncle's, no doubt about to ask them to leave. Harry manages to get there before her and declares they're ready.

He ignores the look of shock and disbelief from his sister and pulls his hand back when she tries to reach for him. The mediwitch puts an unnecessary hand on their back and whispers in their ear where they are. But Harry doesn't need her, he's already spotted his mum and dad the moment his stepped in.

They're far enough to not notice them but close enough for Harry to make out their faces. His dad is leaning back on a chair, his feet over the table, playing with a Snitch. His mum on the other hand is writing by the looks of it. While his father gives of an air of friendliness and companionship; his mother gives on of solitude, he head is hunched in her book and when Harry concentrates he can see her furrow her brows every once in a while.

He wants to see her and apologise and cry and be held and he wants her to hug him and tell him it's going to be alright. "I'll see dad." He mutters shamefully. It's truly a shameful Jean deserves to choose who to see first after all she was the one who was a baby and missed the chance to make memories with them then but Harry won't dare look at his mum.

He can't act as though he didn't sit there like an idiot that night and watched his mum and dad march to death just to save his useless existence. Jean is pulled by Remus for a hug, his whispering something while kissing her head, and Harry sees Jean nod. "How do you feel? Okay? Sad? Nauseous? We can get you something to eat. There should be a–"

"I'm fine, Pads." Harry whispers tiredly. He's so tired. He can't even bother to raise his glasses back up. He doesn't need to because Sirius does it for him. Harry smiles. It's mostly forced, but Harry can feel a genuiness somewhere. Contrary to popular belief, Sirius is the mum between him and Remus. Sirius kisses him on the head and ruffles his hair before playfully pushing towards his dad.

By the corner of his eyes, he can see Jean narrow her eyes at him with pursed lips and concerned brows. Now that he is getting closer to his dad, enough to make out the lightning shaped scar on his wrist, Harry gasps in a sharp breath before pushing himself forward.

"Hey!" Harry says awkwardly and is now aware of the itchiness of his hair. His dad, James Potter, turns toward him with a grin and suspicious eyes. He pushes his feet of the table and pockets the snitch. "Can I help you kid?" His dad asks.

Harry notes the dark curls they share, the glasses, the facial structure and it's almost like seeing an older version of himself. Everyone always tells him he has his father's look and grandmother eyes. It's Jean who is a complete copy of mum. Harry chokes on air and faces his dad with a worried expression.

"I'm...ahm...I'm Harry, Uncle Sirius' Godson?"

His dad's confused face almost instantly perks up, "Really? He talks a lot about you, y'know. His proud of you!"

"Oh uhm yeah, I guess...He's visiting someone and said I could come and hang out with you." Harry awkwardly lies. He begins to scratch the pad of his thumb in hopes to stop the bubbling sadness in his throat.

"You okay? You seem quite nervous? I promise I don't bite." His dad jokes and Harry misses the flick of an odd expression that sparks in his face. "Harry," James notes with a confused nod and said boy whips his head up in shock. "Yeah?" He asks unsurely.

"That's a really nice name." James says biting his lip and smiling, showing off his dimples. "So, Sirius tells me you're really good at Quidditch, a seeker right?"

"Yeah, my dad used to play." Harry replies with a small smile. Uncomfortable tears begin to burn his eyes and Harry needs to silently scratch at his thighs to prevent them from falling. "Is that why you play? Cause your dad used to?"

"I guess doing the things he used to do makes me feel as though he's doing it with me? It's crazy and weird. Whatever but I just...uhm...I just really make him proud." Harry admits, staring right back at his dad. The older man stares back it him with a soft smile and leans over to ruffle his hair. "You're a good kid, Harry. You're dad should be proud...I know I would."

"Really?" Harry asks and the tears that he's been trying to bury finally surface as James' scared face begins to blur. "No no no, don't cry. Please, don't cry." James' voice comes as Harry hangs his head down, tears falling freely. He feels his dad's hand over his shoulder and on his back; trying to calm him down.

"It's okay buddy. If it makes you feel any better my parents dead too." However, James realized that does not appropriate to say cause Harry let out a louder sob. "I'm sorry! I'm really sorry. I didn't mean too! I didn't know." Harry defends to his dad. He knows he won't understand what his saying or why he's saying it but Harry doesn't care. He wants to apologize, he wants his parents forgiveness, he needs it. He needs this pain, this guilt, to go away.

Harry's vision blurs as James takes of his glasses and wipes his tears with the sleeve of the red sweater his wearing. "Why don't talk about something else?...Remus says you have a younger sister! Why don't we talk about her?" James muses, hoping it will stop the little boy from crying.

Harry hiccups and almost laughs as his dad trips to get him water. "Here!"

Chapter Three: The Calm Before the Storm

Tagging: @sssstarstruck @cloudroomblog

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Midday) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]

Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over… 2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss, and Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes the more the fic progresses (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet.

Word count: 4,665

The trick to keeping Commander Wolffe from prowling the edge of the clearing like a caged animal had been surprising. To everyone. 

Allowing him to watch you work keeps him seated on the hill beside you, where he does not worry his brothers or Master Plo Koon by continuing to make lap after lap. He had left your side once, to take a look at something the Clone pilot Warthog had to show him, and then did a little shiny-wrangling (namely Soapsuds) because they were too close to the forest for his comfort, but he was quick to return. 

He's not much of a conversational partner, whether that's out of respect for you to let you concentrate, or simply a product of his personality. When he has something to say, Wolffe keeps it brief. 

"I'm not that pale." 

"But your scar is." you reply with a gentle smile and a soft laugh, carefully adding traces of a lighter flesh-tone to the vertical stripe of scar tissue in your sketching of the Commander. You keep your pressure light on the page, and make your best efforts to keep the strokes in roughly the same orientation. The smile gives way to a frown the longer you fill in the length of his scar on the page. Your heart hurts for what happened to him at the hands of a dark Force-wielder. What her blade did to him. "I imagine it was quite painful, to lose your eye…" 

"Yes." Wolffe replies in a clipped voice, suggesting to you that while he does not want to dismiss your sympathies, he clearly must not want to talk about this with someone he does not know, either. You feel a tug on the lapel of your uniform, and the gloved pad of his thumb brushes over something. Oh. You'd forgotten about that. "You added a wolf's head into your uniform, Arcadia?" He's changing the subject. And that's okay. 

That's more than okay. 

Glancing down best you can, you see the sloppy replication the flint-gray Commander refers to. The thread used for the head is a steely gray, the stitches are almost invisible and camouflaged in the color of the uniform, save for the eyes in your favorite color. It was meant to be practice for repairing holes in your clothing, you explain. "For emergency situations. I wanted to see if my stitches would hold up after being washed. I completely forgot it was there." You don't explain why you went with the image of a wolf. You won't need to, in his presence.

It's easy enough to guess why this would be the animal, of all possible choices available to you in this galaxy, you would stitch into your lapel. The name surrounds you. Wolfpack. General Plo's callsign is Wolf Leader when they engage in battle by starfighter. 

It is the name of the man next to you - granted it bears an additional forn and an esk. 

Wesk-osk-leth-forn-forn-esk. 

Wolffe. 

"It held up well." he compliments you, releasing the fold of the lapel and assuming his silence once more. Degree by degree, you are seeing he is not eternally gruff or cold with you, or anyone: merely a man made stoic and far more vigilant than before by war. In his vigilance, he continues to visually sweep the field for signs of trouble or mischief. 

Maybe, while he's distracted…

You stealthily swap out the current coloring pencil in your hand - a deeper skin tone - and pluck out the Lamp Black pencil in the mix, drifting your hand lower down the page until the end of the pencil was now lined up with the loosely defined crotch and codpiece of his armor. 

Maker alive let's just get this over with. 

The body glove is going to be innocent enough to fill in, but defining the shadows around the pubic bulge in his kit will be faster. Just keep it quick and be discreet. Work fast. Hope no one sees. Hope no one asks. 

Your pulse screams in your veins when he clears his throat - loudly - next to you, and you are so certain he is now trained on you, and acutely aware of where your pencil is. "Hm-mm…" Oh kriff me sideways. "Excuse me," he apologizes, clearing his throat again softer this time, "didn't mean to startle you, but I was trying to catch Suds' attention." Thank the Maker he didn't look when he apologized. Just a few more marks to finish shading in the codpiece, and then you can start on the body suit. "O-oh. Is he wandering off again?" 

"Looked like he was about to." 

Still breathing down their necks even from here? "Y'know-"

"As their Commander I am going to look out for my brothers, Arcadia." He sounds neither happy or unhappy with what he assumed you would say. And it's fair of him to assume that, in a sense. You only wish he didn't have to feel so defensive. 

"I understand that," you promise him, and for the moment, you set down the pencil in your hand so you are not dividing your attention between the artwork and Wolffe. "and I wasn't telling you to stop, either. I only wanted to warn you that, I think, General Plo Koon seems worried about you, that something is keeping you from enjoying yourself." 

To his credit, he gives your words a moment of quiet contemplation. Whether that's to consider the truth behind the words you said, or to come up with an explanation of sorts, Wolffe remains silent and still like the forest that surrounds you on all sides. What secrets does that forest hold? What lives within? 

What will you find other than sap and blood on your palms when you pull back the thorny branches? 

"I don't believe we're here just to relax for a day." Commander Wolffe admits with a heavy look of guilt and uncertainty. "I think the General has other reasons for bringing us to Little Archossi, and he won't tell us." 

"Reasons? Like what?" You pick the pencil back up, and return to the slow, gradual task of adding color to the page. You're going to give him time to think. Time to answer, if he even wants to. He may not. Warning him that he's possibly made his General concerned about him seems to shake him down, somewhat. "I'm sorry." 

It's reflexive, apologizing for upsetting him. That seems to pull him out of his silence, for the moment. "Don't be, Arcadia. I'm not going to fault you for having good intentions. Or a good eye." 

The kri-? 

In dawning horror, you see and fully realize where your pencil lead is. And looking over at him, you see that he does too. "I-I'm so sorry, sir…" You admit that you hoped he wouldn't notice, and that adding the necessary shading and color around areas that carry their shares of suggestive and sexual imagery and connotations would have been completed with as little attention drawn to it as possible. While you're not exactly ashamed to have drawn those parts of him, you feel a bit awkward to have him take notice of your work when you add the color. 

Half of his mouth quirks in a smile, an expression of his respect, understanding that took guts to admit. "That's nothing to apologize for. It's just part of the art, Arcadia. A little "awkward" would only be understandable. Would you feel better if I purposely didn't watch?" 

Well, seeing as how you're almost done with the inner thigh, you don't see much of a point to the gesture in this part of the progress. But, he did offer. And this seems to be what's keeping him seated in the grass. And what's keeping Plo Koon freer to spend less time being concerned about his diligent commander, and more time in showing his troops more aspects of Kel Dor culture and history, it seems. (Orchid keeps asking questions that Tack could easily answer about Dorin, and it serves as a neat little lesson for some of their newer shinnies. Plo is certainly grateful for the curiosity that allows him to be a teacher, rather than a fighter, today.) 

You shrug lazily, laughing softly under your breath. "I'll leave that up to you, sir. At this point…" 

Wolffe chooses to keep an eye on his brothers, so you make the process of shading the inner thighs quick, while being careful not to get sloppy. You're not trying to recreate a master painter's work here in the first page of your sketchbook, but you don't want to look at this one day and become filled with the urge to tear it out because all you can see are glaring imperfections, either. That's nothing but a fanciful daydream of making so much progress in your artistic prowess that you would ever be struck with such a thought, of course. 

You are preoccupied with a war against the Separatists: when would you ever have the chance to make regular progress and impressive strides without backsliding and the natural degradation of your skills when you do not use them? You're a small part of the busy crew that keeps the Triumphant running smoothly. 

People constantly need you. And that's all well and good, but sometimes you find yourself running into the same problem over and over again that crews of this size inevitably face: when you, who provides the help, needs someone, who is there for you? Do you turn to another crewmate who is already up to their neck in all the problems they juggle? Turning to one of the Clone troopers is ill-advised, no matter how much they swear they don't mind lending a hand or an arm (or two) to assist. 

You've been doing fine aboard the Triumphant; better than fine, in fact. But that worry claws at you, sometimes. I'm here to help everyone. But if I needed help, who would I go to?

Who does the Commander go to when he needs help, come to think of it… General Plo? Or maybe Sergeants Sinker and Boost, if the matter was a little closer to the heart, something he believed was best kept between brothers? 

Who does Wolffe turn to in his hours of need, you wonder. 

You need to rest your wrist, and soon. You have just a little more of this tree's canopy to color in though, and then you're calling it good. You've been working on this "sketch" for more than three hours with the Commander at your side. You want to have this done soon. You want to go check out some of these things other crewmates have been laughing themselves silly over for the last hour that leave them gasping and wheezing for breath, clutching their sides and drying their faces. You're burning to know what's so funny, why they keep calling your name to come see. 

Curiously guessing over and over what General Plo's reaction will be when you show him this amateurish endeavor in outdoor art drives you to continue, however. Just a few more tiny, feather-shaped leaves… Wolffe notices the sharp twinge in your face, and the uncomfortable spasm in your fingers as you adjust your grip around the Sunflower coloring pencil. 

"Getting painful?" 

"Just a little." you admit, knowing if you pause now, you will delay when you pick the pencil back. "I'll manage." 

"Making art shouldn't bring you pain, Arcadia." 

You scoff, just slightly. "Physical pain? Agreed. But emotional pain, that's another matter. Don't worry, I'll be done soon, Wolffe." 

He asked you to call him Wolffe a short time ago. It wasn't exactly necessary to call him Commander or Sir all the time if you had him sketched out on your page quite like… that. His legs parted and bent at the knee - flat in the grass out in front of him. Wrist of the left hand resting just on the surface of his thigh, with his hand hanging limp just inches from his groin. You were generous enough to draw his fingers in a more neutral position than how they had looked in reality… Otherwise, if his soldiers and brothers got a hold of the sketchbook, there's no telling how many jokes you'd have to hear about making it look like their Commander was jerkin' it in front of you. 

Calling him "Wolffe" would do just fine when it was just the two of you alone on this hill. Perhaps he felt it was only fair if he was calling you by your name. You had no title or rank, like him. You are just a humble part of the crew, but he assured you no less important than one of the soldiers. 

It takes all of us, he said. That's how we win this war. 

You've come to the home stretch, feeling the ache in your fingers deepen with every tiny skritch and shwoop! as you methodically color in your work leaf by leaf. "Just one last, little leaf," you promise, "and then I'm done." 

"Not going to sign your magnum opus, Arcadia?" Wolffe prods a little teasingly. He's smiling at you now, even. Hours ago, he was somber and battle-ready, no smiles, no nonsense. Now, he's beginning to make small jokes. "Should add a signature so future museums know who to accredit this to." 

"A leaf and then a signature." you chuckle warmly. "Future museum… Honestly." He only offers a shrug in response to that, and you take it to mean well, you never know. "What, you're trying to tell me you think this would honestly end up in a museum gallery one day?" 

He shrugs again, gazing off into the distance, into the forest. "Overheard one of the boys in the mess say something about the notion once. Something they read. Some kind of commemorative effort made by one planet to make sure they never forgot their bloody history by way of art and song and poetry inspired by that time. Evidence of a time best not repeated, but not forgotten either." 

Such an insightful and wise thing to be said so casually, poetically, and yet, there's a weighty truth to every syllable and enunciation. 

We doom ourselves to repeat the past when we do not remember it and do not teach it anymore. When we allow ourselves to forget, the shades of rouge we sop the bristles of our brushes in will not be in the rich scarlets of Dathomir, or the forever-burning rubies of Mustafar, it will instead be with blood. 

When we have enough evidence, it silences the naysayers and the fools. It validates the choking and trembling voices that say I have tasted the bitter blade of war. I have stood before the yawning maw of nothingness it leaves in its wake. I will never be the same. You do not have the right to tell me that I am some kind of paid actor. 

If they were conspiracies, do you not think I would be among the loudest of your prophets who tout these twisted claims in the hopes of converting another?

"Fascinating. Thinking something like that will come of the Clone Wars, Wolffe?" You've finished the drawing, now. Taking an ink pen, you jot down your signature in the tidiest handwriting you can manage in the lower right corner, making note of the date for good measure. You'll think up a creative title for this later. 

There's a third rising and falling of the shoulders from the man sitting beside you. "It's too soon to tell." 

"That's fair." you reply, gathering up your supplies to put them back into the bag for safekeeping. "But you just know, if it does happen, the Separatists aren't gonna like the art." You have faith that the Republic will prevail. How could it not when the soldiers who fight for the Republic are some of the most courageous, persevering people you know? (What will come of them after?) 

You're likely right about that, he agrees with a throaty chuckle. The Separatists will not like losing this war, and they'll like the art even less. "I can only hope… that it will not just be the Jedi who are…" Wolffe grows silent next to you. He's not certain what word he wants to use to best explain his thoughts, he admits plainly. There are too many. Too many answers that are right, but he struggles to find the one thing that is most correct out of all of them. 

Given what Tack has told you, the answer is obvious. "You're hoping that the galaxy will remember the Clones were a part of this conflict too. That the galaxy won't forget the sacrifices made by your brothers, and they won't forget how many lost their lives. You probably hope that when the free peoples of the galaxy remember the Jedi, they remember you, too. Both must be appreciated together."

"You're probably right," Wolffe concedes firstly, "And you're too wise beyond your years, Arcadia." Strangely philosophical, he tells you, for how old he guesses you to be. Maybe he's the right one this time, thinking to yourself on his words. 

Maybe he's not the only one hoping that when this war ends, no matter the outcome, those who served as a part of the Grand Army of the Republic will not be a forgotten topic ten, twenty… even forty or fifty years down the line. 

Tack has made a breakthrough in his mysterious flower just before Master Plo is free to come take a look at the sketch and color work you've completed, and concern for his men takes precedence. You would not blame him in the slightest if he forgot he expressed interest in seeing what you accomplished with art materials given to you as gifts. Because of your station with the crew of the Triumphant with a secondary speciality for risk assessment, you're involved in this discussion with the researcher and his commander and general. 

Right now determining the risks posed to the men of the 104th matters more. Art and philosophical pondering will have to come later.

Tack explains to both Commander Wolffe and Master Plo that he thinks the smatterings of blue flowers that dot this clearing here on Little Archossi are known as Dinocaeruleus anthos. By their common-name, you know that these flowers are a warning. A silent, unassuming danger for all their beauty and silky blue petals. 

Terrible blue flower. 

"You can make toxic honey with these flowers?" Wolffe asks more to himself than Tack, as he reads ahead in the compiled information. Plo is taking his time to read the information on the screen of the datapad in his hands. To make sense of this, the Jedi is being thorough. 

"Poisonous, Sir, more accurately." Tack makes the correction habitually, and Wolffe does not take it personally. He knows that Tack knows what he meant, and given his aptitude for analytics and other such sciences, his researcher is not correcting him to be a smartass. "But, yes, you can make bad honey with these flowers depending on what pollinators you harvest from. They are not wholly dangerous on their own. Eat it, it might make you feel nauseated due to natural bitterants. Touch it to more sensitive dermal surfaces and it will prove a powerful irritant." 

From a short distance away, you hear the voices of Orchid and Soapsuds, Tack's batchmates (you assume), commenting on what the four of you are discussing in the shade of the tree you spent the morning sketching. "So what Tack's saying is don't stick your d-" The speaker finds himself with the other's hand anxiously plastered against his mouth to shut him up in a hurry. "Maker alive, shut up!" Soapsuds warns him, "Orchid, why are you so vulgar?!" 

There is a pointed sigh from Commander Wolffe that is aimed at the two of them. Don't make me come over there. Behave yourselves in front of the General. 

Plo makes no indication that he's noticed the situation occurring just out of reach. You have to imagine he hears Suds and Orchid wrestling with each other in the grass, now, though, and is ignoring it. "Arcadia and Tack, in your opinion, will these be enough cause for concern to consider returning back to the ship?" Plo wonders aloud. The Kel Dor returns the device to the researcher, and folds his hands together in an act of deliberate contemplation, resting them against his stomach. 

Tack looks at you, and you at him, then the Commander. There is a look in his eyes, both the stark silver and the warm vandyke brown, that reads to you as a surrender of control. 

I will carry out your judgment. 

Tack scoffs and shrugs, his arms thrown wide. "Honestly, General? I don't know enough. I'd need more time to determine through more analysis and comparison. This is only one search result for one flower it could possibly be. But it was enough of a match to make me get the Commander while he was talking with Arcadia." Enough of a match to send him into a tizzy over it. Tack had tripped coming up the hill in his haste, trying to ask if - from where he was sitting - the Commander noticed anyone messing with the blue flowers. 

We have a potential problem! had Wolffe on his feet faster than engaging a hyperdrive. And then there was a flurry of questions. Was it contact from the planet's inhabitants? Has someone gotten hurt? Are they needed to assist another battalion? Where's the General? 

He has the look again, now. Worry. The inner anxiety is eating him alive. Tack doesn't know. So what about you? 

"I see…" Master Plo hums. "And what are your feelings, Arcadia? What do you think about the situation?" 

You think. What do you think about this situation? Is it worth double checking the matches for the flower, to make sure that it really is Dinocaeruleus anthos? Are the men really going to be so flippant as to disregard any kind of warning put out about these flowers if they are the Dinocaeruleus, or worse yet, a far more harmful flower? (Not necessarily, but you have to consider that warning the troops that this flower can have detrimental potential invites the opportunity to inflict it.) 

There is one thing that is already clear to you, at least. "Tack should first make sure these flowers are what he thinks they are before we make any kind of advisory, General. That is my opinion." 

Another thoughtful hum. "Interesting. And why is this your opinion, little one?" 

"We should avoid unnecessary panic. Until we know for sure what these flowers are, I say we don't say anything. We invite unnecessary risks by making the men paranoid." you suggest, glancing first at the Jedi, and then the flint-gray Commander to his left. They had every right to accept or disregard your counseling as the commanding forces of this battalion at the day's end; you hope they will consider it at the very least. 

"I'm in agreement."

"Then we will do as Arcadia advised, and we will let young Tack take more time to confirm his findings. Until then…" Plo trails off, nodding decidedly. Thank the Maker. Tack dismisses himself in a hushed, hurried tone. If he's going to spend more time pouring over information on the Dinocaeruleus anthos, he shouldn't dawdle. The Jedi kindly wills the benefits of the Force to guide the researcher before he turns to address you once again. "Have you made use of the gifts given to you since we last spoke?" 

Blinking with a mild start, you realize that Plo has changed the topic. "Oh, yes, I have. Let me go get my sketchbook from my bag, sir." You scoop the entire bag from the grass, re-tucking your datapad among your things as you extract the book and turn it to the necessary page for his convenience. "Here." 

Taking it carefully in his hands, the book is cradled like a priceless relic as his eyes must trace over the page. Once more your property is treated with such care and respect by the Force-wielder. "My… Arcadia, you have quite a gift." 

The action is perhaps more childish than professional, but you cannot help but duck your head at such praise, fearing to meet his gaze should he see how flushed your face is. It is not the heat of the sun above you, denoting that it is now high noon, that makes your face burn. You're never quite sure how to accept a compliment. 

You opt for humility. "Oh, it's hardly that great, General Plo… I wouldn't say I have a gift… just… a-an attention for detail." And that much is true; dedication to detail is why you spent hours on a simple "sketch" to begin with; why you took so much care and effort to get everything done the best you could. The form of Commander Wolffe's armor. The curve of his jaw and the roundness of the ala of his nose. The correct texture of his hair within the typical haircut many of the Clones have. 

But though gentle insistence, the General repeats his sentiment. "Attention for detail is no less of a gift, Arcadia. In war it is a mark of wisdom, in art, it is a skill." A skill that has made for a very fine portrait of the Commander. "Have you seen Arcadia's work yet, Commander Wolffe?" He offers the sketchpad with an invitation to have a closer look, though it isn't necessary. 

"I watched Arcadia add the colors, yes." Wolffe confirms. "Quite the process."

Not to mention a strain on your wrist, but one well worth it for the praise given to you from the Jedi, and now many of the men who have congregated to come and suss out what's going on. "I can only imagine… Even gone through the trouble of adding proper shadows to such… rich color." 

Sinker and Boost smile softly, not quite sadly (but certainly somber), when they take note of the color of paint their commanding officer wears when you allow the book to be passed around so everyone is welcome to have a closer look. They hold it longest out of everyone, looking at this artistic replication a little more closely than most.

"The ol' maroon, eh? Think it's meant to depict another time, before Abregado?" 

"But he's drawn with the scar, Boost."

"Ah, yeah, good eye. Missed that bit." 

You timidly clear your throat to draw their attention, and explain that of all the colors, you didn't have gray. "I didn't want to leave his armor naked, either." Not when you went through the trouble of adding the face of the wolf and the other design to each of his shoulder pads, or the unique shape of his visor when you drew the helmet next to his hip. 

You would not deal him further, small cruelties by stealing the colors out of his coat completely. These markings he has chosen for himself mean something to Wolffe. The color he wears now is a mark of mourning. The color in the pages of your book will serve as an homage. 

You have not forgotten your brothers. You will always carry them with you.

Hmmf. Are you a poet now too, Arcadia?

No sir. Not really. 

You're uncertain where the words came from. Borrowed from something you read once? Did you perhaps hear the General say these words once upon a time? You can't recall what inspired you to say such a thing. 

But you'll remember the change in his gruff exterior, the way in which he was quieter than quiet for just a moment, and he pivoted in the grass to better face you and make you his equal. 

It's only the two of us here on the hill, Arcadia. Call me Wolffe, please. 

Don't have a fic taglist for the time being, but I'll likely start one soon if I can figure out how to make those forms some people have since I write a variety of stuff. For now, though, if you'd like to join a taglist for specific types of fics (example: just TBB-centric or just TCW-centric (or both)) don't hesitate to ask. 🩷

[Masterlist]

[Early Morning] [Here] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Deep Night] [Golden Dawn part 1]

[Golden Dawn Part 2]

[satans-my-spirit-animal]

I wrote a short fic about Malleus's overblot. Reader is gn. It's the romantic end that Disney probably won't give us 😞. CHAPTER 7 SPOILERS

Watching as Azul pulled out the contract, you felt a twinge of familiarity. Hadn't you done this before?

“Sign here, and Ramshackle will be put up as collateral for our little deal.” Azul said, adjusting his glasses as he slid the contract towards you.

You blinked as looked around, a sense of Déjà vu overwhelming you. The leech twins were grinning at you, standing next to Azul. Jack was shaking his head and telling you not to sign the contract. Grim, covered in soapsuds, was pulling at your pants leg, begging you to sign.

“… Azul, doesn't this… Seem familiar to you?” You asked, looking over the desk at Azul.

“What do you mean? Are you going to sign the contract or not?” He frowned and tapped the piece of paper with a gloved finger.

Memories started flooding back to you, the leech twins stopping you from fulfilling the contract, Azul's overblot, being trapped in Scarabia…

“Azul… Don't you remember? We've done this before. So many times that I can't count.” You stared at him as he drew back with a baffled look on his face.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Azul gave you an uneasy look, and the twins exchanged confused glances.

“Hey, are you feeling alright?” Jack asked, giving you a concerned look.

“I remember now… We're all in Diasomnia right now… Malleus overblotted and we fell asleep. This is all a dream we've been having.” You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jade blinked hard, as if he were starting to remember something, and looked at Floyd. “Now that you mention it… This does seem awfully familiar.” He breathed out in a hushed tone.

“If you listen closely, you can hear him humming…” You choked as hot tears spilled out of your eyes. Everyone grew silent as Malleus's humming crept into the room. Azul looked back at you in horror as the realization hit him.

“I think it's time to wake up.” You murmured as everything faded to black, leaving only Malleus's humming reverberating in the darkness.

Your eyes opened, and you found yourself lying on the cold stone floor of Diasomnia. You struggled to pull yourself upright and peered through the blackthorns that surrounded you.

Everyone was lying in a heap on the floor, still fast asleep. A green haze hung in the air, drifting through the twisted thorns that surrounded everything. Through the green haze, you could just make out Malleus sitting in a chair, humming.

“Mal…” You choked as you started pulling at the thorns. “Malleus! Can you hear me? Please don't let me be too late…” Tears poured down your cheeks as you forced your way through the thorns, feeling them tear at your skin.

You finally manage to make your way over to him. Your clothes were shredded, and you were bleeding, but you still grabbed Malleus's hand. His eyes opened, his slitted pupils dilating as they focused on you.

“You're awake? I didn't expect you to wake up so soon.” He murmured as he turned to look at you.

Tears still streaming down your cheeks, you squeezed his hand. “Malleus… I know this isn't what you want… So, please… Let them wake up.” You knelt down next to him as his emerald gaze burned into you.

“… No, I can't lose both you and Lilia… The pain… The loneliness…” He hissed, barely moving his lips.

“I'll stay… As long as you want. I can't imagine life without you, Mal.”

You smiled at him through the tears, and his eyes widened. “I know… I KNOW… I know you… I walked with you once upon a dream.” You struggled to steady your voice as you began to sing.

“I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.” You pulled on his hand, drawing him to his feet.

“And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem…” He gazed down at you as you began to lead him in a waltz across the thorn-entangled floor.

“But if I know you, I'll know what you'll do. You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream.” You sang as you stood on your tiptoes and placed a kiss on his lips.

A shockwave of magic blasted through the room as the thorns turned into flowers and the green haze dissipated. Malleus slumped over your shoulder as he returned to his normal form.

You continued to hum once upon a dream, rubbing his back as everyone around you began to stir.

“It'll be alright, Mal… I won't leave.” You murmured to him as Lilia opened his eyes and looked over at you.

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Lostcauses Fic: A Good Man

A small side story to The Permanence of the Young Men. This is my 100th Eruri fic and it's a gift to the fandom for Levi's Birthday ♡

Falco is standing by the sink washing dishes in the neat kitchen that overlooks the small garden at the back of the house. It’s a bright spring day and the cherry trees, so ubiquitous in Hizuru, are swathed in frothy pink blossom that dances in the gentle breeze. Falco likes coming here, to the little house on the square. It’s quiet and peaceful, a world away from the noisy chaotic home he shares with Gabi and the kids a couple of streets over. He wouldn’t change it for the world, but he enjoys the quiet respite of Mr Levi’s house.

Pieck had come to visit earlier in the day, recently returned from the latest delegation to Paradis, bringing news of the diplomatic negotiations and undiplomatic gossip. Much as he enjoys her visits, Levi is always exhausted afterwards. He tires easily these days, especially after time spent in company. After she left, Falco had made Levi a fresh cup of tea, tucked a blanket around his knees and left him to read the newspapers that Pieck had brought from the island.

Falco’s quiet reverie by the kitchen sink is interrupted by the crash of falling china from the room next door. Hands flecked with soapsuds, he rushes through to the parlour, where he finds Levi grey faced and clutching his chest. The blanket is crumpled on the floor, tea cup shattered at his feet in a pool of spilled tea. Crumpled in the Levi’s fist is a copy of the Eldian Herald.

“Mr Levi!” Falco drops to his knees in front of his chair, heedless of the puddle of tea soaking into his trousers. “Are you all right, Mr Levi?”

He’s struggling to breathe, breath rattling and wheezing in his scarred lungs, and when he looks up, his face is grey, his one good eye glassy and unfocused. Falco knows he’s not seeing him. He’s gone; lost in an endless nightmare. He gets like this sometimes, they all do. There’s no escaping the war and its traumatic aftermath.

“You just wait there Mr Levi, don’t worry, I’ll get your pills.”

He dashes to the bathroom and extracts one of the many bottles of pills from the medicine cabinet, collecting a glass of water on route.

Back in the living room, Levi’s breath is still rasping in his throat, but Falco is able to slip the pill into his mouth and coax him to drink.

Falco eases the newspaper from his fist, sets it aside, and sits beside the older man, holding his scarred hand until the awful attack passes.

Once his breathing has eased, Falco helps him to his bed. He grumbles irritably as Falco helps him change into his neatly pressed pyjamas, before tucking him under the covers. He’s breathing more easily now and his eye has lost that terrible vacant stare. He just looks old and terribly tired.

“It’s all right Mr Levi," Falco attempts to reassure him. “Just rest, Ms Peick’s exhausted you. Sleep until morning, you’ll feel better then.” He draws the blinds and quietly closes the door. Though it’s barely late afternoon, he knows that the sedative effect of the medication will ensure Levi sleeps until well after dawn.

Falco goes back to the parlour to clean up the mess, carefully picking up the larger pieces of broken china then sweeping up the tiny shards. It’s a shame, it was one of Levi’s favourite cups. It was a plain old thing, much coarser than the fine Hizurun porcelain Levi has quite a collection of, but it was his favourite nevertheless. The cup had a small winged crest stamped on the bottom, and Falco suspects it may have come from Paradis originally. It’s broken beyond repair now, so Falco sweeps the pieces into the bin, then fetches the mop to clean up the spilled tea. The blanket is soaked, so he carries it through to the laundry, before returning to straighten out the rest of the room.

Picking up the crumpled copy of the Eldian Herald, Falco attempts to smooth out the creases. The front page is dominated by a picture of a statue of a young man with his arms outstretched. It's not a very good likeness, but Falco knows it’s supposed to represent Eren Yeager. He’s never seen a copy of the Eldian Herald that doesn’t have a picture of Eren Yeager on the front page. The headline trumpets “20 Glorious Years of Freedom”. Beneath, it promises a “full photo spread from the Eldian Nation’s biggest Freedom Day celebrations.” Falco flicks through the newspaper and finds images of massed ranks of marching soldiers with their characteristic helmets and rifles, surrounded by crowds of cheering people. There are photographs of various dignitaries Falco doesn’t recognise and several of the Queen standing beside her daughter, the Princess Ymir. Falco guesses she’s supposed to look regal, but to his mind she just looks rather sad.

Turning to the centre pages, Falco finds a double page spread titled “Heroes of the Eldian Nation: Commander Erwin Smith, 13th Commander of the Survey Corps.” At the head of the page is an imposing picture of a handsome grim-faced man mounted astride a rearing white horse, holding his sword aloft as if poised in mid charge. The caption beneath reads: “Dedicate your Hearts! Erwin Smith, the last great commander of the Survey Corps”. Curiosity piqued, Falco sits down to read.

[Continue reading on AO3]

[myheadsgonenumb]

Pool

 The moon was beginning to wane, but Remus still ached, and so he made his way to the fifth floor, past the statue of Boris the Bewildered and stopped at the door which led to the Prefects’ bathroom. 

‘Soapsuds’ he said - and waited, holding his breath to see if it would unlock (it was charmed to stay locked if a prefect or Quidditch captain was already inside - for everyone’s modesty). 

It clicked open, and he sighed with relief - he needed a good long soak in the tub, was literally aching for it. He pushed the door open, and frowned - he could hear someone inside, in the bath by the sounds of it. But that couldn’t be, the door wouldn’t open if there was another prefect inside…

He stepped into the bathroom - and then swore loudly. ‘Sirius!’ (for that was who was in there) ‘what are you doing?’ 

‘Playing quidditch… What does it look like? I’m taking a bath.’ (He was, in fact, swimming laps in the swimming pool sized tub with only the bubbles between him, and Remus getting an eyeful of … everything.)            

‘But how did you get in here?’

‘James told me the password.’

Remus swore again. 

‘It’s good in here, isn’t it? I’ve used about a hundred different types of bubbles.’ He swam another lap, Remus could just catch glimpses of pink gleaming in the water, and tried not to think of what was hidden in the bubble bath.

‘I need a bath,’ he said. 

‘So get in.’

‘Sirius!’

‘I mean it - we’ve been skinny dipping together before.’ 

‘In the lake… with the squid. This is … this is taking a bath together. That’s… That’s… we don’t do that!’    

‘We could.’ 

‘We’re not.’ He sighed. ‘Sirius - please - I just need a bath.’ 

Sirius came to a stop and scrutinised him, running a weather eye over his ashen face, noticing how peaky he looked. ‘Do you hurt?’ 

‘All over,’ he admitted. 

There was a moment, and then Sirius nodded. ‘Alright - I’ll stop teasing you.’ And he heaved himself out of the tub and grabbed a towel. 

Remus turned his back, flushing furiously, and pretending not to notice the way the bubbles slid down Sirius’s smooth skin, like melting ice cream. He closed his eyes, and counted to ten and tried to think cooling thoughts. 

‘There you go - all done. Feel better soon.’ Fully dressed, with his towel slung casually over his shoulder, Sirius started to head out. He paused at the door and looked back. ‘It would have been amazing, you know?’ he said - and then vanished.   

Word Count: 429

@wolfstarmicrofic