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spectrerie · 2 years

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Would you let me go? Even if I asked you to

Simon Ghost Riley x Fem!Reader.

Requested by my awesome mutual @lululandd

Part One. ~ 3k words.

Simon meets a young woman on a night out with the 141 ft. Los Vaqueros. He's drawn to protect her and when she needs him, he makes a promise he's not sure he can keep. With one war over another begins, and his task: Protecting you, no matter what it takes.

POV alternates between Ghost and the Reader.

this is a stalker fic where Ghost watches over the reader and discovers that he's not the only one doing so. Eliminate the hostiles and fulfil his mission. Easy. Right?

TW: Stalking, kidnapping, murder, extreme depictions of violence, swearing and foul language, threats, minor character death. Possessive!Simon, Toxic!Simon

Additional parts to come, with additional warnings. This is just a general TW for the whole fic

“I swear lads, I swear I thought I was gonna die of laughter if he didn’t kill me first!” Drinks sloshed and laughter rang out around them as Gaz recounted some sage, albeit dodgy, advice Price had given him.

A night out with the 141 and two of the friends they’d made along the way was long overdue. The weeks of blood, sweat, and smoke had taken its toll on them. Killing came with a a cost, and they paid it gladly. For their countries, for the world. For themselves.

Life in battle was easy, everything came down to friend or foe. Friends were hard to make, and the latter easy to dispose of. Usually. Killing could be easy, if they let it be. If that made them bad people so be it, they’d be bad to keep the balance. But not tonight.

Tonight donned in their civvies they occupied a corner booth of a hole in the wall pub, a town away from the barracks. It was their last night all together, one of their first nights all safe. Before the Cowboys went back home to fight another day. Before Soap went back to Scotland to see the country he missed dearly. And before Ghost and Gaz went back to their corners of England. Before Ghost crawled back to the barracks, to the only life he knew how to live.

“Ah, will ye fuck off, ‘e didnae say that! ‘ E’s been up te his oxters in work.” Soap barked out as he clutched his sides. The group waited with baited breath, stifling peals of laughter as they waited for Ghost’s response.

“Christ, Johnny. In English?” The stoic blonde said from across the table.

“Eh? D’ye no ken what I’m sayin’ L.t? That was bloody English.” Soap whined back as he closed his bleary eyes. The first of the laughs began to eek out. When he opened them the blonde Lieutenant was staring back at him with his dark eyes. “Gaun'ae no dae that? That was bloody English! Fine. ’Oh emm gee, he did not say that. He has like totally been up to his armpits with work!’ THERE!” Johnny shouted back in a mock American accent.

The group fell about themselves with laughter as Simon shook his head slowly.

They needed this. This release. There’d been other nights for tears, for recalling the horrors they’d seen over the months, but not tonight. Tonight was only for good things. For accents coming out too thick, for drinking too much knowing you were in safe company, for friendship.

Ghost stood and pulled his dark cap lower, casting a shadow over his face. “Same orders, yeah?” He asked the group and he walked out of the booth. He had to good sense to leave the mask at home. Or so they thought. He had it folded in the inner pocket of his jacket, his armour against the world.

“I’ll have a Dom Perignon if you’re buying, whole bottle please.” Called out Gaz as Alejandro poured him another shot of earthy Tequila.

Ghost shook his head and huffed out a low laugh, chasing tequila with pints. They were clever chaps, weren’t they?

As he made his way across the bar, the din of dozens of conversations hushed as he walked by, the packed room parting in his wake. He cut an intimidating figure. Six foot two, almost six four in this heavy dark boots. A myriad of faded scars dusting his jaw and hands, the only part of him easily visible. The brightest thing about him was his blonde hair, neatly tucked away from prying eyes. He didn’t need the mask tonight. His crew knew his face, and no one in the pub could bring themselves to look at it, averting their eyes sheepishly as he moved by them. At most people glance up at the top of his head in awe, surveying the space he took up with his sheer bulk and height. He didn’t need to be Ghost. Not here.

He placed a hand on the bar and slid in, eliciting no complaints from the other patrons. What could they have said? Move? That’d be the day.

— — —

“So you’re not going crack a smile, baby? I thought that was a pretty good one.” The drunken lout beside you laughed in your face, the smell of hops, stale cigarettes and chips blowing at you.

“Ha. Ha.” You said dryly. Turning your attention to the bartender trying to get drinks for you and your ever-late friend. You felt an overly warm, sticky hand slide around your waist, tugging you back towards him. “Alright then, you tell me a joke, if I’m no good at ‘em.”

“I’d rather not, sorry.” You said with a terse smile, eyes drifting back to the bartender hoping to catch his eye.

“Okay, okay, let’s play a new game if you don’t like jokes. If I guess your name you buy me a pint, but if you tell me now I’ll buy you one.” He winked at you, or rather he tried to.

“How about I tell you and you go away?” You asked, before barking out your name and turning away, though his grip on you tightened.

“Oi, mate. Two Coronas, three lagers. Whatever’s easy, yeah?”

A low voice beside you called out to the bartender you’d been playing a one sided game of cat and mouse with.

“Is Carling alright?” The bartender’s attention went straight to the owner of the voice beside you, as did yours. You were about to tell him you’d been here first, as you looked up and you were met not with a face, but the middle of a wide set of shoulders. Was this a man or a mountain?

“Excuse m-“ craning your neck up you caught a glimpse of a face and your protests died on your lips. The giant was handsome. In a rugged, cold sort of way, but handsome nonetheless. He cast a glance in your direction that turned cold quickly. All the heat of your body pooled at the bottom of your stomach, you didn’t even notice the arm around your waist had dropped immediately.

“Hmm?” He grumbled in way of a prompt.

“Uhh, I was— I was just going to say I’ve been waiting.”

“I don’t know you.” He said curtly. A normal person would ask ‘do I know you?’, or rather a normal person would understand basic bar etiquette. Though it seemed this man had no need for niceties.

“Well no, I was waiting to order my drinks. Didn’t anyone teach you any manners?” You said, letting go of your decorum. Two could play at this game. You’d had enough of men thinking they could have whatever they wanted.

“What?” He said, turning away from the bartender. Your bravado dissipated as quickly as you’d found it. You felt your eyes grow round in shock and a heat creep up your neck to your face.

“I just-“ your sentence was cut off by a low laugh from him as he said “What, as in what were you going to order?”

“Ah… just two ciders, sorry.” Fuck. Where had all your confidence gone, he wasn’t going to hit you for teaching him manners.

His gaze grew cold again, well maybe he was.

“You let your girl do all the talking, do you?” He said, seemingly to the man who’d been pestering you for the better part of your evening thus far.

“I’m not his anything.” You said before the man behind you had a chance to speak.

The handsome one turned away from you again, “And two ciders, cheers.” He said to the bartender. When the man behind the bar asked what sort he angled himself back to you again, you sheepishly pointed to the tap of your choosing and said your thanks quietly.

You heard your name from the pest behind you and ignored it, watching the bartender pull your pints along with those of the only person at the bar you had any interest in.

“Fine then, be a bitch.” The man huffed and walked away, you only knew because your new companion’s eyes watched him closely as he left. Tracking him through the crowd. Something about him made your skin tingle. Made the hairs on your body stand. There was an edge to him that scared you.

“Sorry about him” you said at the same time, eliciting a laugh from you both.

“So, you planning on neckin’ two pints or are you waiting on someone?” He asked as he slid his card over to the barman.

“Oh, no you don’t have to pay for these. Please, let me ge-“

“Think of them as payment, for tonight's lesson. Anyway, are you alone?”

“Oh, I’m just waiting on a friend.” You shook you head, confused. “Wait. What lesson?”

He laughed, tucking his card back into his pocket, arranging his three pint glasses into a triangle, then balancing the two bottles on their rims. He’d never be able to carry these back to his table, at least not without spilling half their contents.

“In manners,” he said with a wink before grasping the drinks in his big hands and slipping back into the flow of the crowd, disappearing like a ghost.

— — —

“Bloody took you long enough, L.t” Gaz crowed, clearly they’d need less pints and a few glasses of water to offset all the tequila they’d drunk in Simon’s absence.

“Did you go to brew la cheve, Ghost?” Rudy chimed in, emboldened by the alcohol.

Ghost huffed and set the full drinks down deftly. “Shut up and drink.” He didn’t have to tell them twice.

The conversation and alcohol flowed easily as the boys cleansed themselves of the stresses of war. Minutes rolled into hours and their raucous laughs drew a few sidelong glances to their table, they couldn’t care less.

“Right,” Garrick said as he stood, clapping his hands together and rubbing them mischievously. “I’d murder a kebab right now. Have you lads had kebabs before?” He asked their Mexican companions. Soap stood and stretched, the promise of a trip to the chippers rousing him from his stupor. “Not a kebab on a stick, like… with lamb and cabbage and sauce, y’know. A kebab.” he chimed in, clapping Gaz on the back for his enlightened suggestion. Alejandro and Rudy shook their heads with a laugh, “teach us the British way, amigos. Where do we get this ‘kebab’?” Rudy asked as he and the other two men stood from the table.

The pros and cons of a kebab after a night out were being discussed as though life’s meaning could be deciphered after one drunken bite. As Soap and Gaz evangelised a groggy ‘no!’ caught Simon’s attention. The quiet pleads were mixed with a name that was new, yet familiar.

“One second, lads,” he said as he moved ahead of the group, instinctively making his way towards the source of the disquieting feeling growing in his chest. Something was wrong, very very wrong.

“No, I don’t— I want to go. I don’t— I’m too tired. I want—no,” the girl from the bar was pulling against the grip of the man who’d ran with his tail between his legs at the first sign of confrontation. Simon didn’t have to listen to the young woman’s garbled sentences to know this shouldn’t be happening. She didn’t know him. She didn’t trust him. Neither did he. The would be assailant kept muttering her name and steering her towards the door as she shook her head and kept glancing behind her.

“Oi. Is there a problem, mate?” Simon asked, as his friends caught up with him. The man blanched as he looked up at Simon, growing quiet as the girl's protests got louder, drawing the attention of the few patrons left in the pub.

“She’s wasted, I’m just trying to get her home,” a shaky laugh punctuated the lie.

“I’m sure. But she doesn’t know you.” Simon pushed the mans shoulder, sending him two steps back and giving the girl the chance to shake him off.

“She… her friend knows me, he told me to get her home. Right? David,” he reached out to the girl in an attempt to get her attention. The look in Simon’s eyes told him that wasn’t a smart move. “Hey, tell them that David told me to-” before the sentence could end Soap spoke up, putting himself between Simon and the man, as Simon stepped closer. Whether this David existed or not didn’t matter, the Lieutenant was ready to separate the man’s lying head from his body. A scene was ill advised, especially if the police ended up getting involved.

“Alright,” Soap said, he reigned in his brogue as best he could, “let’s not put words in anyone’s mouth.” He began trying to deescalate the situation, much to Simon’s irritation. The girl looked up at him and he watched as she took in his face and something dawned on her.

“Ah, manners,” she said, mumbling to herself as she drew nearer to him. Simon couldn’t help but soften at that, pulling her close and wrapping an arm around her protectively. She’s been full of fire at the bar, a small part of him felt more sad than angry at the situation she found herself in. Maybe he should have stayed with her, at least until her friend came.

“Yeah, that’s me. Can you tell me your friends name, or what they look like? Maybe we can find-”

“The ghost with manners” she said weakly as she pressed her head against his chest, body going slack, knees buckling beneath her. Simon’s arms reached around her, his grip like a vice pressing her closer to him. The Ghost.

Ghost. How could she know that name?

He clung to her weak frame like a raft on a rocky sea. His fingers digging into the soft flesh of her as they both spiralled.

— — —

Weak pleads and careful promises swirled behind you, you couldn't hear them. Not really. Every fibre of your being was fixed on the man holding you up. The ghost from the bar with the big hands and scary eyes. But he wasn’t scary now, not anymore. Not to you.

“Hey,” his deep voice rang out above the world around you, though he spoke to you gently. A whisper that contained the roar of a distant sea. Who? Who was he?

“Simon, my name’s Simon.”

Shit. Had you said that out loud? Why couldn’t you tell? Why couldn’t you stand? You tried to take a shaky step back, to get free. To get a better look at this ‘Simon’, but your legs wouldn’t work, the muscles felt heavy and useless. How were you still standing, why couldn’t you remember how you’d gotten here?

You and David had been drinking, laughing. He’d gone to the bathroom. Said he’s meet you at the door and you’d get a taxi home together. Then the room began to slip away. A tide pulled you to the door. Sticky hands, a shake voice, and your name over and over again as you were pulled away. You’d wanted to fight but your body wouldn’t let you. You wanted to scream but your voice wouldn’t work right, your words didn’t fit together. The last few minutes became a puzzle somehow, and it terrified you.

Then Simon.

Like some vengeful angel, he appeared from nowhere. Pulling you close, holding you up though you felt as heavy as a star.

“Please, Simon… Simon,” you muttered, not sure whether he could hear you or if you were speaking in your mind again. Though a part of you felt like he could hear everything in there too.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Suddenly you were warm and weightless, drifting through the cold air. Fear beat in your chest, thumping against your ribs like a molten ball. You were going to die. You were certain. Your stomach rolled at the realisation.

“You’re not going to die, pet. You’re just a bit poorly now. But I’ve got you.”

His voice was closer now, warm lips pressed against your ear as he spoke into your mind. You wanted to believe him, so badly. You wanted to believe it was true.

“It is. I won’t let you die. I swear.”

“Don’t you let— don’t let me down. Are you gonna drop me?” please don't, Simon. Please.

“No, never.”

Simon.

Your ghostly Simon. The word shone bright in your foggy mind. “Never— don't hurt me.”

Something deep in you told you he couldn't.

— — —

The nurse at the desk was asking all the wrong questions. Simon could guess the answers she wanted, he could form a loose timeline in his mind. A version of events that made sense. But one thing was certain, he’d have to embellish the truth to get the right result. Civilian life was easier in someways, harder in others.

He gave her a name, gave an approximation of an age but he wouldn’t be allowed to stay with you unless he started filling in the blank spaces. He’d made a promise to you, and he’d keep it.

“I need a surname for the intake form, sir. Do you actually know this young lady?”

He sighed. He wasn’t the villain here. He knew how it looked, five men bringing a clearly intoxicated girl into the ER was dodgy. But he wasn’t the villain.

“Yeah, I already said that. Look, she needs help, and I have to stay with her, she’ll be looking for me when she wakes up.”

“I understand that sir, but only family are allowed to stay with patients overnight. And you still haven’t given me her—“

Surname and relationship to him. Yeah, because he didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to be here, all night if it took that long. He had to be there when you woke up, so he could fulfil his promise. So you'd know you were safe.

“Riley. It’s Riley.”

“And you’re family?”

Was he?

“Yes, of course.”

Now he was.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #stalker fic #tw stalking #tw possessive behavior #ghost mwii #simon ghost riley requests #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost imagine #ghost x female reader

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mrspasser · 6 months

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Never gonna give you up 5+1

I don't think I ever posted this fanfic here, so I'm here to fix that.

Never was too soon for a repeat of tonight’s experience, Derek decided as he braced himself against the sharp corner. The wheels of the Jeep skidded on the gravel, making the back of the car slide out. There was no need for them to drive this fast, not anymore. Leftover adrenaline made for a heavy foot on the gas, apparently. The engine whined as they cut free of the forest, trading gravel for blacktop. Gradually they reduced speed, until they were driving at a pace well within the limits.

“Think you can hit play for me, big guy?” Stiles asked in an upbeat tone. “Without getting blood all over my iPod, if you can.”

The look Derek sent him was cutting, but Stiles was long since immune for any angry stare he received from the werewolf. With all his energy going into healing, Derek decided it wasn’t worth it to get into it with Stiles over something so small. He pressed his left hand against the flap of skin that was only loosely covering his ribs on his right side and reached out with his free hand to the battered iPod crammed into the hole that used to house the radio of the Jeep. The radio was one of the car parts that fell victim to the crash with the Kanima and with some help of Boyd Stiles had hooked up his iPod directly to the car’s speakers.

The Alpha werewolf didn’t bother to check what playlist it was, he just hit the large button in the middle and settled back into his seat, gritting his teeth against the pain the movement caused.

The sounds of an eighties synthesizer filled the car, drums coming in alternately from the left and right speaker, immediately followed by a peal of laughter from the car’s owner. Derek bit through the agony and pushed forward again, cutting off the music abruptly just when the lyrics started. Stiles didn’t say anything, though it took a minute before he stopped chuckling quietly.

When they got to the loft, Stiles followed him inside, although Derek hadn’t asked him to. He hadn’t told him not to either, which was probably why the teen did it. Not that Stiles bothered with doing what people told him to, not when it came to Derek. The boy was pack in all the ways that counted, except for heeding his Alpha’s commands.

Derek let himself fall on the threadbare couch, still holding his skin more or less in the right place to knit itself together again. Behind him, Stiles rummaged around in the kitchen, emerging a little while later with two bottles of water and a couple of energy bars. He dropped the food and one of the bottles on the couch next to the werewolf, easily within reach. Then he sat down on the armrest furthest from Derek, twisting the cap of his own bottle and gulping the contents down eagerly. The werewolf watched the boy’s Adams apple bop with each swallow, his eyes catching on the long line of his throat.

Stiles wiped his mouth and looked down at Derek, intelligent eyes roaming over the werewolf’s bloodied torso. “You going to be okay?” he asked, not really sounding like he needed an answer, so Derek didn’t give him one. “Thought so,” the boy confirmed anyway, and patted Derek’s shin twice as he got up. “I’m gonna give Roscoe a wash. I think there are bits of skin stuck to the passenger seat. Gross!”

“Gonna have to walk a little slower, big guy,” Stiles complained, sounding a little winded as he picked his way through the undergrowth a few paces behind Derek. He grunted dismissively, though he held his step a little anyway.

Derek might have wondered why he was always the one stuck with Stiles on a stake out, if the math wasn’t so easy. Being human, the boy was the weakest of the pack, physically speaking at least. And with Derek as Alpha and therefore strongest, it was only logical that they paired up. Besides, it wasn’t like Derek had his pick of people to go on stakeout with tonight. There wasn’t a clear threat, this was just Derek acting on a hunch. ‘Being paranoid’, Scott had said. ‘I’m not messing up my nails in the woods tonight’, was Erica’s reaction. Boyd had only told him to call when there was trouble. Derek was fully prepared to go alone tonight. It was his idea after all and he was pretty sure he could handle whatever he would encounter. Yet Stiles hadn’t let him. He didn’t offer to tag along, he just did.

When asked, the werewolf would say he hated being alone with Stiles. The boy was never not moving and only silent when sleeping. Scratch that, even asleep Stiles wasn’t silent. He was a source of constant movement, night or day, always in the periphery of Derek’s attention. It was impossible not to watch Stiles, even more so when they were alone.

Walking through the woods at night and trying to keep a low profile was also pretty much impossible with Stiles, a fact proved when Derek grabbed the boy’s elbow not for the first time that night to keep him upright. If it were up to him, he would’ve gladly let him faceplant in the leaves, but they were making enough noise as it was already.

“Do you think you could be any louder?” he hissed, shoving Stiles along the path.

“Do you think you could be any rougher?” Stiles threw back in a low voice, rubbing his hand over where Derek had grabbed his arm. He wouldn’t bruise, Derek hadn’t grabbed him that hard; chances were he was just sour about missing out on game night with Scott. He’d heard them talking about it yesterday, Stiles lamenting about him and Scott needing a boy’s night with pizza, energy drinks and playing video games in their underwear. Derek didn’t understand why Stiles would choose a night in the woods with him over that.

“Now what?” Stiles stopped at the ridge, looking out into the forest on the hill below them.

“Now we wait,” Derek answered, dropping down into a crouch and tugging the boy down with him. Stiles fell to his butt with a grunt, but pulled his legs under him a moment later, jostling Derek’s shoulder when he came up to his knees.

“You see anything?” Derek didn’t answer that, nor the next question: “Hear anything?”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the werewolf’s lack of communication and then shrugged his backpack off. He pulled the bag in front of him and opened up the zipper. At first Derek ignored the apple that was presented to him, but Stiles only shook it in emphasis until he took it.

For a few minutes, Stiles was as quiet as he ever got. Which meant that the sounds of him chewing on his own apple mixed in with the sounds of the forest.

When the humming started, Derek shut him up at first. It helped for a few minutes, but not long. Because the wind was in their favour, Derek gave up on shushing Stiles: it was easier to just tune him out and concentrate on the sounds that reached him from the forest.

It took a good while before the words showed up in his mind. Bits and pieces of song lyrics just floating around his brain, easy to ignore. It wasn’t until he caught himself starting to hum the same tune that he rounded on the boy next to him. “Damn it, Stiles!”

Stiles simply laughed softly. “It’s quite the earworm, isn’t it?”

“Give me a second, I’m just gonna… Yeah, I’ve got it all right here,” Stiles said through the phone, clicking around on his computer. “Whole list of it, actually. I’ll send you an email right now.”

Derek hung up the phone and grabbed the laptop from the coffee table. It was a refurbished laptop that Stiles had made him buy a few weeks ago, claiming that ‘no self-respectable Alpha in the twenty first century could go without, especially if they don’t want to say goodbye to their frigging flip phone’.

The mockery of his phone by his pack was getting old. The device maybe wasn’t as up to date as the other phones, but it held up in a fight and that was something Derek valued more over the use of the latest social media apps. However, contrary to popular belief, Derek wasn’t completely unaware of pop culture, which was why he immediately recognised the video for what it was.

It was hidden in the list of websites Stiles sent him. Derek was working his way through the links one by one, working up a steady appreciation of Stiles' research skills, when his laptop suddenly started playing music after he clicked the fourth link on the list.

He almost called Stiles to tell him off, but settled for aggressively closing down the browser window.

The other links were all normal, providing him with the information he asked for and then some.

“You want anything, hon?” The waitress directed the question to Scott, who placed his order of a large breakfast spread with an equally large smile. She wasn’t placated by it and Derek resigned himself to giving her an extra big tip for putting up with his raucous pack on her early morning shift.

“I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” Stiles said to the table at large, patting his stomach.

“Should’ve ordered something else than bacon then,” Isaac deadpanned from across from him.

Stiles smiled impishly. “My love for bacon is strong, I can’t help it.”

“Can you make bacon from horses?” Scott wondered out loud and that set off a whole discussion about the consummation of horse meat.

Derek let it all wash over him, leaning back in his chair. His pack was fine, all were whole, or whole again at least. Isaac was wearing a track shirt that Stiles had lying in the back of his Jeep, replacing his own shirt that was ripped to pieces. There was blood on his jeans still, Derek could smell it from across the table, but it wasn’t visible against the dark fabric and the wounds were all healed. Erica sported a similar situation, also with mostly invisible bloodstains on her dark clothes, as did Boyd. The blood wasn’t all theirs. Normally, Derek would have told them to go home, wash up, but this Denny’s was closer and growling stomachs had won over the urge to get cleaned up. Or rather, Stiles had strongarmed him into buying his pack breakfast, saying that it was good for bonding and empty stomachs alike.

Not bothering to get in on the conversation, Derek let his eyes glide over his pack members, ensuring himself once again that everyone was in one piece. He got stuck on Stiles, distracted by the way his T-shirt pulled taut when he moved his arms behind his back to stretch. Derek hadn’t seen the article of clothing before, it had been hidden underneath a grey striped hoodie; he guessed that was ruined too. It was a black T-shirt with a jumble of letters and symbols on the front. It looked like computer code, or something equally confusing. Undoubtedly it was some pop culture reference, or a bad pun. He didn’t care enough to ask for the meaning of it, yet his eyes kept returning to the text on the shirt, even after their food arrived.

He recognised a word in the top line from the abbreviations the pack used in their text messages; sometimes it was as if they were allergic to vowels. The letters ‘nvr’ probably spelled never. And below that, was the word ‘annog’, which could be a made up word or it was simply ‘gonna’ spelled backwards. Then it said ‘forgive’, subtract four, and on the bottom something with ‘me’, ‘you’ and ‘splitting soup’. It was complete nonsense, that’s what it was.

Eventually, Stiles caught him looking. “You like the shirt, big guy?” He took a bite of a strip of bacon, cocking his head as he waited for Derek to answer.

“It’s ridiculous. It doesn’t even make sense.”

Stiles grinned. “Sure it does. You just have to figure it out.”

Next to him, Boyd took a look at Stiles’ shirt and scoffed. “Isn’t that joke ancient by now?”

“Classics never go out of style,” Stiles argued, pointing the strip of bacon at Derek’s second. “Besides, I like it. It’s got meaning.”

“Like your stripper mom’s T-shirt?” Erica asked snidely. “Because that one’s just rubbish.”

“Nah,” Stiles smirked and then he winked at Derek. “This one has a better roll to it, doesn’t it, oh Alpha mine?”

It clicked for Derek in that moment and he let out a long suffering sigh. “I should rip your throat out…”

“With your teeth, I know,” Stiles finished for him, happily munching on another strip of bacon.

Up until now Derek had always thought that brownies were something to eat, not annoying little creatures to kill. Or, well, that’s not exactly true. He knew they were mythical creatures, but he’d thought they were just that. Mythical, not real. And how bad could they be if they ended up being real? Pretty damn annoying, it turned out. They didn’t look like much, but they had razor sharp teeth and equally sharp nails that cut through clothes and skin like miniature knives through butter. And like a wolf pack, their strength was in numbers. However, he refused to lose to something small and annoying, so, in the end, the wolf pack won.

Derek looked around at his pack, who were panting and bloody, but otherwise okay. Erica was frantically raking her fingers through her hair, cursing angrily at the loose hairs she brushed out with it. “Those fuckers cut a chunk of my hair!”

Boyd diligently looked at the problem area, declaring it wasn’t so bad. Erica huffed in disdain. “No offence, honey, but you haven’t got a hair on your head. What the hell do you pretend to know about it?”

She turned to the other available girl, Allison, and let the hunter fuss over her hair. Derek was long past the point of wondering how the hell that happened. His pack included a hunter, a banshee and a former kamina, he'd learned to not question it anymore.

He patted his pockets, routinely checking for his car keys. Those he found, though they threatened to fall through a tear in his jeans any minute. He came up short when feeling around for his phone. The pocket on that side was cut clean through, empty of its contents. Derek rumbled in annoyance, getting a quick inquiring glance from Boyd.

"Lost my phone," he explained quickly, already stalking back to the area where he'd been for most of the fight. It was where Stiles was sitting, sagged out against a tree and scrolling through something on his phone. The boy was holding the cuff of his sleeve pressed gingerly against a small cut above his lip, otherwise he seemed fine and Derek didn't have to worry about him.

Sniffing out his phone turned out to be harder than he thought. The ground was covered in quickly disintegrating brownie bodies and while he could appreciate the lack of clean up they would have to do, the smell of decay and blood covered up the other smells in the area.

Derek planted his hands on his hips with a huff, scanning the forest floor around him. His phone was black and pretty small: it could be anywhere. He glanced at the smartphone in Stiles' hand, with its shiny firetruck red cover. Obnoxious and flashy as it was, it would be pretty easy to find.

"What's up, big guy?" Stiles asked from his spot by the tree. "Looking for something?"

"Dropped my phone," Derek sighed, already making plans in his head to drop by the mall in the next town over to get a new phone. He wondered if they still sold flip phones.

"Oh wait, I'll call you so we can hear it ring," Stiles said, clambering to his feet and moving his fingers over his touch screen.

Sure enough, moments later there was a song playing, a few meters to his left. "That's not my ringtone," Derek said sharply, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline when he recognised the song.

“It is when I call,” Stiles answered gleefully, watching as Derek went off in the direction of the sound. The warm baritone of the singer was cut off when the werewolf bent down to retrieve his phone, buried half underneath a dead brownie. He wiped it on his jeans and then flipped it open.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Stiles called out.

“Figuring out how to delete this ringtone,” Derek bit out, tapping the keys forcefully.

“Hey, no, why would you do that?” Stiles ambled closer and for a moment Derek forgot to tune out his scent. It was a habit that his mother had taught him when he was young; with their keen sense of smell and hearing there was little privacy in a pack: it was common courtesy to try and tune the others out as much as possible in normal, day to day interactions. Derek did it with his own pack too, as much out of self-preservation as in consideration of their privacy. His pack consisted of teenagers, they were generally a whirlwind of strong emotions and unwarranted arousal. He would get whiplash if he’d be able to scent it all. Right now, Stiles smelled of disappointment and vague embarrassment.

Derek frowned. “Because it’s a cheesy song. A joke.”

The smell of embarrassment got a little stronger. “It’s our thing,” Stiles said with a shrug that wasn’t as casual as he probably hoped. “It’s our song, sourwolf” he tacked on with a smirk, also a bit strained.

“It’s a love song,” Derek said slowly, puzzled, his fingers stilling on the phone keys. It wasn’t like he knew how to change the ringtone anyway. Before now he didn’t even know you could add personalised ringtones to a caller.

“Yeah, well…” Stiles cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. He was also getting quite red in the face, yet still Derek couldn’t look away from him. “It’s the sentiment that counts.”

“The sentiment,” Derek repeated, still confused by the situation.

“The sentiment, you know, the message? The idea the song conveys?”

“I know what sentiment means, Stiles,” he said, more gently than he usually was with the teen. “But still… a love song.”

“I know that,” said Stiles, still with red cheeks. “And I know that we,” he gestured with his hand between them, “are not… that.”

Derek pressed down on the sudden urge to ask what exactly they were, if not that.

“I just think that, it’s just,” Stiles floundered and then he shrugged somewhat defeated. “It’s something that you need to hear, every now and then.” A silence fell between them, one loaded with something Derek couldn’t quite figure out. Not yet.

Stiles took a deep breath and held out his hand. “Give me that, I’ll change it back to your normal, boring ringtone.”

Derek shook his head and put his phone in his jacket pocket, a pocket that was still in one piece. With a nudge to Stiles' shoulder he started to walk away, towards the spot where they parked their cars. Stiles followed him, smelling content and happy, with his lips pressed together to hide a smile.

Derek hadn’t known he had a first aid kit in his bathroom. Yet there it was, neatly tucked away in the cabinet underneath the sink. The rectangle box felt heavy, like it was stuffed full with all kinds of items a self-healing werewolf would never need.

“Why do I have this?” Derek asked as he walked back into the room, knowing for sure he never bought it, so someone else had to. Someone named Stiles, probably.

“Because you have humans in your pack,” Stiles answered from the sofa, making grabby hands at the kit before Derek was even close enough. He took the box, putting it in his lap and opening it immediately. “There should be ice packs in the fridge,” Stiles directed without looking up.

And indeed there were. Derek grabbed two and a towel, making his way back to Stiles. He carefully sat down by the foot that the boy had put up on the sofa. His sneaker was already off, but he still had his sock on. The werewolf carefully placed the ice packs on both sides of Stiles’ swollen ankle, wrapping them in place with the towel.

Meanwhile, Stiles was wrapping his arm up. It was his lower left arm, making it not too hard for him to do himself; the bandage was a little wonky, but it’d do for now. It was just a large scrape anyway, the bandage was mostly to keep the wound clean.

That left the cut on his eyebrow. Derek watched Stiles feeling around the cut with his fingers of his one hand, while holding a butterfly bandage with his other. It wouldn’t work, but he waited until Stiles grimaced and locked eyes with him, a crooked, bloody butterfly bandage still in hand.

Derek leaned forward and picked a clean bandage from the kit. “This one, right?”

Stiles nodded and kept his eyes on Derek when he scooted closer until he was seated next to the boy’s hip. The cut was already cleaned and disinfected, all that was left was to place the bandage. Maybe two, Derek thought, as he eyed the cut critically. Stiles had said it wasn’t deep enough to warrant stitches and he’d gotten hurt often enough to know, Derek presumed. It didn’t sit easy with him, though. He didn’t like to see his pack get hurt, especially the humans because they didn’t heal as quickly as the werewolves did. And, he didn’t like seeing Stiles get hurt.

Derek carefully placed the butterfly bandage across the cut. Stiles smelled of blood and pain, though the boy assured him the latter was mostly from his ankle. Spraining an ankle hurt, Derek knew from experience, even though for him the pain was always short lived. Stiles closed his eyes as Derek put a second bandage in place and covered them with a larger bandaid. “There, that should do it.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said softly as Derek put everything back in the kit and quickly tidied away the mess.

“Want to watch a movie?” The question came somewhat unexpected for Stiles, yet he smiled and nodded quickly. Derek tossed him the remote so he could select a movie from the streaming services the boy had set up himself a while back and went into the kitchen to grab them something to drink.

When he came back Stiles had a superhero movie lined up, one that Derek hadn’t seen yet but he knew Stiles had. He pulled the coffee table closer to the sofa so Stiles could reach his drink and then sat down, carefully placing Stiles' injured foot in his lap. The boy’s heartbeat ticked up and his cheeks coloured red, yet he didn’t say anything. Derek nodded for him to press play on the movie and gently eased his hand a little ways up Stiles’ pant leg, just above the ice packs, to make skin contact and leach away his pain.

“Thanks for coming back,” Stiles said quietly over the sounds of the opening scene. “And taking care of me.”

Derek glanced at him, at the way Stiles held his eyes glued to the tv screen to avoid looking at him directly. He waited a beat for Stiles to take a sip of his soda. “That goes without saying, Stiles,” he emphasised then. “I wasn’t gonna run around and desert you.”

Stiles made a choking sound and sprayed his drink everywhere. Derek kept his foot in place while the boy flailed and laughed, wiping the soda from his face with his sleeve. “Damn it, Derek! It came out of my nose!”

You can also find this fic here on Wattpad or on A03.

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfic #5 + 1 fic #fanfiction #ilse writes fanfiction #crack fic taken seriously #never gonna give you up #I'll never get tired of this song #derek x stiles #alpha derek hale #stiles is derek's number one supporter #derek has a flip phone

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pariahsparadise · 2 years

Text

6/10

requested by anonymous: IRIS ''do you wanna make out?'' Will Byers “I don’t want you to be disappointed.” Male reader The readers all nervous and insecure especially with Will being so forward and not knowing what he’s doing to him (making him all flustered), Will helps him out. (Will kinda acts like and makes the reader flustered like he did in the nightmare themed Drabble)

word count: 400

author's note: thank you so much for this request! i tried to incorporate as much of it as i could. i haven't written much for the 1k celebration event i myself am hosting LOL but with this i'm going to start doing more!

pairings: will byers x male!reader

"Do you wanna make out?"

You jump a little at the blunt question, still not used to how forward Will can be sometimes, when he really lets his guard down around someone. It's a recent discovery, something you only learned after approximately three dates with him. You're over at his house, leafing through an old comic book as he sits next to you on the bed, sketching. The deft, clever strokes of his pen on paper had captured your attention a long time ago, but you didn’t think he had noticed.

Laughing a little nervously, you respond truthfully, “I don’t know, I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Why would I be?” Will wonders out loud, carefully capping his pen before setting both it and the sketchbook aside.

“It’s just-” you start, words flowing out of your mouth before they even register in your brain, “I’ve never made out with someone before, I kind of don’t know how it works? It just seems so complicated to me. How much tongue am I supposed to use? When am I supposed to use it? And how? And what if I’m bad at it, what if-”

“You’ll get better,” Will interrupts you, making you flush as you notice his sudden proximity to you, the hand he raises to caress your cheek, the artistic, lithe fingers of his other that trace their way across the back of your neck into your hair, “I can help you practise.”

You only have two seconds to prepare yourself, gasping a quick breath of air before Will steals it from you, kissing you delicately, devastatingly slow. Your body curls closer to his instinctively, hands grasping for purchase in what they can find, be it his thigh, elbow, or shirt. Your mind is filled with nothing but a pleasant hum, warmth expanding in your chest as Will pulls you even closer to him, tangling your legs. All your worries dissipate as Will parts your mouth easily, exploring it confidently while his hand strokes your cheekbone soothingly, his lips pillowy and hot against yours.

Will finally lets you breathe, releasing you from the kiss, but not letting you move too far, eyes scrutinising yet fond as he takes in your swollen lips and mussed hair.

“6/10,” is what he finally says, trying to keep a straight face, “You’re right, you’re pretty bad at it. You need a lot more practice.”

“Why, you little-!” you explode, tackling him onto his back, your angry insults cut short by his peals of laughter, but you can’t find it in yourself to be upset. Not even a little bit.

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full-of-mercy · 1 year

Text

starter: desert rain

There are things that just don't happen in No Man's Land, this ball of dust spinning around two suns.

Case in point:

It's raining.

Sort of.

There was an earthquake.

Also sort of.

The clank and clatter of industry gave way to rumbling, to furrows and fissures appearing in sandstone streets. The populace only started to scatter out of Little Ticaboo's colorful central bazaar when the fry stall started spitting and spilling hot oil across the cobbles, igniting a blaze in the adjacent basket weaver's wares. That wasn't all, of course, but that was what prompted the first of many waves of confusion and panic.

Running toward the fire, running from it.

All of this coincided with deep chthonic cracking, a guttural wrench. A sidewalk split from its adjoined avenue, toppling awnings one after another in a drape of reds and blues, blurry smears amid rising smoke. It was all they could do to help people cross the widening, trembling gap, to keep the earth from swallowing them up.

Suddenly as it began, the shaking stopped.

Only to burst in a peal of thunder.

Muddy, burbling, and then fluting, trumpeting past the town's well-pump scaffolds, an unstoppable elemental force. The eruption soared in a plume of mist, drenching everything beneath it, scattering prisms in the cloudless sky.

Wolfwood ascended a stable building, perching on the slant of a tiled roof to watch the chaos unfold.

And here he stands, looking up, looking out. A stampede (ha) to escape debris and sinkholes has become a rush to open cisterns and barrels and every possible vessel to capture the falling bounty—a race to cap and control the flow, stem the tide.

Water scours dust from stone and skin, making streams of the streets, a benediction to upturned faces and open hands.

(And a bane to lit cigarettes. Damn it).

#verse: wayward wolf

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heqvenlymoons · 6 months

Text

Marinette's Joke: The Showdown of Damian's Pets Fighting Over Homework

For Maribat March Day 7 & 30: Joke & Showdown

@maribatserver

Marinette stumbled into her mathematics class five minutes after the bell rang.

The teacher, Mrs. Steeles, had her back to the class, scribbling down what Marinette assumed to be the math homework questions from last night on the whiteboard.

Marinette tried to sneak past Mrs. Steeles, heading towards her seat in the back, where Damian was already sitting and watching her with exasperation.

She kept her footsteps light, barely making any sound, but somehow, the mathematics teacher seemed to have eyes on the back of her head.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, I wonder why you are late this time.” Mrs. Steeles said dryly, capping her marker before facing the late student.

Marinette looked like a deer caught in headlights as she whirled to face the front, the stares she was getting from her classmates making her skin prickle. “Uh, I—”

Mrs. Steeles pinned her with a look of disapproval, waving her off. “Just head to your seat.”

Marinette wasted no time rushing to her seat, setting her bag beside her desk.

Damian leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone. “Tt. Why were you late?”

She didn’t respond until Mrs. Steeles turned her focus back to the whiteboard, the blue dry-erase marker in her hand uncapped once more.

“Akuma in Paris. I had to voyage,” Marinette whispered just low enough for him to hear.

He nodded in understanding. “Did you do the math homework from yesterday?”

Her eyes widened, a look of horror taking over her face. “Oh no—”

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, do you have the homework from yesterday?” Mrs. Steeles asked, shattering Marinette’s hope that the mathematics teacher would forget.

What was the point of being the embodiment of luck when the luck didn’t manifest when she needed it?

Marinette swallowed, glancing to Damian for help, who heartlessly shrugged as if saying, ‘You’re on your own.’

“Well?” Mrs. Steeles prompted with a raised brow, giving her foot impatient taps.

Marinette panicked and blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “My homework got torn up in a game of tug of war.”

Her classmates burst out laughing, and she played with the hem of the black skirt of her uniform.

“Really, Dupain-Cheng? Tug of war? You could not have come up with something better using that scattered brain of yours?” Damian hissed out, speaking over the loud peals of laughter from their classmates, looking unimpressed.

“I was under pressure, and I panicked!” she whispered back, a sheepish expression on her face.

“And just, who were you playing tug of war with?” Mrs. Steeles asked, looking just as unimpressed as Damian.

The gears in Marinette’s head turned as she struggled to think of a somewhat half-dignified response. “Damian’s pets! I was, um— we were doing homework together at his house, and I left my homework on the floor by accident. Titus— uh, Damian’s dog and Alfred— um, cat got ahold of it…”

She could feel Damian staring daggers at her, but he hadn’t exposed her to the lie, so she took it as a win.

“Who won? The dog or the cat?” someone called out, sounding invested in the non-existent war that had taken place between Damian’s hoard of animals.

Of course, Marinette, the queen of inventing excuses when it calls for protecting her secret identity, found it within reason to respond with something even more absurd.

“Well, uh— technically neither? Mojo- um, the ape! The ape hijacked my homework from Ti— the dog, which tore it in half. Then Goliath— the dragon bat breathed fire, and because my homework was caught in the crossfire, it disintegrated into ashes.”

The students were fascinated by the narrative and amused with her ability to spin such a tale on the spot. They spoke over one another, voicing their thoughts.

“Dragon bat? What new species is that?”

“I didn’t know Damian Wayne had an ape as a pet!”

“What happens next? Who ate the ashes?”

Meanwhile, Damian glared at her for exposing his supernatural pet. “You do realize Goliath is supposed to be kept a secret? How am I supposed to explain a dragon bat somehow ending up in my possession?”

Marinette winced, looking apologetic. “Sorry, Dami. In my defense, this wouldn’t have happened had you helped me think of a plausible excuse! Whatever happened to cover for one another?”

“I can’t believe you are blaming this on me,” he said in disbelief, crossing his arms and turning away from her with a hmph.

“Class, settle down, please.” Mrs. Steeles said, looking tired. She shot Marinette the stink eye, looking unmoved by her dramatic tale of a showdown between Damian’s pets fighting over her homework.

“Do keep disputes between pets away from your homework in the future, Miss Dupain-Cheng. I think this joke of yours, rather unique as it may be, has entertained the class enough, and it is time to return to the lesson.”

Mrs. Steeles directed one last stern look at Marinette, then turned to write more questions on the whiteboard.

Marinette at least had the decency to mutter a “Sorry” to Damian.

His lips twitched like he might smile, but he kept the act of staying mad with her. His arms still crossed, and his body angled a little away from her.

To Marinette, it seemed like he was pouting, and that caused her to giggle. Because Damian would deny and insist he doesn’t pout.

The sound softened his demeanour at once, prompting her to smile in victory.

“Whatever. You better not expose even more of my pets— supernatural species or not— to these imbeciles next time,” he grumbled, trying and failing to glare at her.

“Of course~ we wouldn’t want people to think the Ice Prince of Gotham is secretly a softie, would we now?” she teased, smiling the bright smile she knew he melted for.

She could see the tips of his ears flush pink even as he turned from her to face the front.

“Tt,” was his only response, seeming unaware she could see him sneaking glances at her through her peripheral vision.

She found his behaviour adorable.

#maribat #maribat crack #maribat fanfic #maribat march 2024 #dc x mlb #maribat damian wayne #marinette dupain cheng #heqvenlymoons

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issybee06 · 20 days

Text

Because…

Part IV

Warnings: blood, stab wound, messy medical treatment, drinking, smoking, deep talk, scars

Pink is for horny people, and princesses…you are both.

Andddd we are back!

Latibule

(n.) a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort.

………………………………………………………………………….

Smoke swirled up into the night sky, replicating the old and forgotten Uzumaki sigel. Dawn would break soon, yet I never slept.

Looking back into the room, Kakashi lay motionless on my futon. He looked at peace, younger and unaffected by the horrors we had faced since we could remember. Kakashi was a strange man, and was a stranger child in his youth.

I sigh again, turning away from him and leaning on the balcony more. Inhaling, the familiar taste of smoke filled my lungs, and after they were filled I blew the smoke out, letting it swirl once again.

“HOLY SHIT, KAKASHI!”

I rushed in, falling to my knees as I look over kakashis blooded body. He groaned, loud noises alwayed bothered him more then anyone.

“Shut up…” he mumbled, half knocked out. I scoff slightly at him as I check him over.

“You are so fucking stupid Kakashi…youre gonna die here..,” Not because I would just leave him there. No, id never do that no matter how much he pissed me off, he was going to die because he chose to go to the one Shinobi who couldn't do medical ninjutsu for shit…and he knew.

I stand up quickly, and rush to Genmas room. He was sure to have something in there, he was the medic in the house.

I open the door, and my nose curls. It’s no wonder he never brings anything girls here, he’s a slob even into his adult years. I sigh, and head to his desk to rummage.

“Come on Gen…give me something….” I open another drawer, sighing in frustration. Books he’s never opened. Scrolls he’s never used. Loose Chakra pills. “For fucks sake…!”

I open the lower drawer, and grin, “Finally.” It was a gift from Asuma, a small med kit that could fit into someone’s pocket. Genma had scoffed at it, dubbing Asuma an ass gift-giver because he had given him the same gift for Asumas birthday.

I grab the kit, and shut the drawer quickly. I stumbled over Genmas dirty clothes-or clean clothes- and rush out of his room and back down the hall to the bathroom.

“Got it!” I yell, forgetting he was unconscious. I fall to my knees before him, and with shaky hands peal the sticky skin-tight ANBU shirt. It was worse than I thought, long and gross. The skin was ripped, most likely from a curved blade. Clean going in, nasty coming out.

“Okay…okay.” I roll the kit out, and start looking for something to clean the wound-alcohol or some kind of infection killer. Shit. Whatever it was Genma must of thought it was the only good thing in the gift cause it was drunk, not even a drop remained. “Of course you used medicine alcohol as a shooter…”

I stand, and rush to the kitchen, it was a stupid idea but it might work.

I open the cabinet, grabbing the half drunk Sakè. I head back to the bathroom, and kneel once again in frog the tub. Kakashi groans, and he’s eyes squint open, “…that for me?”

My jaw tightens, and I glare at him, “you are such a fucking Baka, why did you come here of all places?”

I began twisting the cap, but my hands were slippery from the blood. I used my teeth, tasting the alcohol and blood on the cork, and he scoffed.

“Oh…I don’t know…death wish and shit…” he watches me as I pour some of the Sakè on my hands, sterilizing them. The lean over the tub, and shove his glove into his mouth, “bite.”

I pour the Sakè onto the wound, and he groans in pain. His eyes strew shut, and his head falls back against the wall but he doesn’t wiggle or thrash away. After the area is cleared of any blood, I pull away and he breaths heavily.

“Sorry…I think you deserve this.” I hold the bottle up, and he takes it. Removing the glove, he replaces it with the bottle as he greedily tries to numb the pain.

“H…how do I do this? Just…stitch you like I’m stitching a hole in a shirt or some shit?” I ask, looking up at him as I analyze the wound. He scoffs again, and with lidded eyes looks down at me.

“No…stupid…it’s different.” I scoff this time, glaring at him, “oh I’m sorry, I’ve never fucking done this genius.”

“Clearly.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not now…” he takes another sip, closing his eyes as he thinks, “you need to clean the needle first.”

“It’s never been used.” I huff, and he shoots me a glare, “right, right. Clean needle. Hand me the bottle.”

He passes it over, and I pour the alcohol on it. I pass the bottle back, and he sits it onto of his bent knee, “ya gotta thread it, then push it in at a 90 degree angle. 90 (Y/n).”

“I heard.” I snap, lining the threaded needle up against his skin. I swallow, and push it through. He winces slightly, but relaxes after its on the other side. I pull it all the way through, and wait.

“Knot it, tightly so that it doesn’t come loose but not too tight that it tears the skin. Then repeat.”

I nod, tying it. I continue, slowly but surely as my work turns less and less mediocre. He drinks, numbing himself as he stares off into space. He absentmindedly pets the cat, who had been oh so good at protecting the almost 6’ foot man who was bleeding out only a few feet away from the litter box.

I lean back, admiring my work. Tsunade always said I stitched like a drunk silk worm, but looking down at the closed wound all I wanted to do was send letter after letter to my mother’s cousin to stick it in her face.

I was not a drunk slick worm.

“So…you gonna tell me how the great Kakashi got in paled like a damn pig?” I ask, wiping my hands of his blood. He huffs, rolling his head to look at me. He’s eyes were tired, and he looked worn and beat. I didn’t know what he did on missions, the extensive stuff, but I did know it was swallowing him up and eating him from the inside.

“…classified.”

I scoff, standing and he weakly tries to protest, “(Y/n-”

“No. If you don’t want to talk about it then we won’t talk about it.” I start cleaning the needle as the sink, and the dried blood on my hands. He watches me, I could feel his eyes, and they’re sad.

“…it was the same shinobi…from that night.”

My heart stops, and so does my hands, but I slowly move my hands again under the water, “…really?”

He stays quiet, the only thing breaking the silence was the water rushing and Sakè purring. Finally he moved to stand, wincing, “(Y/n)-”

I catch him, and let his body weight flood over me like a sack of sand. I cup his face, and push his silver hair away. He frowns down at me, and he looked so old in that moment, so tired.

“I killed them…”

I frown at him, nodding, “let’s get you out of those clothes, yeah?”

“I don’t think I’ll fit into your clothes…”

“Genma can learn to share.” I help him slowly step out of the tub, and lean on me as we shuffle down the hall to my room. I let him softly flop on my futon, and he groans. He watched me as I leave, heading to Genmas nest of horrors.

I come back a few minutes later, having to thoroughly sniff check the clothes before giving them to Kakashi. Even as a Hatake, he’s nose was so much more sensitive then any Hatake or Inuzuka or anyone from my father side.

“Here, it’s not the best but it’s Gemma-” I stop, and swallow. He was passed out on my futon, shirt and pants off. I sigh, and place the clothes on my desk. I head over to him, and brush his hair back and away from his face.

I took in ever detail, every line and divot, the long scar, the mole. Everything. I never got to actually see him anymore, even with the mask, so I drank up the time greedily.

I sigh, standing up and headed to the balcony. I needed a smoke.

I boredly play with the dumpling, not really paying attention as my best friend Ichibangase Kaori ranted about the latest hot gossip circling the village. I could always count on her to keep me up to date on things while, in her words, I was “hiding in my science burrow and turning into a mole”.

“All im saying is that I just know the Hokage is hiding porn up there, he can’t possibly be working the whole time-(Y/n)? (Y/n)!” She leans over, snapping her fingers in my face. I hum, looking up. She sighs, sitting back in her seat.

“You’re distracted, and when you’re distracted you slump into your hand and then you get a mark.”

I furrow my brows, “I do not have a mark.”

She makes a face, and sips her tea, “sure.”

I sigh, pushing my short hair back, “I’m sorry…I’m just tired and you took me to lunch, it’s not fair.”

“Oh I don’t care about Lunch, gosh you apologized so much we gotta look back on that,” I make a deepened face, “all I’m saying if you work too hard, you barely get out anymore. I don’t think I’ve seen you since Gais birthday and I barely saw you!”

“It’s a lot of work! I mean, we just started this project and we’ve only just scratched the surface of this-”

“(Y/n). You work too hard. I worry about you.” She says sternly, and takes another sip of her tea. Soon, she goes back to talking.

I frown, and go back to playing with my food. She was probably right. I did work a lot.

She hums suddenly, looking up at me expectantly, “has your brother sent a message about the wedding?”

Oh yes, my oldest half brothers wedding. Soichiro was the next head of the Takamori clan in Suna, the lions of the sand. The Takamori clan and the Inuzuka clan were said to come from the same common ancestor, but even if Tsume and I had a drop of blood binding us we never seemed to agree on anything.

“He wants it the fall, won’t be excruciatingly hot then.” I responded, thinking, “it will still be hot though. It’s Suna.”

She hums, “are you excited? You haven’t been back there in two years.”

I shrugged, “I guess…”

I was excited, I had always loved visiting my father’s family in Suna. It was big, and loud, and everything my mother and i’s two-man clan wasn’t. I loved sand sledding with my older brothers, beading with my cousins, aunts and grandaunts, polishing the silver blades before my granduncle hammered them into wooded handles.

My father, Takamori Pazū, was the head of the Takamori clan, and had been since he was 10. It was war, and my grandfather had died tragically in battle leaving his wife and three children. My father took up the mantle quite quickly, and has been holding the fort down ever since.

His two sisters, Saeko and Hachi, were two of the first and youngest women to go to war and never let any of us younger kids forget. If we ever complained about the heat or being hungry or hurt one of them would always be there to say, “you think this is bad? I was in the desert for two weeks without water once. Tough it out.”

Of course, they did exaggerate, Aunt Hachi most of all. Aunt Saeko was in the war longer then Hachi, not marrying or settling down till the Suna council forced her. Hachi married young, 16, and now works with her husband’s weapons shop where they make chakra infused blades.

Saeko is head of ANBU in Suna, and won’t be retiring anytime soon from what my cousin Hachidori says in her letters.

Hachidori is Saekos only child, a seer like our Grandmother, who won’t stop telling me that I will “grow from the seed you think you’ll always be.”

Hachidori was the cousin I was the closest too, and I was glad I’d get to see her again most of all. If the council agreed to let me leave, of course.

“It’s a big “what if”.”

“Huh? But it’s your brothers wedding!” She exclaimed, frowning.

“He’s not a Senju, and he’s not from Konoha, the council won’t see any reason for me to go and put myself in danger. Konoha and Suna might be allied now, but the relationship is still strained…they wouldn’t risk it.”

She huffs, crossing her arms, “…is it because of Danz-”

I hold up a hand, silencing her. I didn’t like talking about Danzo, in any scenario-with any person.

“It’s because I am the only Senju in the village. Kaachan is in the capital and Tsunade is Kami knows where, I’m…”

“Important?”

“…yeah, let’s go with that.” I sigh again, taking a sip of my cold tea. “I’ll figure something out, throw the guilt card at them, it’s worked before.”

“You weren’t engaged before.”

I throw her a glare, silencing her.

Oh yes, rule number “idgaf” of being a princess: get engaged to someone of equal or higher class then you to make more snobby rich babies.

She sighs, tucking her straight dirty blonde hair behind her ear, “youre a Senju princess, they won’t just let you leave no matter what your dating status is…this just adds to it.”

I hum, thinking. She’s right, they won’t just let me leave…unless…

I smile at her, taking a big gulp of my tea, “don’t worry, I have someone who owes me a big favor.”

#kakashi x reader #hatake kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x reader #naruto #naruto shippuden #enemies to lovers #friends to lovers #oc stuff #oc clan #naruto uzumaki #sasuke uchiha #sakura haruno #genma shiranui #kurenai yuhi #asuma sarutobi #anti danzo #konoha #anbu kakashi x reader

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mostmagical · 8 months

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drabble prompt! crown 🥰

hi 🥺 I hope you like this

Prompt: crown

The lavender stem bent easily between Adrien’s fingers, allowing him to weave it together carefully with another. It had been years since he had made flower crowns, but the muscle memory was thankfully still intact. Soon enough, he had connected three, then four, and five…

“Hey!” Nino shouted beside him.

The exclamation was followed by peals of laughter from the girls. Adrien broke his concentration to look up, finding Alya with a red cap perched atop her head.

“Mine now,” she teased.

“Rude!”

Impulsively, Adrien dropped his newly formed crown on Nino’s hatless head.

Adrien grinned. “Looks good on you.”

Send me one word, I’ll write you 100

#thanks for sending me a word!!!#hundred word drabbles #adrino #(perhaps... up to interpretation)#my writing #miraculous #bbutterflies

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evilhasnever · 2 years

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Not a request but it was partially inspired by this lovely artwork by @pillow-boi!

xiyao soulmate AU - colors

They say people know only one color in their life until they meet the One that opens their eyes. Most people live perfectly well without knowing more - to them, colors are only words attached to concepts without any truth to them. “Blue”, “Gold”, “Pink”, what are these but words, to one who has never seen them? But curiosity was always Meng Yao’s greatest flaw.

When A-Yao asked mama to describe colors, she always recited poetry to him. She said one day father would come back and bring all the colors with him, that he’d bring gold and turquoise and purple as a gift, and let them see the world of poets and painters. The older Meng Yao got, the more he suspected mother had never truly seen gold and turquoise and purple herself, because her descriptions were vague and lyrical, the same as her poetry and fables.

The only color Meng Yao knows is blood. He’s seen it on mother’s lips and bedsheets, he’s seen it smeared on her face like makeup. When she died, Meng Yao decided he did not miss the red at all. He knows, knows, knows, that the world is nothing but black and white and the miserable gray in between, tasting of hunger pangs and bitter bile. The splatters of blood pressed on the world like fingerprints help him spot danger and keep him alive.

Meng Yao is fine with that; colors are better left to poets, who live above the caliginous gray world. He can be gray himself, slipping among shadows unseen until he finds what he is looking for. Safety, and strength, and gold.

He sees no glint of gold as he falls ruinously off the stairs, hundreds of steps biting into his flesh like the fangs of rabid dogs, the gray sky above and gray marble below blurring into one. He limps back into the fog, numb even to his pain, and for a while he refuses to look at the world at all.

But one day, one day he finds a wounded young man in the woods and his eyes open wider, wider, wide.

He sees the bluish hue of his corvine hair, he sees the pinkening of his cheeks when he unexpectedly smiles, he sees the shocking green of a leaf that stuck to his ruined robes. He sees his blood too, and he immediately gets to work tending to his injuries, his hands shaking.

“Young Master, you’re wounded. Young Master, who did this to you?” His breaths stutter in his lungs with the desperate urgency of one who’s broken the surface of water after a too-long dive.

“My name is Lan Xichen,” the Young Master whispers, incongruously. He’s still smiling despite the blood on his clothes. “May I have your name?”

“Meng Yao,” he hurries to reply, “please, let me help you up. Come with me.”

In a daze, they stumble through the woods and along the river. Meng Yao has to keep himself from spooking like a foal at every unexpected splash of color along the path.

Young Master, he wants to ask, was the sky always so blue? Was the moss always so green? But he has no time for poetry, and no words for it besides.

Lan Xichen is no help, peals of laughter and pained coughs the only sounds he can produce as they make their way towards Meng Yao’s home, the arm that is not broken wrapped around Meng Yao’s shoulders to stay upright.

“Look, Master Meng,” he whispers, half delirious, “the mushrooms… they’re so yellow.”

Golden-orange, spotted caps emerge in bushels from the underbrush, startling Meng Yao with their brightness.

“I see them,” Meng Yao murmurs, shell-shocked.

Two more steps, and Lan Xichen gasps in delight. “That ladybug, do you see it?”

“Yes. It’s red, Young Master.”

Lan Xichen turns his head to gaze at Meng Yao intensely, and in this position, one supporting the other, their noses almost touch. “Meng Yao,” Lan Xichen whispers, his eyes growing wide with realization. “I’d never seen red before.”

Meng Yao is speechless, but cannot look away.

“And look! A butterfly,” Lan Xichen points again, jostling them and nearly falling from Meng Yao’s shaky grasp. He gives him an inquisitive, almost cautious side glance. “Do… you see it?”

“I see it. It’s… blue?” He’d seen its shape in a book, he’d known it was “blue”, but he had not known what his eyes would see when they gazed upon blue. It’s breath-taking. It’s the color of Lan Xichen’s clothes and the glitter of dew on his hair.

Lan Xichen only nods, expectantly, and Meng Yao’s mouth opens unbidden. “I’d never seen blue before,” he stammers, before he can think of keeping it to himself.

“Oh, how lovely,” Lan Xichen murmurs, his eyes squinting with something bittersweet even as he smiles. They’re gray, but not like the gray world at all.

“What is it, Young Master?”

“It is just, Meng Yao, that I am unconscionably happy, and it seems almost a crime to be privy to such beauty when the world is in an upheaval.”

Dumbly, Meng Yao nods, though he has no time to feel guilty of his selfish, burgeoning joy.

It is taken away soon after, as all things are. When he has tucked Lan Xichen into his own bed, he leaves the hut to gather supplies and information, and steps into a world of ghosts.

It is as if he has taken a dip in cold and murky waters, color draining from his world as quickly as it had come. Did it take so little, just an hour of walking hand in hand, to forget what the gray world looked like?

He grits his teeth and hurries back as soon as he is able. Lan Xichen’s answering smile when he opens the door is all he needs to know. It tells him that color has returned with Meng Yao too, and Meng Yao is humbled and furious at once. He can live without, he always has - but knowing that he is withholding it from Lan Xichen is unconscionable.

Cruel as expected, the world only lets him see its true face when Lan Xichen is with him, and him with Lan Xichen. And that is not something that will ever last.

On the same day, Meng Yao discovers color and its impermanence, and at times he thinks he hates knowing beauty. Because how can one go back to the gray world willingly? How can one look away from Lan Xichen long enough to ensure he survives? To ensure they both survive?

He must, yet he hesitates to leave. He hates to hunt, he hates to spy, he hates to go and be anywhere but here, where the colors live.

He apologizes to Lan Xichen for it, redness kissed from his cheeks to his lips again and again as he forces himself to say goodbye.

“I will need to leave you for a long while,” he says, with the shame of a traitorous thief.

“Go as you will,” Lan Xichen says, with a smile of pink dawn. “Night is not painful before sunrise, and the wait is not heavy with the promise of your return.”

#xiyao drabbles #xiyao #soulmate AU #yeah it's yunping again #lan xichen #jin guangyao #meng yao #shiome fic

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 7 months

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Poets and Painters (Golden Dawn Part 1) - 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. 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. **The referenced 302nd Legion is an OC unit, led by my genderfluid Jedi OC named Caelen [they/them used for clarity].**

Word-count: 7,650

“I am Plo Koon.” The Kel Dor Jedi introduces himself carefully, speaking in slow and unhurried timbres to ensure no one will mishear him. “What is your name, little one?” She does not divulge her name, instead she takes Plo’s hand. She might be no older than five, maybe six. She's slightly taller than anticipated next to the Jedi as he kneels in the soft grass, nearly eye-to-eye with him.

Screwing up her little, rounded features in an expression of utmost concentration, she takes his hand between her own, a little firmer now, to scrutinize. A quiet minute elapses as she examines the Force-user’s hand, the nail-cap, and the arm-guards he wears. The thick glaze of twilight, the lack of the moon’s light, does not appear to make her inspection difficult in any sense. Unfortunately, you and most of the battalion miss most of the delicate beauty in the micro-expressions the Kel Dor will see.

When she speaks, it's a soft, awed voice. “Wow. You're a different kind of star person!” comes out in a peal of giggles. “So are they!” she adds, pointing to you and the commander next, then many of the men in formation behind you.

Dozens of voices parrot ‘star person’ with a great deal of confusion and speculation behind their general, behind you and Commander Wolffe as you stand so close together.

The backs of your hands are close enough to touch, knuckles nearly grazing with the other’s.

Someone hisses a sharp reminder for quiet! as the rumbling wave of voices begins to grow in volume - no doubt either of Wolffe’s sergeants. The 104th falls silent, tongues loosened in nervousness reigned in at once. Everyone still must tread carefully right now. Peace can still be so easily broken if offenses have been spoken, and disrespect has been shown.

Your tentative situation here cannot allow for that.

“That's right, little one, we are different…” General Plo chuckles in agreement up to that point. “But I am afraid we don't know what you mean by star people.”

The Chossi elder, same as before with the bent back, offers slight clarification to diffuse the confusion. “Young Mir means we are made of what stars are.” While the girl, Mir, is called back to who must have guardianship of her, Tack bravely steps forward with his datapad in his hands, seeking permission from the Jedi to offer his insight.

“Um, General, if I may?”

Permitted to speak his thoughts with a promising nod by the Wolf Leader, Tack takes a great deal of care in his words, projecting his voice to be heard by all. “The Chossi might mean we are all ‘star people’ in a very poetic sense, but, scientifically, they are right. They are star people. So are we, given that we’re also carbon based lifeforms. Stars are made of hydrogen, helium, and traces of all other known elements including carbon, to, ah… really simplify everything…” The initial confidence and bravado peters out near the end with a particular look crossing over his face, seconds before a hard swallow.

Shit. Feel like I spoke too much, it reads to you.

He likely wants to slink back to the line-up, and just keep his mouth shut for a while. Another Chossi elder, a kindly-looking woman with smile lines this time, her hair laid in many braids over the right shoulder, bids him to wait. “We are just the universe trying to make sense of itself, aren’t we, young…?” She speaks so kindly to him that it halts him in his steps. He’s been asked for his name; it would be rude to refuse to answer. Tack swallows again, less hard than before.

“Tack. My friends and brothers call me Tack.” the researcher answers.

She smiles, and there’s such a radiance to it, such a profound sense of kindness found within. It puts Tack a little more at ease than before.

“Then we shall too.” Her name is Solladara, you learn; but as she admits, the name is a bit of a mouthful, and all are welcomed to call her Dara, or whatever is easiest. Adding as an aside, she asks that you’ll have to forgive any communication blunders. “Your language is not quite alike our own. Similar, yes, but… the structure. It can be difficult to grasp for some of us, born long ago.” Dara says with a mild laugh. (Amusingly, there’s a sympathetic murmur of agreement from Plo Koon. Either through rumor or an instance of accidental eavesdropping, you’ve heard that he’s three-hundred-eighty-something years old, but you aren’t certain if that’s in any way the truth.)

In any sense, it comes as further relief to you, when murmuring from the corner of his mouth Commander Wolffe says “Truly so much for your sketches.” with the slyest of smiles.

“And so much for some of your… preparations, I’m guessing?” you return with a smile just as small, just as sly. You still haven’t the slightest idea what any of those preparations are, nor why Plo Koon had been so cryptic in his delivery. You don’t really know that you want to know the probabilities they prepared for. Falling under attack is a prudent assumption, but beyond that… Had they begun to prepare themselves for death? For the loss of someone in the chain of command, if things went askew?

Had Wolffe been preparing himself for some small chance he may die, accompanying and defending his general? He had certainly shown no hesitation when he had thrown himself on top of you because of the blow darts fired from the treeline; gentle flesh and noble plastoid serving as a shield. There are no doubts he would not do the same - and more - for the one who raised a blue kyber-blade to defend him and the surviving remnant of the 104th over the planet of Abregado.

Commander Wolffe does not verbalize anything, but he confirms your suspicions with a slight dip of his chin. The way he grits his teeth, sets his jaw, there’s some comment he likely does not feel it is the appropriate time to say.

“... maybe we should thank the Maker for that too, then.” you offer with a skyward glance, fixing an errant strand of hair back in place. “And the Force, to play it safe.”

The smile he offers is ephemeral, snuffed out by distraction.

There is an invitation issued by the Chossi elders posed to General Plo - extending to the whole of the company - to return with them and their people through the forest to their settlement. There, things will be discussed and questions will find answers. Ritual and practice to partake in and show you, they say.

When it’s decided the Jedi will go, and the Wolfpack shall follow, you know you’ll need to - want to - stick close to the Commander after everyone has ensured belongings are gathered; like his helmet, still laying in the grass where it has been dropped on the hill.

You may be ‘just Arcadia’, but without regard for how the whole of his battalion would see him in that climactic moment, Commander Wolffe had been prepared to jeopardize his own safety to ensure your own when the image of the moon had been swallowed in cloudcover… He had forgone the most important part of his armor for you to increase the odds of reaching you before any harm came upon you.

Stooping, you pluck the helmet from the lush bed of grass it had fallen in. Relief floods your lungs to find the visor uncracked when he admits he may have thrown the damn thing rather than dropping it when you go to collect it together. “No, it looks okay.” you assure him, surrendering the sunbonnet into his hands. “Maybe it’s just the internal HUD to be worried about now. Here you go.”

This next grin, full of cautious relief and gratitude, feels sweeter than any million-credit smile as he situates his bucket against his hip. “Thank you, Arcadia. Not to worry; I can work with a bad HUD.” They have training for that, both official and unofficial, he explains. These little insights into the long-rooted tactics of the GAR have been a great fascination, today.

And though you yearn to learn and understand more, you will not push for it.

What you’ve been invited to see is a privilege, you know that.

So little is their own. Their blasters, their names, their breath. And a budding, secretive culture. Several troopers appear to be speaking in a kind of code as you and the commander make your return to the awaiting group, the tail end of some conversation being something that makes Wolffe’s lip curl with disapproval.

It’s Waves from earlier - even in the low lighting conditions, you can plainly make out the extra length of his curly hair he draws his namesake from - who gets the brunt of Wolffe’s questioning. “Care to repeat that, private? Who’d you hear that from?” The commander’s voice is less of a disgusted snarl than you might’ve assumed from him, if what Waves said had really been so offensive.

“I-I heard it from Orchid, sir…?” is explanation enough, for the time being; the commander only sighing before taking this young soldier by the shoulder to offer him a word of advice.

“Don’t repeat everything you learn from him, without looking it up first, you understand?”

With the nod of an embarrassed man, the private apologizes. “Y-yes sir. Sorry, sir.” Waves’ bottom lip is set in a pout before he resets his helmet.

Waiting until you’ve gotten a little further ahead while tailing Wolffe to ask what had happened, you press only once for what had been said. “Another of Orchid’s sexual innuendos?” Maker alive, his wealth of knowledge… Someone paid a little too much attention to the health and body lessons. Though… maybe the medics are grateful for that. Wolffe doesn’t provide you with any answers, only amused chuckles for your trail of thought.

“It didn't sound like Basic, either,” you note in a whisper, “was it something in Kel Dor?”

This the Commander answers. “No. Not Basic or Kel Dor.”

“Strange…” You decide to let it go, figuring that now wouldn't be the best time to dig for details with the whole of the battalion following after Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe, where you have been invited to walk side-by-side. He lets another moment elapse in silence before he realizes you aren't prodding.

The brow cloven in two by the stripe of scar tissue lifts rather subtly. You're not going to ask? All you offer is a minute shake of your head. With the company of Clones, the Jedi just in earshot, you certainly wouldn’t. Not now, anyways. Not when the Chossi elders kindly lead you back to their settlement.

The adolescents, on the other hand, are not quite so warm; but at least they are civil, and warn you of dangers in the dark. “Root here. Take care not to trip.” one particularly brusque Chossi announces, thumping the end of a bo staff thrice on the aforementioned root to make his point. “One bad step, you’ll be hobbling in the dark.”

You thank him, and take a little extra care in your footing going forward. Would be bad to twist your ankle all the way out here, so far from the gunships at this point, for a number of reasons. Not only would it suck to get injured in the first place, it’d put a damper on making the most of this invitation for everyone; with an injured civilian, the opportunity would have to be cut short. They’d likely determine they need to go back, take you to the LAATs and some poor sap besides Clone pilot Warthog gets saddled with escorting you back to the Triumphant… The typical duties of their performance as a relief and recovery unit.

And, dutiful man he is, it’d likely be Commander Wolffe doing it of his own volition, silently adding to an ever-growing pile of stressors on a day it was hoped he could relax, before General Plo even had to ask.

After all, you think, the kind of look Sergeant Sinker was leveled with when he (in a well-meant fashion) offered to give you a lift since you were struggling to see well in the dark from the flint-gray commander had to mean something other than just back off.

There were a lot of curious murmurs as Wolffe took you by the hand; to better lead you through the forest, you assume.

There is a subtle shift in the clouds covering the face of the moon by the time the one-oh-fourth makes it to the Chossi settlement, a sweetened change in the wind so deep in the forest. It’ll be hard to go back to the oxygen-recyclers installed aboard the flagship and not feel suffocated by comparison after this. There’s a whispered word of concern somewhere in the sea of Kamino’s sons for General Plo that you catch somewhere behind you, a note of anxiety about the anti-ox mask’s capabilities to properly filter everything as it should. The brothers around the worrier tell him he won’t need to be concerned, the Jedi will be fine.

You think it’s sweet of the soldier to be so mindful of the differences in physiology.

At the invitation of the general and commander, you’ve been invited to sit among those making up the forefront of who stands across the large gathering-fire from the Chossi peoples, those who will be watched closest.

“Unless, you’re not comfortable with that.” Wolffe offers you the opportunity to melt into the shadows while everyone is moving themselves in position, a soulful expression of understanding and sympathy. You’re not required to do anything here, like him. You do not have the same levels of expectation to perform any particular way, like him. When you kept sticking your foot in your mouth by continuing to address the native peoples of Little Archossi, it was out of panic and the ingrained norms of larger society to introduce yourself to people unknown to you.

“You have a choice, here, Arcadia.” Wolffe reminds you, doing a near-perfect job of masking his envy. Commander Wolffe is not afforded many of these same choices… The leash around his throat binds him to his responsibilities. (You suspect it would take more than simply freeing him of the lead held in the hands of the Grand Republic’s army, too.)

Under the scrutiny of his eyes, the cybernetic making notable, periodic adjustments as the Chossi stokes the gathering-fire so it burns brighter, you deliver your verdict.

“I stayed on Little Archossi because I wanted to be here when General Plo made contact with the people of Little Archossi… The choice to go to the settlement was kind of made for me, but I… I think I will stay.”

He had been hoping you would say that, as evidenced by the subtle release in his tensing brow, and the freer nature of his next inhale in such close proximity. You can hear the unspoken question when the scarred brow lifts, just long enough, and just for politeness sake.

Are you sure?

And the truth is, if you told him, you aren’t. (You’re still a bit of an absolute nervous mess after provoking the Chossi warning, even though nothing negative came of it in the end.) But it’s knowing how unfair it feels to you that he does not have a true choice in this matter that makes you agree to stay by him and the Jedi. It’s knowing you would not like being ditched were you in his boots that keeps you rooted to his side.

If you thought of him as a new friend, shouldn’t you damn well act like it?

You will stay. And you do your best to ignore the curious looks it earns you from most of the battalion; their dark eyes as unfathomable as the ocean burning through your uniform with every possible thought under the blanketing of stars in the galaxy. Wolffe’s men and brothers will have their attention drawn from you soon enough, you know, aside from perhaps a few.

There’s a soft clearing of the throat behind you and to your left, vying for a chance to speak before things begin. “Commander? Hey, Commander!” Soapsuds calls in a muted whisper, just an arms reach behind you. Wolffe doesn’t turn at the waist to look, not with the bright eyes of the adolescents of the settlement held fast to him and General Plo most of all, but he still does acknowledge his brother.

“Yes, Suds?”

“I’m sorry about the flare gun, Commander. I panicked.”

Wolffe offers a near imperceptible nod to show he’s heard his soldier, eyes trained on an elder’s hands as they repeatedly lift and lower things in and out of the reach of flame. The silver-haired sergeant theorizes to the Kel Dor in a low whisper that what they’re putting in and warming are some kinds of crude vessels for drinks, but he can’t get a great look. Boost is ready to whisper something back to Soapsuds to cover for Wolffe’s silence, maybe some soothing sentiment that he’d have done the same too (because it would make only too much sense that of the four survivors of Abregado, the brothers would be fiercely protective of those other two kin) when the commander gives a curt, but emotional reply.

“I panicked too…”

That’s all he can afford to say before Dara and the man with the bent back - who she’s just called brother, his name Row - signal for things to start, a collective hush falling over this new clearing like a favorite blanket. There are giddy, excited giggles from the little ones on the Chossi side of the fire that’s proving helpful for keeping the atmosphere from growing too tense for everyone seated around this symbolic gathering place. Dara and Row wait patiently for the children to settle down, again, turning a blind eye out of kindness to some of the responsibility falling on the Kel Dor’s shoulders for being more than a little distracting. Drawing from a well of infinite kindness and compassion for all, Plo Koon has made sure no child’s greeting has gone unanswered, no matter how brief, or shy it had been.

It’s remarkably easy to forget for the moment he’s one of the sage members of the Jedi Council when you have the opportunities to witness how he interacts with children, with his men. Today he’s been so… different. Different in a way that’s difficult to articulate. You wonder for a moment when a little Chossi child curiously toddles around the fire and determinedly plops himself in the Dorin-born Jedi’s lap, if this has ever happened at the Jedi Temple, seeing the effortless nature in how he helps the child into a more comfortable position. The child looks as content as can be, happily tucking tiny fingers around a singular digit of Plo Koon’s right hand. The Kel Dor’s expression softens, something fond and amused all at once.

“Friends and strangers,” Row begins in a captivating tone, “before we invite you into our settlement, our home and heartlands, we have gathered you here not only to answer the questions of the one who calls himself Plo Koon, but to offer you promises of peace.” There is a shaky gesture from Row, asking for someone with steadier hands to assist in this next part. “Traditionally, this means a drink is offered to the visitors.” Row elaborates as a clay cup is extracted from the edge of the fire. “But, since there are so many of you, it will suffice to have only one accomplish this: partake by proxy.”

Courageously, a Clone you believe to be named Kwill - a sort of ‘cultural communications expert’ or something if you recall - steps forward and takes the offered cup in the outstretched hands of Solladara’s brother. “Thank you, I'll take this to my Commander.” The Chossi elders find this acceptable and allow for the earthenware cup to be taken with a small word of guidance.

“Sip only.” Row and Dara advise with sage nods, their copper jewelry swaying in the firelight.

Commander Wolffe hesitates to take the cup from his soldier, a clear look of why me? etched in every feature. The resulting conversation is hissed, and urgent.

“What is this, Kwill?”

“Symbolic offer of peace, Commander. General can't drink it with the anti-ox mask. Has to be you, sir.”

He already knew that much, star’s sakes, he was hoping Kwill could tell what this drink was. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, no matter how subtly he believes he could pull it off. Wolffe understands he needs to show the utmost respectful behavior possible, or risk sparking offense and discourse.

He wouldn’t dream of disappointing General Plo like that.

“Kark. Smells something awful.” the complaint comes under his breath, nose creasing with the first whiff of the pungent contents.

Sitting next to Commander Wolffe, it smells like someone ripped up a handful of grass - mud and roots included - and threw it into a bucket of seawater, and then dumped everything into a blender before turning it on for two seconds. You can't fault him for complaining, and only feel admiration when he grits his teeth and follows the siblings’ instructions.

Sip only. A full mouthful, and you wouldn't be surprised to find anyone immediately retching afterwards. It’s a long, tense moment after the very deliberate swallow Wolffe makes where he tries to find his voice.

“... thank you, for the offering.” the flint-gray Commander chokes out with some minor prompting from Kwill. “Very, um, gracious.”

Without a word, the Jedi takes the remaining drink and opts to hold the cup in his free hand for the remainder of the proceedings. Politely, Plo Koon addresses his own thanks not just to siblings Dara and Row, but to everyone sitting on the Chossi side. “As already said by my commander, we thank you for your gracious offering and the invitation that was kindly extended to all of my men, whether they be soldier or crew.” Here, he also takes the opportunity to make apologies and further elaborate on why the battalion is on Little Archossi. “I sense there is still much distrust and suspicion, regarding our presence here. We had never meant to cause any alarm when it was decided to visit your planet.”

“And why did you?” comes the curious question from a third elder, the patina of her copper jewelry not quite so deep like Row or Dara’s. “What brought you to our planet, perhaps so far from your own homes to the heart of our clan?”

It’s a very good question. One the 104th has been trying to needle out of the Jedi from the start, and now, he finally provides the full truth.

“I had hoped this day would prove relaxing for my soldiers and crew, a minor change of pace from our typical day to day. But I felt called to this sector of space, and came to investigate.” Drawn by the Force, he explains, after peculiar dreams. Visions filled by verdant seas of swaying trees, specklings of the color blue, and other things that had been obscured by a cloud, for the moment. But here, in the heart of their settlement, he feels a familiar presence. “The Force feels strong here, perhaps amplified by crystals I have noticed many of the children wearing.”

The cup is set aside so he can comfortably hoist the clan-child higher, and Plo Koon draws attention to the small bangle of copper that encircles the wrist, inlaid with a semi-milky white stone.

“Kyber, is it not?”

Tack looks like he's itching to get a closer look from where you sit, hearing that the general suspects it's kyber. Later it'd be explained to you that the heart of a ‘saber is something Tack has wanted to see for a long, long time now, but it's a desire he's kept pretty secretive.

“You're familiar with kyber?”

Plo Koon bobs his head in response to the question, carefully settling the child back into his lap. “Kyber is what powers a Jedi's weapon, after they are of age, and have completed the Gathering.”

The word Jedi sends murmurs of recognition from many of the older Chossi inhabitants, and a few children. Conspiratorial whispers are sown into the wind as Row and Dara confer with other community figureheads. Haven't they heard that word before? Isn't that what one young family believed their child to be? You steal a furtive glance at the child’s bangle, the cloudy stone, and ponder quietly. If you can commit enough of the detail to memory, you imagine you could capture the likeness in graphite and ink some other day.

Discreetly as you’re able, you slip the sketchbook from your belongings and scribble down a couple of notes on the very last page by the amber glow of the fire. The breathy skritch! of the ink stylus is noticed by Wolffe, catching his attention like it had this morning. It does not take him long to decipher the Aurebesh scratchings, a lip curling with masked amusement. Maybe curiosity.

“‘Like a piece of a star’, hm? Are you sure you’re not a poet, too?”

“Shh…” you warn him, casting a nervous glance over to the opposite side of the fire. “Trying to be discreet.”

Worrying you’ll be noticed is needless; the Chossi are more focused on sussing out other matters with Plo Koon, asking him if he knows of a child who was taken to Coruscant many years ago now. He is given a name and a general description of their young clan member to discern for a moment. It takes him a small measure of silence to work out the perplexities. “I recognize the name, but if I recall, this individual does not claim it as their own any longer. Jedi Knight Caelen is the only one who fits the rest of the description. I must admit, I was unaware they hailed from Little Archossi.” As a further kindness, General Plo promises that this Caelen who leads the 302nd Legion of the GAR is in good health, and if it would be of interest to the clanspeople, some sentiment from Caelen’s homeworld can be passed along to them in due time.

Force-sensitive children may be taken from their homeworlds and raised on Coruscant, but they do not have to sacrifice their cultures and customs.

And sensing this will take some time to complete, Plo Koon suggests he confer with the elders without holding a large audience for it for the remainder of the night. Though obedient, patient men, the General does not want to keep the Clones from exploring, or perhaps making connections with the inhabitants that have invited them to the heart of the forest, where the star-people call home.

“Yes, a wonderful idea,” Dara agrees, her smile-lines deepening, “perhaps… some of the children would be interested in helping our guests explore in the moonlight?” Indeed, the cloud-cover previously obscuring the silver glow of the moon has nearly and completely dispersed; the night vision would not be necessary to any who stray beyond the reach of the gathering fire, now that people are free to stay and listen to the discussion, or go and explore.

The little ones don’t need a second suggestion before they’re breaking away from their side; more muddling of the boundary between stranger and friend without reservations. Clones find themselves climbing to their feet, following after their beckoning, tiny tour guides, leaving their helmets where they’ve sat.

You’re considering staying and listening to the discussion, then going and having a look around the settlement afterwards. But Sergeant Boost has another idea for you, and Commander Wolffe, when Wolffe says he’ll join you in exploring later, assuming that’s what you’ll be doing, telling Boost he’s free to go, too.

“Heh, I don’t think so, Commander,” Boost replies with a defiant smile and cheek in his tone, “I’ll stay and listen for a while. Have fun exploring with Arcadia.” He won’t budge, either. He tunes out Wolffe’s insistence to get up, maybe keep an eye on Orchid, much to the frustration of the flint-gray commander. Not even trying to bring the General into it works; the Jedi offers that since Commander Wolffe took the symbolic cup, he agrees with Boost that Wolffe should have a brief reprieve. And you should too, Plo Koon adds.

Sithspit, guess you’re kind of forced to go exploring, now...

Wolffe has been quiet and partly withdrawn for the past five minutes; save for the muted crunch of gravel and twig under his feet, he is little more than a silent ghost beside you, sometimes behind you, as you move through the settlement. You don’t - can’t - blame him. But you just want to make sure he’s okay, seeing his face set in something of a moue.

“Hey… Wolffe?” You pause under one of the trees in order to talk to him, somewhere out of the way, off the path. “If you want to go back and listen, you can. You don’t have to follow after me. I’ll be okay.” The attempt to be assuring and dispel his concerns feels a bit lame once you’ve said it, but the brevity should do you more favors in the long run. “I can find Soapsuds, Orchid and Tack, stay near them, if-”

“That’s not the problem.” Commander Wolffe cuts in, wasting no time. “It’s what was said at the gathering fire. General Plo brought everyone here for more than one reason, just as I thought.” The tone is… difficult to discern here. With such a heavy thought weighing on his mind, the mild and bitter tang of anger in his voice is expected, but there’s distress here too. An undercurrent of vindication. A gossamer-thin disturbance in the utmost trust in his general.

“You must be upset with him.” you postulate, to which Wolffe is quick to shake his head no. “Hey, it’s okay if you are. I’m not about to go off and tattle like a fucking child if you admit to being upset, or angry, or even feeling betrayed that General Plo didn’t tell you - his damn second in command - what it is we came here for. You’re human, for star’s sake, you’re allowed to be angry. I almost want to be for you!”

You’re regarded quietly, thoughtfully, by the Clone commander following the increasingly emotional admission that you feel frustration for him in this situation. Full lips remain pursed together until the fire in your tongue has calmed and quieted itself, his ever-observant eyes half-lidded once he finally speaks.

“General Plo must have had his reasons, Arcadia…”

“You don’t sound certain of that.”

With a slackening in his shoulders, it speaks more truth than any singular agreeable word could. A heart’s beat of silence fills the space between you and him before he allows himself the short confession.

“It’s a hope, for the time being.”

Until the 104th makes it to the durasteel halls of the cruiser, Wolffe will not have the opportunity to confirm any of these suspicions. Before he can have a discussion at-length with the Kel Dor Jedi about what’s transpired here today, he intends to keep his comments to himself. Plo Koon will take the commander to his personal quarters to have the conversation uninterrupted, most likely; a small but meaningful act of compassion and respect for the concerns of a war-scarred soldier. His second in command.

Yes, maybe you were right. Maybe the General should have told him.

For now, he reminds himself that he’s here, and this is where his focus needs to be. With his brothers. With you.

On you.

“That’s… fair.” you decide in a quiet voice, dodging the potential for eye-contact with a wayward glance into the Chossi settlement.

Many tall huts populate this area, each built around large, mature trees. You see the similarities to Comet’s sketch from before the late afternoon of the decaying house, where moss had grown over every shingle in a blanket of life, and the roof had begun to sag under the green weight of it all in the absence of the key-holder. (Where had the homeowner gone, to never return and leave the wilds to reclaim the structure?) These stand as humble testaments to wood-working prowess, and a great respect for the trees themselves, too. Care has been taken in building around low-hanging branches, rather than lopping them off, in some of these Little Archossian homes.

Curiously, hanging off the eaves of each hut, you notice windchimes made of kyber and copper.

Are these abundant resources on Little Archossi?

“Look,” you say, directing his line of sight to one set of chimes slowly spinning in a gentle breeze, “that’s got a lot of kyber in it… Do you think those had anything to do with the strange flutter General Plo felt when he approached the settlement?”

“... twenty-seven pieces.” Wolffe counts.

“On that one chime?”

“On all of them.” comes the awed answer.

The number must have some significance to the people here, likely either cultural, religious, or rooted in superstition. Tiny little clues to a rich, inner life glimmer and glitter in the moon’s cold glow, throwing subtle fractals of light all around you. Twisting and turning to take it all in, the commander’s DeeCee tucked into the belt of your uniform begins to work itself loose and threatens to drop. You’d grown so used to the weight of it in such a short time, you’d nearly forgotten it was there. With care, you resettle Wolffe’s weapon, assuming he’d prefer you kept it on your person for some peace of mind. For both of you.

Traditional weaponry cannot be underestimated, but you have no reason to believe the people of Little Archossi are of any threat to you and the soldiers of the Republic. (If anything, your concerns are turned to wildlife.) Several soldiers walk by, children of the settlement perched on their shoulders grinning bigger than nexus. Soapsuds is one such soldier, carrying one child on his back with a second and third clinging to his legs, all three of them giggling in delight with every careful step.

“Oh, Arcadia! Commander Wolffe! Didn’t think I’d see you there.” The child on his back gives you a polite wave, which you return with laughter of your own.

“Aww, making friends, Suds?” you tease.

“I guess so! I lost track of Orchid and Tack - been trying to look for them.”

“And your six new eyes are helping you look?” the commander muses, the sarcastic question bringing a brief smile out of him. Suds only offers a sheepish grin, his shrug softly bouncing the child perched on his shoulders. He can’t be sure. Plus the little ones would probably have trouble determining the differences that marks each man apart from his brothers.

It certainly proves difficult, but not impossible.

Through broken Basic, intermingled with the native language, you and Commander Wolffe are able to navigate the settlement in search of the soldiers you’ve made better friendships with today. The children prove less of a hindrance to Suds’ movements than you would have expected, as well; he’s able to keep up with Wolffe’s brisk pace, probably to the latter's growing annoyance. What had been giggles before is now full-blown laughter from each of these boys, who are holding on surprisingly well. They must be strong like the Clones, or just possess particularly firm grips.

Even in the mingled moonlight, Commander Wolffe sees many Chossi children comfortably perching themselves in the branches of the trees with his soldiers. Some pairs have found themselves in rather lofty boughs, even, but his brothers hardly seem phased. More concerned about these children falling out than themselves.

“That would make me too nervous, I think…” you admit after seeing Comet climb into one of these trees with a woven bag full of soft fruits slung over one shoulder. You understand the soldiers of the GAR possess rather well-muscled physiques, capable of great strength and stamina that make for great stories to listen to from your workstation, but it’s the speed that Comet climbs with that makes you maybe more than a little nervous for him.

One of the boys clinging to Soapsuds’ legs decides they’re getting off here, and both climb into the tree after the Clone with two ovular markings on his helmet. It’s the fruit they’re after, calling it “hash-sah” when Comet offers some to them too. Seeing Commander Wolffe, he tips the bag in silent communication, offering some to you too. You decide to take one, but Wolffe declines.

“No thank you. Comet, have you seen Orchid and Tack?”

Comet first tosses one of the hash-sah fruit down to you, large enough to fill both of your hands, suggesting maybe you can share it with the commander in case Wolffe changes his mind. “Last I saw them, they were two trees to the northeast from here, sir.” He’s fairly certain that’s where they’ll be, anyhow. He throws two more hash-sah fruit down to Wolffe, saying Orchid and Tack may want to try the fruit, should you find them there. “Oh and the kids are saying not to eat the seeds, the seeds are bitter!” he calls after you as the three of you begin heading northeast after thanking him for the fruit.

It does not take long to find the brothers Soapsuds lost track of, exactly where Comet told Commander Wolffe they’d likely be. Huddled at the base of a tree, Orchid and Tack are having a closed conversation between themselves, discussing the 302nd as you draw near. That was the legion of the GAR General Plo had claimed this Caelen led, as you recall. And recalling further back still, this might be your answer to where Tack’s researcher friend is stationed, too.

“Can’t you ask Cypher? You’re friends with him, aren’t you?”

“I am,” begins Tack, scratching the back of his head, “but, he’s often a bit slow to reply to my questions… It could be a while before he tells us what’s up with their general and unit.”

Like trying to pull rancor teeth, you recall. “Could you try sending Cypher a nice picture of a bug and then follow up with questions?” Behind you now, Suds says that’s awfully clever, and surprisingly sneaky. Soapsuds still has the little Chossi child clinging to his back like a Kowakian monkey-lizard, slender fingers having found stable purchase in the Clone’s armor. Nothing will make the girl let go, either. Not even for sweet-rations, when Tack offers some as a bribe.

“Looks like you’re carrying her around for a while.”

“Kids tend to weigh less than a typical field kit. I’ll be fine.” Suds says with a smile as he takes the sweet-ration and breaks it in half, reaching over his shoulder to offer a portion to the little girl. She gives it a curious sniff before stuffing the whole of it in her mouth, crumbs dusting her cheeks. “Hah, you really liked that, didn’t ya? Here, little one.” Suds gives her the other, uneaten half of the treat, kindly sacrificing his portion. It’s eaten just as eagerly, more crumbs littering her face.

“Think the girl likes chocolate as much as you, Suds.” Orchid remarks with a gentle laugh, helping the child clean her face by offering her a wetted cloth he’s pulled out of his kit somewhere. Dropping his voice into a low whisper, he asks his brother if that was the last of the chocolate he had.

“Yeah. It’s okay, though.”

Chocolate, true chocolate, is a rarity among the allotment of sweet-rations they get. It’s a rarity for you too, but you can at least get your hands on artificial chocolate as a special treat to look forward to once a month; you have no idea how often the Clones get it… You rattle down a note in your datapad that when you make it back to the Triumphant, you should see what you have to offer to Soapsuds. You’re quick to tuck the tablet back among your things just when Tack gets a return message from Cypher.

Hold on: you’re currently WHERE?

The air practically punches out your lungs with laughter when the next message reads “Who snitched about the bug trick?” in all capital letters, and Tack tells his friend that if he wants to know, he better answer the rest of the questions he’s been sent. He’ll have enough time to give Tack answers, too, since one of the Chossi children approaches the little group that’s been formed with an invitation.

“Gray one?”

Though everyone here wears gray, with the slate of your uniform and the flint of the 104th’s paint, everyone figures the child must be using the same manner of address that Elder Row had in the clearing, speaking to and singling out Wolffe. Recognizing the girl, he responds promptly.

“Yes? Mir, wasn’t it?”

Nodding, Mir points behind her. “My big sister wants to show you something.” Wolffe’s eyes fall upon you first, before his brothers. You can almost see those clever cogs stirring up some strategy to convince the child to allow you and the three soldiers to come along with him, if she really does mean just him, but there’s no need to worry. “They can come too.” Mir promises, grinning brightly as she reaches to take Wolffe by the hand.

Perhaps you imagined there would be more hesitation, but Commander Wolffe is quick to give the girl his hand, and allows Mir to guide him through her community, slowing his militant stride to avoid rushing her. It’s practiced, you know. You wonder how many relief and recovery efforts he’s engaged in where he’s walked hand-in-hand with a child, perhaps ushering them from their war-torn homes… leading them to safety. Did all their hands feel so small?

When he had held your hand, better leading you through the twilight than before, you had once again felt how wholly warm he was. But what had also been noticed was how his hand compared to yours; the map of calluses that lay beneath those raven dark gloves, and the grip-strength with every finger that wrapped around your own… Well you’re almost ashamed to admit it, but your mind turned back to that dirty holonovel you’d mistakenly opened earlier with the pilot throttling both his steering controls and his junk at the thought of someone special to him.

Mir has taken Wolffe, with you, Tack, Orchid and Suds (the girl still on his back all the while) trailing after him, to one of the many shallow depressions in the soil that the community utilize as firepits, calling to her sister that she’s brought the gray one and a few others to come watch. Mir’s sister pauses in fanning the low-burning fire to greet you all, “Welcome. Come sit, come sit. Mir insisted that we show you something.”

Once more, you and Wolffe find your places around the fire beside the other, palms planted in the rich soil. Your fingers brush against his momentarily, and you hastily apologize in whispered tones, hoping the light of the fire does not betray the color in your face that has nothing to do with heat-flush.

You imagined those hands - again thinking of that holonovel - stripped of those gloves, and Commander Wolffe, rid of the rest of his armor… and the under-armor too… carefully pinning you to a bed somewhere, his private quarters perhaps. His touch flows between being velveteen and slow to rough and ravenous, some product of conflict in his need to satisfy certain sensual demands.

In fact, the mental images are starting to get a little more vivid now, the longer you’re near this fire. You swallow heavily and focus on the laces of your boots while you reign in your imagination, but it’s proving immensely difficult.

Maker alive.

Mir’s older sister listens to the young girl’s curious babblings with patience, waiting until her sibling stops. “We imagine you have seen the little blue flowers that grow here, yes?” she asks, corners of her mouth curled in a smile.

“We’ve seen ‘em.” Tack answers with an eager nod, “Dinocaeruleus anthos.”

Mir whispers something, and her sister hushes her. “I’m getting there, Mir. We call them twilight troubles, here. They can be harmful, when handled incorrectly, or taking honey from the wrong harvesters. But they can also be… helpful.” Her mouth quirks in another smile as she looks over everyone. “You’ve all been here long enough to become covered in twilight pollen.”

There is nothing visible to your eyes at least, but you don’t wholly doubt it with how many of those flowers you’ve been around today. The laundry sector of the Triumphant is going to become very busy decontaminating a whole battalion and crew’s worth of blacks, undergarments, and uniforms.

“What makes them helpful?”

“Gi says it makes you creative!” Mir exclaims with excitement, no longer able to contain herself.

With a long-suffering smile, Gi confirms that though it’s putting it a bit simply, her sister is correct.

The poets and painters of Little Archossi use the pollen and other botanical byproducts of the twilight troubles to encourage their natural creativities and spur their inspiration. If you’re patient, she can ask Mir to go get some examples of their local artistry while she prepares something special for everyone since you are guests here on her planet.

Thinking of others before himself once again, Wolffe makes a quiet remark that he imagines you and Tack would be happy to see samples; Gi’s offer is agreed upon.

Golden Dawn is the last segment, I promise! Just splitting it into parts. If you would like to add yourself to my tag list for any future fics, the form can be found here.

Taglist: @msmeredithrose @lonely-day3636 @dukeoftheblackstar

[Masterlist]

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

[Golden Dawn pt. 2]

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