#warthog x reader

[rare-clone-fic-exchange]

Drunk on You [Warthog/GN!reader]

Hi, it's @goblininawig with a Warthog fic for @starqueensthings . I went the smutty route. Hope you enjoy it.

Tags, rating, summary, etc below the cut. 

MINORS DNI

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Summary: A heroic rescue by the Wolfpack, brings you to a celebration in their honor, where you get up close and personal with the trooper, Warthog.

Pairing: Warthog/GN!reader

Rating: M/18+/NSFW

Words: 1,733

Tags: canon-typical action/adventure, fluff, smut, we-might-get-caught situation, oral sex/blow job

The Magistrate’s children had been rescued after several days of fraught tension. Fearing a Separatist plot, the Magistrate asked the Senate for help. They sent Jedi Master Plo Koon and his Wolfpack. In a matter of hours, they discovered the children, hiding in a cave, where they had taken shelter after the speeder they’d taken on a joyride crashed, causing serious injury to both children and vehicle in the process.

The cave’s mineral composition had blocked any scans for life signs. It was Jedi instincts and clone efficiency that saved the day, quickly locating the speeder crash and tracking them from there. The children had been frightened and hungry, but were on the mend at the healing center.

Now the city was free to celebrate. And none were more merry than the Magistrate and her husband. Though the clones were a close second. The banquet hall was filled with laughter and celebration. The troopers' boisterous, beaming faces, free of their helmets, were quite a sight to behold. Despite their common origin, each was uniquely handsome, and you found your eyes returning more and more to a certain one. Warthog, the clone catching your eye, had the GAR regulation haircut, but he still seemed to stand out from the others – at least, he did to you.

You’d met him while helping to set up for the current banquet. (Normally you were assigned administrative tasks, but when the Magistrate suddenly decided to throw a party, everyone had to pitch in and make it happen.) Warthog had saved a cask of wine from breaking when it fell off the gravloader you were pushing up to the kitchens. Most impressively, he’d caught it one handed, with his pilot’s helmet held under his other arm. Then he had introduced himself and had kept you company, helping you with various tasks, until Commander Wolffe had called him back to join the other troopers.

You raised a glass of wine to your lips and watched over the rim as Warthog reached over to clap one of his brothers on the back, laughing uproariously at his own comments. He gesticulated wildly and drew everyone around him into his conversation with his warm smile. Then he looked up and met your eyes across the banquet hall.

You startled, choking and spilling wine down your front. Muttering a curse, you put the glass down and dabbed at yourself with a napkin, cheeks feeling hot. You excused yourself and hurried out to deal with the mess you’ve made.

Warthog watched you leave, thought a moment, and then made a choice. He knocked back the last of his wine and announced: “Wish me luck, Wolfpack. I’m going hunting!” He grinned and left the table to the sounds of good-natured ribbing and howling from his brothers.

In the ‘fresher, you tried fruitlessly to clean up the wine stain on your top. You looked and felt ridiculous. You thought about going back to your room, but decided to wait until the fabric dries. Maybe then, with the low lighting and everyone drinking, it might go unnoticed.

Leaving the ‘fresher, you turned away from the hall where the others are carousing, heading towards the nearby balcony instead. It was a pleasant night with a gentle breeze. You looked out over the city, a glow of light against the evening sky, but then turned at the sound of someone stepping along the corridor nearby.

A moment later, the clone you’d been admiring stepped through the archway to join you on the balcony. Your mouth went dry at the sight. You found yourself unable to speak as he stalked closer to you, filling your vision with his broad shoulders.

“Everything alright?” he asked with a self-assured grin.

You bit your lip and awkwardly try to cover the stain with your hand. “Um, yeah, I just had an accident.” You cringed at how that sounded, but forced yourself to continue explaining. “Thought I’d let it dry out in the wind here.”

“Oh?” he queried, tilting his head so that the low light gleamed in his dark, velvety eyes. “And here I thought you wanted me to follow you. I saw how you’ve been looking at me all night.” You blinked and swallowed hard. “Oh, um, sorry?” you said awkwardly, face burning with embarrassment.

“Don’t apologize,” he returned, eyes still glowing with humor and heat. “I like it.”

He stepped closer, letting you feel the warmth of his body. His head tilted and his eyes dragged down the length of you and back up again, slowly.

“And I like the way you look too.”

“Oh,” you breathed softly, hands raising as if of their own accord to rest on his cuirass.

He covers one of your hands in his. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmured, voice low and husky.

You managed to whisper, “Don’t stop,” before he leaned in and covered your mouth with his.

Any lingering sense of embarrassment evaporated in the heat of Warthog’s passion. His kisses made your knees feel weak and you clung to his armored shoulders as his hands gripped your waist and lower back, pulling you closer. Your chest, stomach and groin pressed against plastoid armor, making you feel soft and pliant in comparison. He was a rock while you were a wave crashing against him. He gathered you against him, claiming your mouth with a fervor that lit up all your nerves.

With a groan of discomfort, he reluctantly pulled back. One hand stayed firmly on your lower back as the other slipped down between your bodies. There was a click and a sigh as his codpiece was removed and dropped carelessly to the floor. “That was starting to hurt,” he murmured, leaning close to your ear and kissing just beneath the lobe.

You closed your eyes and bared your neck to him. “Hmm, can’t have that,” you dreamily replied.

He left a trail of kisses along your throat and then inhaled your scent. “You smell so good,” he murmured, his lips against your skin.

You almost purred in response and he pulled back to smile at you. His dark eyes gleamed in the low light, focused on you like nothing else existed. Warthog dipped his head again, and you parted your lips to let him in, kissing with wild, eager abandon. He was so tall, dark, and handsome, but also much more than that. His generous nature, how he went out of his way to help you, his kindness, his sense of humor, and his obvious bravery were all so deeply attractive. It was almost shocking that someone like him could be interested in someone like you.

But the feeling of his mouth on yours was undeniable. And so was the heated length rubbing against your thigh. It sparked a deep hunger in you that had nothing to do with the banquet you just left. It made you feel bold and a little reckless.

“Let me make you feel good,” you urged the next time he pulled back from your lips to breathe.

A furrow appeared between his brows in a silent question that was answered when you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. Warthog let out a quiet groan. His pupils widened at the sight, making his dark eyes appear even deeper and more mysterious than before. He watched you watching him, as he slid his hand down, and pulled his erection free of his black body glove.

Your mouth watered at the sight of his thick length, eyes going wide. It was one thing to hear that the clones were the best built men in the galaxy, and quite another to see the evidence of it up so close. Glancing up again, you caught his expectant, lust-darkened gaze and licked your lips. He moaned as you pressed them in a kiss to the length of his hard cock, followed quickly by another.

The weight and heat of his hard-on felt amazing in your hand, and against your eager lips. You covered it in kisses before drawing the head into your mouth, sucking experimentally. Warthog groaned above you and reached down to cradle the back of your neck.

“That feels amazing,” he murmured, mindful of being too loud so near to the banquet hall.

You hummed your agreement around him, drawing another moan from the back of his throat. Eyes closed, you breathed in his musk, humming happily again, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your neck in response. Then he combed his fingers through the hair at your nape as you started to swallow him down, little by little, and then as deeply as possible. Your tongue was flat against his heated shaft as you surrounded it with your mouth and your hands, pumping and sucking greedily.

Warthog leaned his weight on one arm against the balcony, his thick thigh muscles trembling with the effort of holding himself back from spilling into your throat. “Kriff, you’re so good at that,” he praised. It thrilled you, sending a tingle down through your body that you followed with a hand, slinking down you to press between your thighs. That sight sent another moan through the handsome man. You massaged his balls softly as you felt his cock at the back of your throat. You swallowed, letting the sensation tease him, before sliding your lips back up and down again, repeating the motion until you felt his balls tense, along with his fingers at your neck.

“I’m close,” he warned. “Can I cum in your mouth?” he panted.

You nodded quickly, looking up at him as he closed his eyes and let himself go with a shuddering moan of satisfaction. You swallowed every bit of it down, hand still busy between your legs; your body wanted more.

As he tucked himself away and re-clipped the codpiece, you stood and wrapped your arms around yourself. When Warthog finished dressing, he pulled you close. He kissed you softly, tasting himself on your lips.

“That was incredible,” he murmured, eyes warm and soft on yours. “I’d love to return the favor, maybe someplace more private?”

You smiled and bit your lower lip. “We can go to my room,” you offer.

He smiled back, stoking heat in your belly with the way his gaze raked over your body. “Well then, lead the way.” You took his hand and he eagerly followed you.

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

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

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

Word count: 4,665

Midday

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

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

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

"I'm not that pale." 

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

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

That's more than okay. 

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

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

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

Wesk-osk-leth-forn-forn-esk. 

Wolffe. 

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

Maybe, while he's distracted…

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

Maker alive let's just get this over with. 

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

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

"Looked like he was about to." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kri-? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Getting painful?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terrible blue flower. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will carry out your judgment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm in agreement."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmf. Are you a poet now too, Arcadia?

No sir. Not really. 

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

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

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

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

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[Golden Dawn Part 2]

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 3

Warning: None Words: 1.9k Pronouns Used: She/Her - Use of Y/N and N/N (nickname)

"Koh-To-Ya, Master Plo," whispered (Y/N) upon waking. Looking around her quarters, she saw Plo peacefully reading over something on his datapad in the corner of the room. The room was just as quiet; no sound seemed to penetrate the durasteel walls despite the airbase being just meters away. 

"Koh-To-Ya, Little (N/N)," called Plo in response, shifting to place the datapad down and move closer to her. As normal, his voice was calm and filled with wisdom. All his swift motions across the room suggested that the concerns plaguing him had finally been settled. "How are you feeling?" questioned the wise Jedi Master the moment he was at her side. The medics had done a good job patching her up; a few stitches were all that remained of the head injury she'd sustained, and in a few weeks, there would be no trace of it. The gash to her side, however, would take a little longer to heal properly; it still sent numbing twinges or a sharp shot of pain to remind her it was there. 

"Like I fell down a chasm," replied (Y/N), her voice scratchy and broken from a prolonged period without use. Your Commander, is he okay?" she asked with concern, forgetting her own injuries and well-being in favor of the battle-worn commander she'd tried to save. As her fuzzy memories cleared up, she recalled catching him with the stem cells and vaguely recalled his yelled response. "Is he still pissed off?" she questioned, not bothering to sugarcoat her words, even in the face of her master. 

"Wolffe made a full recovery and was cleared for active duty a few days ago," responded Plo, not speaking of the changes he noticed regarding the loyal commander, at least not yet. "He's not angry, more confused, conflicted even," he added, bringing a taloned hand to his chin as if to ponder the changes. Many times, Plo found Wolffe watching over (Y/N) while off duty. His view of Night Sister, in particular, was changing, or at least his previous opinions of (Y/N) had. She was no longer an enemy, although Wolffe was clearly trying to figure out what she was to him now. 

"How long have I been out?" questioned (Y/N), at least having enough sense to realize it was far longer than a few hours, even more so if Wolffe had been cleared for duty days prior. "The 916th, what's to happen with them?" she added, her concern turning to the troopers she'd previously led rather than to her own health and healing. Rightly so, the Jedi Knight knew she'd be reassigned soon enough. The council never seemed to hesitate to send her around the galaxy. 

"Calm (N/N), the 916th are well taken care of; Master Yoda has taken command for now," asserted Plo, placing a hand on (Y/N)'s shoulder as if to aid in calming her and ensure she did not overexert herself. "You've been asleep for five rotations," he informed, seeing the shock wash over her features before being replaced with a more neutral expression. After a while, (Y/N) simply nodded, although she was still collecting her scattered thoughts and senses. She'd been out that long, and no one tried to transfer her back to Coruscant or a long-term medbay. Quickly, she figured Plo had prevented it; after all, her fear, almost hatred of medbays, wasn't a secret she kept to herself. Anyone who knew her knew she refused to be near a medbay after the events that transpired as a child. 

"I'm to be reassigned, aren't I?" commented (Y/N), her tone flat as she worded the question more matter-of-factly. She knew she would be reassigned, but the question was where and for how long this time. 

"Indeed you are," voiced Plo in response, taking a seat at her side once again, taking on the role of a father figure rather than a Jedi Master. "Shaak Ti has requested you return to Kamino. She says there is a specific unit that will benefit from your training," spoke the Kel Dor. "While there, I'd advise you to acquaint yourself with the Commando units. You're to be assigned as their permanent commander." 

"What changed the council's mind?" asked (Y/N) before she had a chance to stop the question from leaving her lips. However, she didn't regret asking it. She knew that if she didn't, it would eat away at her until she eventually found the courage to ask. 

"I put the notion to the council after the Wolf Pack mentioned it. As did several council members, both the senate and the commandoes agreed," recalled Plo, hearing the quiet thank you in response. Although he was sure, she meant it for more than just her new assignments. More than likely, she referred to remaining at the base instead of waking up in a clinical medbay somewhere, surrounded by reminders of the past she tried so hard to suppress and bombarded by the memories and anxiety it would cause. 

Just moments after (Y/N) fell into peaceful slumber again, a buzzing sound emanated from the door. The second it opened, Comet entered, holding on to (Y/N)'s lightsabers, the graceful weapons he'd spent hours most nights trying to mend, with little luck. The most he'd been able to do with his limited knowledge was to get the damaged one to buzz and overheat before powering off. Other than that, his only success was to add a little wolf charm to the hilt of the twin duel lightsabers. If only so (Y/N) had a reminder of them when she eventually left. 

"Wolffe's pacing around the hall again," gently spoke Comet, his voice quiet so as not to wake the peaceful Jedi again. Plo nodded once more before leaving the room, placing a hand on Comet's shoulder. 

Since the fall, Wolffe has been different. He's all-focused and still does his job perfectly when on duty, but he seemed confused and even conflicted when off duty. Plo had noticed and subtly told his commander he was there should he feel the need to speak of what bothered him. The wise Kel Dor could sense the conflicted feelings and confusion revolving around (Y/N) and her actions to save him and will to do so at a great cost to herself, even after his prior treatment of her. 

"Runi," quietly voiced Comet, his words no louder than a whisper. His attention was on the lightsabers clutched in his gloved hands. I tried fixing your lightsaber, but it doesn't like me. It buzzes and overheats now. Kinda like Wolffe when he's off duty," he joked, stepping closer to (Y/N), seemingly peacefully sleeping. No doubt, the powerful painkillers had kicked in. "I don't know if anyone else said this, but thank you for saving our grumpy brother. He appreciates it too, even if he doesn't outwardly show it," finished Comet, as he gently placed the lightsabers on the shelf just behind where (Y/N) slept. After completing his task, he left the room once more, making sure the door slid shut properly before leaving, only glancing back upon hearing Wolffe's familiar all-be-it hesitated growls, likely warding away the civvi medic again. 

"This is the most I've seen Wolffe confused in some time," stated Boost, witnessing as the commander began to pace back and forth. He was agitated, confused, and clearly conflicted, more so than he normally was. There was little doubt (Y/N) was the cause of his confusion, especially if the mumbled words in the dead of night and sleep were anything to go by. 

"I don't know; he was pretty messed up after losing his eye," replied Sinker, recalling the struggle well. In Wolffe's mind, all Jedi became lightsaber-wielding maniacs, even their wise General Plo. Civvi's were still unknown territory for Wolffe; he'd yet to regain the confidence he'd once had before the Malevolence and losing his eye. After the Malevolence, the commander had begun to shut himself off and closed off his heart from caring about others for fear he'd lose them like all those at Abregardo. 

Asajj Ventress, taking his eye, forced away any softness Wolffe may have had toward those outside his brothers and Wolf Pack. He became so much colder towards Civvi, always expecting judgment from them, normally harsh judgment at that. Most of the time, he didn't give civvies a chance to know him or see the softer side that had become a well-guarded secret. 

"He likes her. What's to be confused about?" voiced Warthog, leaning against the wall. Normally, he'd take the chance to tease Wolffe, but he knew better than to do that at the moment. Especially when the chances of his head being bitten off were higher than normal. "You know, other than she's a Night Sister, and he swore to hate all Children of Dathomir," chuckled the pilot, knowing if Wolffe heard him now, he'd be growled at for days. 

"Did you return her sabers?" came Wolffe's booming voice, startling the group of four. Warthog, in particular, paled as he turned to face his commander. He'd expected to see the normal flat unamusement painted on Wolffe's features, but instead, he was met with something else entirely. Wolffe clearly displayed his exhaustion, although that didn't stop the commander from whacking the pilot upside the head, at least confirming he'd heard his words. "I'm not confused. I just ... don't understand her." 

"She'll be leaving soon. Should be easier for you to forget about her and return to your grouchy self," spoke the second civvi medic. This one was male and hardly a joy to be around. Most of the time, he'd taken delight in naming each clone insulting names, calling them by their identification numbers, or just outright being callous. "I doubt that would be much trouble for the rest of you mindless soldiers."

"Is it still against the rules to shoot civvi personnel?" asked Sinker, making sure his words were loud enough for the civvi to hear as he all but stomped away. No doubt, he was heading to (Y/N)'s quarters to check on her. Now she had woken, it would only be a matter of time before she was set to Kamino for her next assignment. 

"Unfortunately, yes," voiced Boost in response, rolling his own brown eyes at the thought of having to put up with the civvi for several more months, at least until his rotation with them ended. "As much as I agree, the temptation to commit said war crime is there. It's not worth the court marshaling we'd get for it." 

"General Plo's disappointment would be far worse," Wolffe said before walking away, hearing the boys following along as if they understood his silent intentions of returning to the barracks. However, the commander became suspicious of their motives. Were they following to keep out of trouble or to begin the thought-out interrogation they had been summing up the courage to commit for days? 

Series Masterlist

[dukeoftheblackstar]

Hey I don’t know if you’re taking requests, or know someone that is, but I’m feeling a Plo Koon x timid fem!reader fic, rating is dealers choice! Have a great day!!

Summary: Aboard the Triumphant, your fate is sealed amidst your numerous failure.

Pairing: Plo Koon / Reader

Word Count: 1K

Rating: F for Fluff. F for Foolishness.

Notes: The best means of healing and comfort isn't always through a plethora of words and wisdom — sometimes you just gotta yeet that shit out into space with new found friends and better opportunity. Oh and yeah, trust the force or whatever.

Color thingies because I'm deranged to not use them: Orange: Plo Koon Pink: You/Reader Blue: Commander Wolffe Purple: Sinker, Boost, Warthog, Comet

Perfect divider by @idontgetanysleep with itty, bitty, cutie-patootie Plo Koon face ♥

You did what you were supposed to— or at least tried, for that matter. The instructions were pretty clear and simple even for someone who had just boarded the Triumphant after barely making the cut to be a medic. The choice was either to be retrained under a more draconian approach having failed a shy number of times, had it not been for the strings that latched onto your shoulder for having a guardian with amicable connections, or be decommissioned. Not that you would suffer the same fate as the clones for being an external resource, but to no longer be of contribution to the cause of peace in the ever-chaotic galaxy is no better than death itself.

And you were ecstatic —even for a fleeting moment when news of you being assigned to the 104th came about. You’ve heard so much of Master Jedi General Plo Koon and the Wolfpack that you couldn’t really blame why some clones aspire to be under the warm hand of the highly revered and ‘tamed’ Jedi as opposed to the boisterous bunch of Generals Skywalker and Kenobi. You were beyond elated that you’ve missed hours of sleep as you were finally jettisoned from Coruscant to board the venator-class ship that you’ve become quite a jittery mess.

And so here you are; standing before a box of refurbished datapads with not a single device flickering to life as if the protruding ports smashed and torn weren’t enough to instill how much of a failure you are — how much, a simple task efficiency eludes you as how all the tasks before today had done the same. 

You might as well just step off the ramp right now and float aimlessly in space to mirror the emptiness you bring to the galaxy with your pathetic existence, right? Might as well just step into the sun and at least allow yourself to be a source of kindling that may burn brighter and serve hope to the fallen like yourself. Might as well —

“Might I interest you in a little distraction, little one?”

Plo Koon, in his towering frame that was both intimidating and of a soothing presence, had placed his talon-clad hand over your shoulder; a gentle squeeze to merit your attention as you turn and immediately lower your head with irises shaken in search of words to offer your most-sincerest apologies for having brought the incorrect package.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir.” Even your apology was barely acceptable by your standards that you felt even smaller. So small that you were a rough estimate of twenty-nine seconds away from welling up for failing so miserably these past few days. It has deterred your morning routines of self-affirmation knowing fully that you are only to fail once more — and you have indeed yet again. You weren’t much of a talker either; you were that of a shy nature, timid on all accounts.

You hear a soft thud and wince — not that you were hurt or anything, but you were so easily frightened when it comes to failure, thinking he would have struck you or at least commanded a trooper to escort you out of the premises and off to the uncertainties of life. 

But no, it clearly wasn’t that at all.

As you gaze up to inspect the sound, you see Plo Koon holding a metallic bat made of scraps, worn of usage with blurred writings and the Wolfpack’s insignia drawn on different angles including the signage on the 104th’s ships, Plo’s Bros.

You watch his wrist turn and swing the bat lightly, testing it with a firm grip at the hilt. 

“When in training…” He began, pausing dramatically like the true, theatrical Baran Do Sage that he is apart from being a Master Jedi. “... the only failure is not to learn from your defeats.” 

Before you could ask, you see him turn, grasp the hilt of the bat with both hands, swing as one refurbished datapad flew over his head and met the bat with such precision that it was out in the vastness of space in less than a second. 

“Nice shot, General.” 

Your eyes were drawn promptly to Boost who offered a cheerful greeting and a wink, tossing another broken datapad in his hand ready to putt. Comet and Warthog beside him holding a singular digit of 1 and 0 in solidarity, while Sinker rummaged through the box of unusable datapads you’ve carried.

Plo turns to you and extends his hand, guiding and insisting you take the plunge. 

“Your turn, sweetness.” You hear Sinker from behind you, ushering you towards their beloved General who then welcomed you with a rather secure hold as he positioned himself behind. 

You feel the warmth of his palm enveloping the back of your hand in contrast to the stannic bat that latched on your grip. He guides your other hand to firmly take hold before leaning over your shoulder.

“Remember, my dear, you always pass failure on your way to success.”

With that, Plo steps a mindful distance and turns to Boost with a nod. “Consider this your official initiation to the 104th.”

And right before the turn of events fruition, you hear yet another voice approaching. 

“Ah, Commander Wolffe. How good of you to join us.” Says Plo Koon.

“General. Boys.” Wolffe replies in his stern and gruff note. “You do realize that I have to file a report on this.”

In fear, you turn to Plo whose brow creases were far from being tensed let alone bothered. He turns to Wolffe and motions for Boost to ready his aim. 

Wolffe sighs in both an exasperated and amused manner, arms tucked behind his back as he turns heel and bid farewell. “You best make that shot or you’re off this ship, miss.”

“You heard the commander. I believe in you, little one. Make your mark.”

And indeed you have —with a newfound determination and a steady grip, you’ve allowed yourself to not only trust in the Force, your new comrades, your new General, and your new role, but have also found it within you to trust the most important aspect of existence;

♥̷ ̷Y̷ ̷O̷ ̷U̷ ̷R̷ ̷S̷ ̷E̷ ̷L̷ ̷F̷ ̷♥̷

Welcome aboard the Triumphant, little love ♥ Where PloHours and 104th Foolishness is operational 24/7. I hope you enjoy this and that this was is at least a little close to your ask because oh-my-god, did I have to Google so much meaning equivalents of ‘timid’.

[balrogballs]

2 meter snake anon here: Now i’m begging you to write a little ficlet of Aragorn going missing or being waylaid in some ride through the forests only for Elrond to find him surrounded by all the little weird creatures and beasts he’s raised as pets, faithfully making a protective circle around him. Hell, the wolf cub Aragorn rescued is probably the one who led Elrond his way 🫵🏼😭

I am mildly sleep deprived and quite literally dictated this to my phone whilst on a bicycle so you may encounter typos and it frankly sounds like a deranged 1920s children's story, but have fun x

How Glorfindel the Second Came to Stay 

"My dear Glorfindel, how old are you?" 

"Two thousand eigh—" 

"Both lives, thank you," Elrond snapped, clicking his fingers in front of Glorfindel's face in a gesture reminiscent of a fiery-haired addition to his family tree. "Quickly now, or can you also not count in addition to being clearly unable to perform to bare minimum standards of childcare?"

"Eight thousand, nine hundred and forty six." 

"Outstanding!" the lord clapped his hands. "And Estel, how old is Estel?" 

"Fifteen," muttered Glorfindel. "Possibly sixteen." 

"Six! He's six! And as such, what do you mean," Elrond affectionately linked elbows with the captain of his guard, looking both perfectly cheerful and supremely dangerous. "What do you mean I leave him with you for a grand total of two hours, two hours, Glorfindel, you take baths longer than that on a weekly basis — only for him to disappear for three days, and then be brought back by a procession of wild animals?" 

"Oh Elrond, you exaggerate!" exclaimed Glorfindel, gesturing at the sight before him. "There was no procession. Perhaps a small entourage."

Reader, it was indeed a procession. By which this narrator means that Elrond was greeted at the gates two hours ago, not by the Glorfindel-led search parties he had sent out to look for his foster son, but by a very self-important snake. And Elrond, having been understandably rather frantic, did not question the fact that the foster son in question was not brought back by said search parties led by the (overpaid) captain of his guard and his troupe of very expensive warhorses. 

Instead, he was borne atop the back of a very small Oliphaunt which had its trunk curled carefully over the sleeping child, ensuring it didn't fall off. Behind and before the child walked two large warthogs, heads held high as though they too were named Asfaloth. In the middle of the parade was a bear - an authentic, honest-to-goodness, pukka, full-sized bear, a card-carrying member of the genus and species Bear, ambling along and occasionally nudging Estel to ensure he was securely laid on the Oliphaunt's back and that the beast's trunk wasn't squeezing the child too hard (Oliphaunts, whilst well meaning, were notorious forgetters). At the forefront of the parade – for that was what it was – was a very self-possessed snake, which slithered gracefully and somewhat imperiously across the gate and unlocked it for his brethren. 

("Oh look," whispered Erestor from a suitably high window, nudging Lindir with a grin. "It's Elrond's family, all come to visit at once!") 

Elrond, for his part, stood very still and did not even blink. Not even when the Oliphaunt deposited the child at his feet and the bear gave him a cheery look that said he got lost but found us quite quickly. But he talks too much, my lord. We had to bring him back. Elrond did not blink when the warthogs jumped into the pond and gave themselves a bath near the inordinately expensive fish, and you best be sure he didn't make eye-contact with the snake for even a second, even when the snake in question looked him head to toe with an extremely dismissive air, as if to say is this the famed lord of Imladris then? I am not impressed. 

In fact, he didn't move until Glorfindel rode in. For Glorfindel cantered in looking far too happy for an elf who had been bested by a warthog, and that was enough to rouse Elrond from his stupor, grab the captain by his ear and give him an earful so deafening and profanity-laden that the Oliphaunt burst into tears and the bear seemed to mutter so much for kind as summer. The procession of animals slunk out silently, hoping not to be noticed by anyone other than the now awake-Estel, waving a cheery goodbye to his old friends.

All except Glorfindel the Second, who wound itself comfortably around his shoulders, christened from a safe distance by Lord Elrond - whose fear of snakes was marginally edged out by his newfound irritation towards Glorfindel the First, and his inability to look after a child that had been literally strapped to his belt.

[crazyyluvr]

Could you do like a Jason Grace x gf!reader where the reader and him get into a small argument so they end up competing in opposite teams during capture the flag, to sort of avoid eachother, but the reader gets injured during the game and jason is super worried, and they make up afterwards? Gosh im sorry if this is too specific, I just thought I'd be cute haha

Stop Being Nice to Me, I'm Supposed to be Mad at You

pairing: jason grace x gf!reader

summary: in which Jason gets in an argument with you before a Capture the Flag game and you end up avoiding each other... until you get injured, and Jason couldn't let the previous argument stop him from checking up on you.

wc: 1.9k

content: argument, she/her pronouns, set in camp jupiter with some made up characters, jason and reader are in different cohorts for plot purposes, reader uses a spear, reader is a cohort leader

note: i’m so sorry that it took me so long to do this anon, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

short oneshot under the cut :: not proofread

"You —" Jason started, but stopped himself when he noticed that his tone was getting too aggressive. "You could have gotten worse injuries, both you and the newbie."

You sighed, rubbing your temples for the nth time that day. "I know, okay? I dealt with the situation before it could escalate."

You were on patrol with a fellow probatio cohort mate the night before, and an enormous warthog suddenly appeared, wanting to ram the entrance to camp.

You, of course, had to cover for your cohort mate's ass by pushing them out of the way to avoid the warthog's tusks. Your arm almost got skewered in the process, but the fight ended in your favor — a fight that consisted of you screaming bloody murder in the warthog's face and pushing the newbie out of the way constantly before they could get murdered by the large animal.

The only wound you got from that fight is a cut on your cheek. It wasn't that bad, but the fact that it was on your cheek (which is full of blood), it caused quite a red waterfall.

The cut was almost healed by now, the white patch of bandage on your cheek just a precaution to fight off infections. But of course, Jason took it upon himself as your boyfriend to worry excessively over your wellbeing.

Speaking of Jason, he wasn't satisfied with your previous answer. "Either way, you shouldn't have compromised your safety like that. You may have killed the monster before it could get worse, but that still doesn't change the fact that you could have died."

"But I didn't, because I dealt with it," you scoffed. One thing you hated was when people treated you as if you couldn't take care of yourself. You've been able to support yourself on your own for a good while before you discovered Camp Jupiter and got claimed by your godly parent.

You appreciated the blonde boy's concern, but that doesn't change the fact that he thought that you were reckless. I mean, yeah, you kind of were, but that's besides the point.

Jason opened his mouth to protest further, but a horn blaring in the distance interrupted him.

"Hey!" Someone called your name, and you were grateful to have an excuse to look away from Jason's intense blue stare. "We have to strategize for Capture the Flag. You're leading us, remember?"

You spared one last glance at Jason, whose expression was clear: we aren't done. You scoffed again, turning back to your cohort mate — Paul, you think his name was — who happened to be the probatio you were on guard with last night.

"Okay, I'll go with you," You responded, jogging away from Jason. You could feel the heat of his glare at the back of your head, but you couldn't bring yourself to care all that much. Capture the Flag was a fairly new game in camp, but that didn't stop it from rising in popularity from how you could be as violent as you want as long as you don't severely hurt anyone.

It was the perfect opportunity for you to let out some steam.

"Did I interrupt something?" Paul asked, worried that he had upset Jason, the son of Jupiter and one of the strongest demigods in camp.

You shook your head. "No, it's fine. Let's just get this show on the road, yeah?"

Paul nodded, the nervousness on his face fading but not entirely as you both jogged towards the assembly of cohorts in the hall.

Reyna, one of the camp's praetors, started the briefing. "Cohorts one and four will go against cohorts two, three, and five."

The people in your cohort — cohort four — groaned at the disadvantage they were given, making Reyna put her hand up to silence them. "We drew lots, so those who got the shorter stick have to utilize everyone they have to turn the odds towards them."

You cracked your knuckles, your fingers itching to get your hands dirty. Your trusty Imperial Gold spear was strapped onto your back, and you were impatiently waiting for the opportunity to bring it out.

Reyna went on with the usual warnings of no killing and maiming, which made you zone out. You felt eyes on the back of your head again, but you ignored them, knowing that it was Jason's doing. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of eye contact with him.

"Good luck, and let the games begin," Reyna concluded, making the people around you roar and bang their weapons together.

They all jogged out of the hall. The ten minutes of preparation had begun, and you along with James from the First Cohort led your big group into the building that was constructed the night before just for today's Capture the Flag.

"We're based here, while the other group is based in the forest," James said. "They outnumber us, but we have the higher ground."

"Three teams," you continued. "A group of three at most to get the flag, a big group to distract the other group on their home turf, and a small squad here to guard the flag."

"We're spreading ourselves pretty thin," James noted, sounding worried. "Are you sure about this?"

You nodded. You mulled this over in your head while Reyna was briefing them all on safety precautions a few minutes ago, and you're confident that this is a good strategy. "We put Halley and Taino as part of the people left behind here. You and me will infiltrate with one other person. The rest... cause some mayhem."

"Alright, you heard her! Let's go win this!" James roared, charging out of the building with you by his side, your other teammates' footsteps thundering behind you, cheering as they ran. You all moved as one big group, all of you trained to move coordinately and orderly even in something as messy as war.

Let the game begin, you grinned.

—————

Capture the Flag ended in your team's victory, thanks to you and the probie coming in clutch and swiping the flag while running away from Hannibal the war elephant.

However, one of the children of Vulcan had left an experimental trap that you unknowingly fell into, leading to your only major injury during that game.

Twelve pins sticking into your leg was not how you envisioned this game to end, but hey, at least you won, right?

Paul the probie was the one who escorted you to the infirmary. It seemed he was feeling guilty about your patrol shift the night before and how you kept having to cover his ass and wanted to return the favor somehow.

"I'm fine," you repeated yourself once again to the Apollo kid who looked at your leg in concern. Too much concern in your opinion. "It's just a few pins."

"That were basically shot into your leg," The Apollo kid retorted, shaking their head and sighing. "Those Vulcan kids got some nerve to put an unstable trap in a game. You could have gotten worse injuries if those pins landed anywhere else. If worse came to worse, you wouldn't be able to use your leg again if they hit the wrong spot."

You shrugged. "But they didn't, so let's just be grateful and get them out of my leg, yeah?"

The Apollo kid started the process, with you occasionally groaning in pain as they pulled pin after pin out of your thigh. After the fourth pin, the infirmary doors slammed open, revealing a winded blonde, purple camp shirt slightly tattered after the Capture the Flag game around half an hour ago.

"I — I heard what happened," Jason said, his voice breathy with exhaustion, like he ran all the way there. “Are you okay?”

You observed him blankly before turning your head away slightly to cut the eye contact with him. The annoyance you had felt towards him didn’t quite cool down yet. “I'm fine. Not like there’s needles in my leg or — anything.”

The last word came out strained as the Apollo kid pulled out two needles at the same time. Your body jolted unexpectedly at the sudden pain.

“Grace, keep your girlfriend still, will you?” The Apollo kid retorted, not even bothering to look up from their work to address the son of Jupiter properly. “She’s twitchy.”

Jason took a few more steps towards you, but he hesitated. He knew you were still angry at him, but he wanted to help you. He wanted to do anything to relieve you of the pain you were in right now, no matter how many times you'd say that you were "fine" or that the pain was "bearable."

Jason looked at you, silently asking you for your consent. You sighed, looking away again, but the expression on your face was calmer than how it was before. The blonde boy took it as a sign to continue, gently placing his hands on your shoulders.

Now that there was someone restraining you, the child of Apollo showed no mercy. They started pulling pins out consistently, going as fast and as careful as possible so you don’t bleed out.

“Oh shit,” you winced, a hand instinctively going up to clutch Jason’s wrist tightly as you tried to bear with the pain while making as little noise as possible.

Jason did his job well, keeping his hands firm to prevent you from flinching too hard. His own face was slightly contorted, like he felt your pain too.

Well, maybe he did. Spiritually…?

The last of the damned needles was dropped into the metal container with a clang. “Alright, now I can bandage.”

Even though it was no longer necessary, Jason didn’t let go of you. His hold on you became more gentle, but his hands remained on your shoulders, as yours remained wrapped loosely around his wrist.

Despite your (now lesser) anger towards him, you appreciated his presence. Him just being there was enough for your heartbeat to steady, your breaths to even. That was the kind of effect only he had on you.

“Done,” The Apollo kid exhaled, snipping the bandage. They stood, stretching. “I’m gonna leave you two here, but Grace, don’t let her leave. I’m not discharging her until later.”

Without another word, they slipped away, leaving you alone with Jason.

Jason finally let go of you and slowly sank into the chair beside you, studying you with attentive and concerned eyes. You found yourself missing the warmth from his palms. “How are you feeling?”

You shrugged. “Fine. The pain is bearable.”

Jason nodded. He fidgeted with his golden coin, sliding it along his fingers.

When he finally gathered the courage to say what he wanted to say, he looked up at you and held your gaze. “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier today. I don’t doubt your ability to protect yourself, but I just… worry about you.”

You exhaled, smiling slightly at him. The warmth reached your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, and don’t worry about it. I’m just petty sometimes that I hold grudges against the most worthless things.”

“But I love you anyway,” Jason chuckled, genuine love dilating his pupils and stretching his lips to a grin.

You laughed, looking at him softly. Your thigh was throbbing, your head felt funny from a small headache, but your heart soared because of the blonde boy you grew to care for more than you cared for anything and anyone else. “And I love you for loving me anyway.”

[malicedragoness]

Kinktober Day 3 - Monster AU

Characters: Naga!Havik x GN Reader

Word count: 702

Synopsis: It’s been weeks since your destroyed ship washed up on unknown land. And a naga with a mangled face seems to have taken a liking to you.

Notes: I wrote this with Havik’s black and red hair (Scabbed Over) in mind. I’m not entirely happy with the end product, but I think it’s because I want to world build more with it. But if I did that, then I would just put it off until it’s like 15k words. Maybe I’ll revisit this idea and expand on it in the future. NOT BETA READ, WE DIE LIKE MEN!

Warnings: Monster rutting

Kinktober tag list: @bihanspookies

Warmth surrounds you as you gently stir awake. Your eyes crack open to catch your new lover resting against your chest, an unbidden smile tugging on your lips.

Havik’s ruined face looks more gentle, more calm when he sleeps. The fierce demeanor gone and replaced by a peaceful expression.

He loves to keep you wrapped up in his tail at night. His tail always seemed endless. Coils of shimmering onyx scales, speckled with muted reds and whites, feel silky smooth against your naked skin. Strong as steel, yet they carefully wrap around you, emanating a pleasant heat.

And his thick cock is buried deep inside you, refusing to part from the warm, safe haven your body provided.

Your walls clench around him for a brief moment, earning a low groan from the sleeping creature on top of you.

It’s been weeks since your ship was wrecked by a terrible storm at sea. Deadly waves and a raging tempest had reduced the great ship to timbers, taking many lives of the passengers on board.

You woke up shivering. Drenched in sea water and a face full of wet sand, you cursed the cruel sea for abandoning you in such a strange place. Bodies and pieces of the ship littered the dreary beach. The few survivors decided to take their chances braving the new landscape.

And not even an hour into your trek, you were being chased by a warthog. The rest of your group had dispersed and left you to your fate. Your heart hammering in your chest as the sound of hooves got closer.

Until Havik showed up.

The naga had fallen from the trees, coiling his tail around the vicious beast. His massive hands ripping the jaw off the warthog, squealing in pain. Piece by piece, he clawed it apart until he was covered in blood and viscera.

His haunting gaze turned to you, sniffing the air, “Mate.”

He took you and the carcass of the warthog back to his nest, offering you pieces of raw meat from his kill.

Over time, Havik learned how to care for you. Crafting a spit roast to cook the meat for you, bringing you fresh water from a spring, berries and fruits that were safe to eat. And he offered you the furs of creatures he’s slain to keep you warm.

It seemed like such a long time ago when his feral visage frightened you. Scars decorated his body, some deeper than others. Half of his face was burned away, revealing a sharp set of fangs. Slitted topaz eyes studying your every move.

And now that same creature is curled atop of you, basking in the warmth of your smooth skin.

You smile and clench your walls again, wanting to rouse him from sleep. His muscular abdomen gives an unbidden jerk, sliding further into you.

Slowly, the coils of his tail come alive, slithering around you like never ending waves. A low hiss could be heard as Havik raises his head, trailing the ruined cartilage of his nose up your throat.

“Mate,” his voice low and gravelly in your ear. He teases your neck with the tip of his forked tongue.

“Havik,” you murmur affectionately. A soft sigh leaving your lips as he rocks his hips forward.

Clawed hands caress your body, worshipping every dip and groove, causing shivers down your spine. His cock throbbed within you, rubbing the walls of your tight channel with every thrust.

Onyx tail props you up higher, the end of it curling around your wrists and pulling them behind your head, leaving you at his mercy.

Growls and hisses rumble in his throat.

“My mate,” his hot breath fanning your neck, his hips thrusting into you a little faster. “All mine. No one else can have you.”

“I’m yours, Havik.” Your whimpers spur him on, feeding the possessiveness inside him.

His massive hands envelope your ankles and place them on his shoulders. His hulking figure looms over you, bending your legs to your chest. Drool and venom drip from his fangs, landing on your collarbone as he ruts into you.

“I’m gonna empty every drop of my spill inside you. Until you’re filled to the brim with me.”

[the-bad-batch-baroness]

Where's Mommy?

Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Part 11

Summary: Wolffe's wife suddenly dies, leaving him a single father in the middle of a war.

Pairing: Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Characters: Wolffe, Cara (child OFC), Comet, Sinker, Boost, Warthog, Plo Koon

Tags & Warnings: heavy angst, mention of death, off-screen death, spousal death, grief, hurt/comfort, family fluff

Word Count: 1.3k

Author's Note: PLEASE READ! I have made the decision to change this series from a reader fic to an OC fic. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this and it's not something I decided on overnight. I don't believe I can do the narrative justice by staying in the constraints of a reader fic, and my first duty is always to the narrative. I'm sorry if this upsets anyone, but trust me, having to go back and re-write everything into third-person past-tense was not on my to-do list. I realize I do not have an OC option on my taglist sign up form. This has been fixed. If you would no longer like to be tagged in this series, please let me know. All of the parts will be updated along with the corrected tags before the next part is posted in two weeks. I apologize for the inconvenience. As always, please enjoy 💚

Beta: @beating-a-dead-plot

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After the long trek up the Jedi Temple steps, Wolffe placed Cara down onto the ground and let her walk beside him, but he securely held her hand. The Temple still made him feel uneasy, but with a little gentle prodding from Plo, and after passing by several clone troopers, he decided to release Cara's hand and let her walk on her own. He kept one eye on where he was going and the other on her to make sure she didn't wander off on him. She had always been a curious child.

As Plo guided the group through the Temple halls to their new quarters he told Cara a little story that made her giggle and laugh. It warmed Wolffe's heart to hear her laugh and he soaked up as much of it as he could. She had been through so much already, and the funeral was going to ruin any chance of him hearing her laugh in the near future. It wasn't like he laughed much either. His wife was the one who laughed the most, but it was contagious and he always caught it from her.

Along their journey, Wolffe had to stop Cara from touching things that didn't belong to her. She wanted to touch everything within reach and most of it belonged to the Jedi or someone else. The rest of the Wolfpack found it amusing and snickered every time Wolffe veered off from the group to grab his wandering child. He'd never been on babysitting duty before, but his wife made it look easy when they went out together so he thought it wouldn't be an issue for him. He was dead wrong.

"Cara," Wolffe sighed as he sprinted over to her once again. This time it was a cube-shaped shiny-looking object sitting on a table. "If you don't stop walking away from me, I'm gonna have to carry you."

"Look! It's pretty," Cara said as she picked up the cube and admired it.

"It's not yours," Wolffe said. He took the cube from her and placed it back down where she found it.

Cara pouted, turned away from Wolffe, and crossed her arms. "But it was pretty…"

Wolffe's eyes softened and he crouched down to her level. "I know, but just because something is pretty doesn't mean you can take it. That's called stealing."

Cara turned back to face Wolffe, still pouting. "Is stealing bad?"

"Yes, it is," Wolffe said. "The Coruscant Guard can put you in jail for that."

"I don't want to go to jail!" Cara gasped and put her hands behind her back. "I don't like Fox."

Wolffe tried to hide a snort, but failed miserably. "Don't worry, baby, you won't. As long as you stop touching things that don't belong to you."

"Okay," Cara said. She reached her arms up for Wolffe to pick her up and he obliged.

Wolffe fell back into step with the rest of the group as Plo continued to direct them through the Temple. With so many twists, turns, and hallways it wouldn't be easy for Cara to leave the temple, even by accident, which was one of Wolffe's major concerns about getting deployed. Actually, he had a whole list of concerns, but he could only focus on one at a time. He never used to be such a worrier, not with his wife around, but now, so many things could go wrong if he wasn't there with her.

"We have arrived," Plo said as he stopped and turned to face a plain door in the hallway.

Wolffe was pulled away from his thoughts when he heard his general's voice and realized that he'd been walking on autopilot for the last stretch of the journey. He'd have to access the Temple maps later to make sure he knew where all of the entrance and exit routes to and from the room were. He'd memorize the entire Temple layout if he had to. He refused to leave any of this up to chance. There was too much at stake. He couldn't stay focused on a mission if he was thinking about Cara's welfare.

Wolffe placed Cara down and took a hold of her hand. This was new for the both of them, but they'd do it together, even if it was scary. Plo opened the door and Wolffe did an immediate visual scan for threats and initial observations. It was spacious compared to any living quarters the GAR had ever given him, but it looked rather restricting for Cara, who had lived her whole life in a multi-room apartment. It was a simple layout with a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a window, and, thankfully, no enemies.

Cara grabbed Wolffe's leg and stepped behind him to hide. He could tell she was nervous, but so was he.

"Daddy," her voice trembled. "I want to go home."

Wolffe twisted his neck around to look down at her and sighed. He gave her an encouraging pat on the back and walked forward into the room with her following behind. "This…" he began, but hesitated. "This is home now." The words tasted bitter even for him, but if he was going to convince Cara, he needed to convince himself first. It definitely wasn't home. Not by a longshot. Home was their apartment. Home was pretty curtains and smelly flowers. Home was a warm meal. Home was his wife.

"Out of the way!" Sinker shouted as he barreled past Wolffe and Cara. "Man with a box coming through!"

Cara giggled and Wolffe shook his head as the rest of the Wolfpack filed into the small room.

Boost plopped down onto the bed and bounced on it with exaggerated motions. "This bed is super soft. Softer than any bed I've ever slept on. You should feel it!"

Cara let go of Wolffe's leg and ran over to the bed to try it out for herself.

"Look at this!" Warthog exclaimed over his shoulder. "There's a window too. You can see all of Coruscant from up here!"

Cara hopped off of the bed and ran over to look out the window. She was just a tad bit too short, so Warthog picked her up so she could see.

Comet walked into the room last and pulled open the doors of the wardrobe. "Wow," he said with a big smile. "Lots of space in here, too. You're really staying in luxury, ad'ika."

Wolffe crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head as a small smile crept onto his face. What was once a terrifying situation was now an exciting adventure thanks to the Wolfpack. They knew he was scared just as much as Cara was, even if he'd never admit it, and their exaggerated display had not only eased her fears, but some of his own as well. She was smiling, giggling, laughing, exploring, and seemed fine right now. They saw her fear and shot it point blank like the good soldiers they were.

"Commander," Plo said, interrupting Wolffe's thoughts. "If you will excuse me, I have a briefing to attend."

Wolffe's small smile turned into a grimace. "Understood," he said. "I'll grab my kit."

"No need," Plo dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I will take the sergeant with me. You are much more needed here."

Wolffe looked at Sinker, who nodded in agreement. "I'll report back when the briefing is over."

"And I will meet you all on the terrace in a couple hours," Plo said, a sadness invading his voice.

Wolffe nodded in response and watched as the two left. He worried his lip and wondered what the briefing was about. Normally a briefing meant they were about to deploy, but he hoped that this time it was the slim case where it wasn't a deployment order, because the thought of leaving Cara so soon burned a hole straight through his gut. They still had the funeral to deal with, and he couldn't abandon her after that. It would make him a deplorable father and human being, but a very good soldier.

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AO3

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[dialoguestetatet]

Hwangyeon Choi x fem!reader

Fluff, OOC, I got carried away a little in the end, oops. I realized that I was starting to like him a little bit too much

The idiot in love pt.2 (pt.1 is here)

masterlist

For anyone who forgot, Hwangyeon Choi was a very confident person. Therefore, he sat absolutely calmly at a cafe table and waited for your arrival, his leg didn't even twitch from tension, and he didn't tap his fingers on the countertop to the rhythm of the Baby Shark melody. Where did he even hear that tune?

Hwangyeon was cool. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool. He wasn't nervous at all. He was serene as the Buddha. There were definitely no butterflies tap dancing in his stomach. What could have gone wrong? Well, anything, because as it turned out, the universe had some personal scores with him and tried to make him look like an absolute fool. Hwan sat and mentally went over the worst-case scenarios for a date: from the fact that he would turn a cup of coffee over on you, to the fact that an escaped lion from a passing traveling circus would attack the cafe on that day and at that time, and you would have to run to the roof of the tallest building. Oh, wait, no, it wasn't like a lion, but a gorilla. Or an orangutan? There's no difference, but didn't the lion escape and make friends with a wild boar and a jerboa? Or was it a meerkat and a warthog? And what did a lion and monkeys have to do with it? Why was he sitting here at all and shaking his leg so that the table wobbled like in an earthquake? Where was he? Who was he? Baby Shark?

"Hey, Hwangyeon! Have you been waiting long? Sorry I'm late", you walked up to the table and waved at him.

He jumped up so abruptly that his knee hit the table. It was painful, but definitely worth it to see you in all your glory. Your face seemed to glow under the rays of the sun, your eyes sparkled with joy, and your lips broke into the most tender smile that has ever been addressed to him. But suddenly your face was filled with concern. "Are you okay? Does it hurt much?"

"What?" What are you talking about? Did you really feel how much his heart fluttered? Was it pounding that loud?

"Your knee", you put your hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little.

Which knee? He didn't have knees, if you keep touching him, he'll have a heart attack, you'll have to call an ambulance, then the date will definitely be ruined. He needed to pull himself together urgently. Oh God, your hand was still on his shoulder, did you want to take him to his grave before he's thirty?

"No, no, it's alright!" He jerked to the side and you took your hand away. Oh no, bring it back, why did he need shoulders at all if your hand wasn't going to be on them? "By the way, you look really pretty".

"Oh, thank you, Hwan, you look great yourself". No, he didn't blush, he was as tough as a tin soldier. Didn't he burn down in the end of the story? What did it matter? You called him Hwan, he'll need to come up with beautiful names for your future daughter.

"Th- thank you", DID HE STUTTER? This shame can only be washed away with his blood. While you were sitting down at the table, Hwangyeon was thinking about how painful it is to commit seppuku and why masochism has always been in fashion.

"I hope you don't mind that I've already ordered?" It wasn't for nothing that he's been scouring your entire Instagram in search of what you liked.

You smiled at him, "Not at all, you guessed my favorite. And I really like this cafe, it's amazing that you suggested going here". God, stop smiling, or he'll have to lean across the table and kiss you. It's a well-known fact that if a person you're madly in love with was sitting in front of you and smiling at you, then you have to kiss them, even if you're on a first date. He didn't make up the rules.

So far, the dialogue has progressed quite productively, Hwan has already learned more about what you do, a little about your hobby (he'll have to google more to be able to support you in this), and about your favorite book (he'll also need to read it, so it'll take some time before he can insert any phrase from it into your conversation).

"You do cycling, don't you?", your question caught him off guard, because he was thinking about whether it was possible to gently take your hand. Wasn't your hand just lying next to the cup? Most likely, your hand was very lonely and cold, so he'll be happy to warm you. Now, what was the question again?

"Oh, yeah, I've been doing this since I was a kid. I love this feeling when you ride a bike, and there's only wind around, the world seems to freeze. I'm pretty good at it and quite popular among cyclists", surely he couldn't miss the chance to brag in front of you.

"I really want to see it sometime", you ran your fingers over the cup.

"Of course, come to the competition, and witness my victory," Hwangyeon gently ran the pads of his fingers over your knuckles. You laughed and moved your hand a little closer to him. "Huh, you're a confident man, I like that." He carefully wrapped his much larger hand around yours, and your palm fitted his perfectly. He stroked your knuckles with his thumb. Suddenly, you intertwined your fingers with his and looked shyly from under your eyelashes. Hwan smiled and continued to massage the point between your thumb and forefinger.

You walked out of the cafe holding hands. While you were ranting about your favorite show, Hwangyeon was considering the possibility of getting slapped in the face and being known as the guy who can't keep his hands to himself if he kissed you. There were two options, the first one was to kiss you, get slapped in the face and watch you run away with the words "you're acting too fast, did you think I was a girl of easy virtue?", and the second one was not to kiss you and regret it until the next date. What if you don't want another date? It was going pretty well, wasn't it? You were smiling, laughing, chatting, holding hands. Your hand is so small, so thin, your skin is so delicate compared to his. He was wondering what ring size you have. This was a first date, calm down, people usually waited a few years after they officially became a couple. What if you don't want to date him? Maybe he should dig a grave right in that vacant lot that he often drove past as a child? He'll simply wait in a hole to die like a giraffe. Why did he have only animals on his mind all day?

"Hwan," you said his name softly. You've already stopped by your house, facing each other. He looked into your eyes and realized that he shouldn't have overthought it. You were standing there beaming with joy, and your lips were so kissable, so it was impossible not to do it. Gently running his hand over your cheek, he touched your lip with his thumb. "May I?" Hwan whispered, leaning closer to your face. "Yes," you breathed into his lips. Fireworks exploded in front of his eyelids from the first touch of your lips. As soft as he thought. As gentle as he imagined. As sweet as he dreamed. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he pulled you even closer, hugging you around the waist. At first, a timid and tender kiss quickly turned into a passionate one. You ran your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck while he greedily stole your breath. A shiver ran down his spine as you moaned softly against his lips. Hwangyeon bit your lower lip and pulled it with his teeth. You whimpered and trembled in his arms as he parted your lips and slipped his tongue into your mouth. He was crazy about the way you clung to him, scratched his neck with your nails, sucked on his tongue. He stroked your waist, put his hands on your hips, but quickly returned his hands back, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to deny himself the pleasure of thrusting his thigh between your legs and, clasping your hips, pressing you against him. With great difficulty, he pulled away from your lips. You mewled in protest and reached back. Seeing the blush on your face, half-closed eyes and bitten lips, Hwan began to erratically leave kisses on your nose, cheeks, chin, moving to your neck, unable to resist running his tongue over the beating vein and biting the thin skin with his teeth. "Hwan, please", his legs almost buckled from your pleading moan, he couldn't stop himself and led a trail of kisses to the place between your neck and ear, sucking the skin there in the mark of possession. Breathing heavily, you looked into each other's eyes.

"You're alright, princess?" Hwangyeon chuckled, seeing how disheveled you are.

"More than that, actually," you lovingly stroked his goatee.

"So you don't mind repeating it again?" Please say yes, otherwise he'll cry right here. He won't even be embarrassed by it.

"A kiss?" You're holding your breath.

"A date," Hwan rubbed his nose against your cheek, "and a kiss, a lot of kissing, actually."

"So, just dates and kisses then?" You pouted a little.

"To tell you the truth, I would die happy if you let me be your boyfriend." God, give him the strength to hold on a little longer and not to start making out with you right then and there.

"Oh no, I need my boyfriend alive, so try to survive." Was that a yes? It wasn't a hallucination, right? Hwan's not going to wake up from a coma right now, there's a zombie apocalypse around, and his best friend took his wife away?

"Then I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation at regular intervals". You giggled and pulled him by the neck, kissing his lips again.

[ageless-aislynn]

Title: “15 Minutes” (8/?) Author:  @ageless-aislynn​ Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: You've got work to do. John worries. Things get a little more intense. Series: How to date a Spartan (without even trying) Rating:  T (PG13) Length: 1,945 (this chapter, 19,693 total so far) Spoilers/warnings: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N:  Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. Halo season 2 has finally arrived! However, this fic continues to zip along in the AU Party Warthog, so, while we began with season 1 way back when (and you'll see a few more things from s1 along the way 😉), we'll not be venturing into s2 territory at all. Unless s2 is going to take some verrrrry interesting twists, lol! Chapter 9 is still in progress by hand but I hope to have it ready soon. 🤞😣🤞The next chapter will also see us entering into some hurt/comfort for a bit but I tend to lean heavier on the comfort, in case you're worried. Or, you know, would be disappointed. 😉 If you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger​ @mysardencut​ @laurenstacy610​ @sporadicbelievernightmare​ @ultrablackwidower​ @bxmxtx​ @jellotherelol

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

The Troop Transport Warthog hit a particularly rough patch and you held on for all you were worth to keep from being ejected.

"Sarge," Private Taylor yelled. "Where are we?"

"That's need to know and none of you need to know, marine," Sarge shouted back from the passenger seat. "Just keep your head down, do your job, and you'll be home 15 minutes before your mama has breakfast on the table."

You couldn't particularly tell if it were dusk, dawn or high noon, the air was so heavy with the greasy remains of mortar rounds. In the distance, a nondescript cityscape occasionally flared with either continuing pockets of active combat or just the remnants of the devastation that had passed through.

Wherever you were, it felt like you were barreling at top speed through a graveyard of vehicles: Warthogs, Mongeese and even the odd Scorpion, some overturned, blackened and smoldering, others weirdly intact as if their drivers had merely stepped away for a moment.

This was a salvage and recovery mission, tasking your unit with marking vehicles as repairable, recyclable or a total loss to be abandoned.

The next hour or so, that had been your focus, moving from Warthogs and the occasional Mongoose, conducting a quick evaluation, then using your spray gun to mark a green circle on the hood to send back to Reach for repair, a white slash to send it to be stripped for usable parts or a red X to abandon, not worth salvaging.

You marked a Mongoose with a red X, though the gun sputtered and you had to give it a few whacks before it sprayed properly, then you moved on.

Next up was a Warthog that seemed in decent condition from the outside, short of the rear antenna twisted until it resembled a curly tail. But the electronics were fried and the entire undercarriage looked like it had plowed over a series of flaming spikes, all major parts gouged out and burned. There might have been a few nuts and bolts reclaimable but since you'd just recently been writing up requisition for needed parts, you judged that it was more effort than it was worth.

You made the call to abandon it but as you tried to spray the red X across the hood, nothing emerged, even after shaking the sprayer and giving it a few more hits with the heel of your palm. With a slightly frustrated noise -- who was checking to make sure that the sprayers were in working order before they were sent out? -- you headed to get a replacement. Along the way, you caught a private going in the opposite direction.

"Hey, see that 'hog there? Would you red X it for me? Thanks."

"Um, sure," the blond man said and headed where you gestured.

You were still looking for somebody who had a spare sprayer when Sarge drove up in the Troop Transport again.

"Wrap it up, it's about to get hot," he shouted.

You quickly joined the rush back to board the Pelican and scrambled into a seat just as it lifted off. A split-second after you'd clicked the restraint down, the Pelican rolled to one side, shuddering from an impact.

Alarms began blaring, mixed in with the pilot calling out coordinates, and you automatically tried to look forward, as if you'd somehow be able to spot what was shooting at you. All you could really see was the anxious faces of the other marines around you. You spared a couple of breaths to be glad that neither Maria or Jamie had been called in for this.

The Pelican took a second, more glancing blow and the resulting shudder rattled your teeth.

"Covvies?" somebody asked over the engine whine and the private across from you shrugged.

"Who else?" she said. "But that felt like surface-to-air to me. What about you?"

She met your eyes and it was your turn to shrug. "I'm not sure. Never been hit by any sort of missile before."

"Oh well, congratulations on your first missile salvo," she returned with a crooked grin.

The Pelican rolled once more, this time in an evasive maneuver, then thankfully smoothed out and made its escape without further incident.

Your unit was taken to the covert off-world depot known colloquially as The Pit, where everything that had been marked for repair or recycle would be delivered for further sorting. In the center of the large warehouse area was a compactor pit for all of the scrap to be sent into. Several cranes were already busy moving the smaller vehicles like Warthogs and Mongeese into berths to be stripped down while the still operational vehicles were lining up to be loaded onto heavy transport carriers to be returned to base.

You finished stripping your second Warthog for salvageable parts and signaled the nearest lift operator. The clawlike crane clamped onto the 'hog's shell, picking it up and carrying it towards the compactor while you moved on to a Mongoose with a crumpled left rear wheel.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a Warthog with a particularly distinctive twisted rear antenna being dropped off into the line to be loaded up and returned to FLEETCOM.

Frowning, you wove your way through the other mechanics, avoiding the occasional flying part, and found a green circle sprayed onto the hood.

Shit, the private must've heard me wrong when I told him to red X it. It seemed like an odd mistake to make but things had been hectic.

You grabbed a sprayer and neutralized the green and sprayed over it with a red X, then went to the nearest crane operator.

"You see that 'hog with the X on it? Drop it in the line for the compactor, please."

"Got it," the woman said and you waited until she'd picked it up and deposited it appropriately before you returned to work.

You were elbows into a Gauss 'hog's engine bay when you heard your rank and name called. Looking up, your heart gave a little skip: John in full helmeted Mjolnir strode your way with thundering steps you could hear even over the rest of the cacophony.

"With me," he said tersely, passing by and disappearing through a doorway at the back of the warehouse.

You had to hustle to catch up and he had already stopped by the time you joined him in the otherwise empty hallway. He turned, removing his helmet with a slight pneumatic hiss.

"Are you okay?" you both said at the same time.

The angle of the hallway meant you were shielded from most of the work floor. He set his helmet down and very carefully took your hands in his gloved ones.

"Insurgents took the field," he said, looking you over from head to toe. "Did you see combat? Intel was unclear."

"No, we got out but the Pelican took a few shots. Somebody said it felt like surface-to-air but I didn't remember Covenant using anything like that. It was insurgents, then?"

He nodded distractedly, glancing away to mutter, "I'll be right there." Then he looked back to you. "I have to go. Your unit's being sent back to Reach but if they divert you into combat..."

He trailed off, clearly realizing there was no way to finish that sentence the way he wanted.

"Tell them, nah, I'd rather not, thanks?" Your mouth twitched and you squeezed his fingers.

He gave a resigned chuckle. "Yeah, try that, please."

"You're the one who'll be much more in the thick of it," you pointed out. "You be careful, okay?"

"Always try," he said, bringing your hands up to press a kiss to the back of both.

Kai leaned around the door, her visor glinting green. "Chief, sorry but we've got to go."

"Copy that." He released you with clear reluctance and picked up his helmet. "Stay safe. I'll see you soon."

He vanished through the doorway and you took a breath, exhaling slowly. John suddenly appeared right in front of you again, leaning down to cup your face in one hand.

You were just about to ask if something was wrong when he kissed you.

For a moment, for forever, the universe shrank to just the two of you, his mouth on yours, a little frantic at first, then slowing, steadying out.

You felt like you were hovering off the ground and then realized you were; he'd picked you up at some point, pressing you gently to his chest plate. Your hand dropped to the 117 etched near his heart and it was gritty with sand and dirt. You were both grimy and sooty but it didn't matter. It couldn't have been more perfect if you were in a flowing ballgown and him in a tux, slowly spinning together on a glittering palace floor.

He set you back onto your feet but you only parted a breath away from each other.

"I... I'll get better with practice," he mumbled.

You smiled at him, feeling wobbly, lightheaded and more grounded than you'd ever been before, all at the same time. "John, if you were any better at that, I'd have to show you how fast I can get a Spartan out of their Mjolnir with my bare hands."

He was near enough to see his pupils dilate and that was incredibly gratifying. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice dropping an entire octave, making your toes literally curl inside your boots.

Then he put his helmet back on and left. You took a moment to compose yourself, then exited as well. There was no sign of Silver Team. No doubt, the Pelican waiting for him had taken off the second he'd boarded.

Cutting through the busy deck, you looked for any vehicle marked with a white stripe, still waiting to be stripped. On an impulse, you diverted to the line being dropped one at a time into the compactor. There was no sign of the curly tailed Warthog.

It could've already been compacted, you were thinking when you saw it going by overhead, clutched in a crane claw and heading back towards the line to return to Reach.

You didn't stop to think, you sprinted for the crane's operator booth. "Hey, put that 'hog down!"

The operator looked at you and you realized in a burst that it was the blond man you'd originally told to mark it with the red X back on the battlefield, who'd apparently designated it instead to come back to The Pit.

No, to go back to FLEETCOM.

Recognition went across his face at the same moment and he bolted from the booth. The lift automatically stopped, the Warthog swaying over the crowded deck.

You knew. You just knew.

You ran as fast as you could and slammed the alarm on the wall. "Bomb!" you bellowed over the shrill klaxon. "Bomb! Clear out!"

Jumping into the operator booth and grabbing the controls, you quickly scanned the area as marines scattered everywhere. There was only one place you could think to go.

You swung the arm around, guiding the curly tailed 'hog firmly clasped in its grip towards the compactor pit. It felt like it was taking a year to get there but you couldn't release the controls or the safety would bring it once more to a stop. Once the Warthog was finally in position, you opened the grip.

What if I'm wrong? you thought as it began to fall. I'll feel like such a fool if--

There was a saying that if you were close enough to an explosion, you would never actually hear it.

It was true.

end note:

If you want to, you know, imagine that Sarge's full name is, sayyyyyy, Avery Johnson, well then, who am I to tell you that you're right or wrong? 😇

If you don't know the Troop Transport Warthogs, here's one in action from Halo: Reach. It's on the level "ONI: Sword Base" and is scripted to be destroyed but there's a way to save it and the marines in it and take it with you for a great deal of the rest of the level! I love saving the Troop 'hog, even if it always still looks like it's on fire. Nah, it's fiiiiiine, no worries! 😎👍😂😉

[fishsticksloser]

Could i request some Mikey angst? Maybe Mikey has a nightmare about reader getting hurt/dying and wakes up by himself so he tries calling reader and they don't answer. He panics and kinda just breaks into readers house and cuddling ensues lol. Hopefully this makes sense and you don't mind writing it lol

Walk Through Hell

Mikey x gn!reader

Warnings: nightmares, violence, blood, death & injury, angst, comfort, fluff, aged up

A/N: Mikey :( I never thought I'd be writing Mikey angst. I am using some of the more common villains (ie Bebop and Rocksteady)

The dream started out like it all his dreams do nowadays. You and Mikey were on a date in the city. You laughed and smiled like you always seemed to do, making his heart flutter. But the dream changed. A rhino and warthog jump down, grabbing you.

"Mikey!" You yell.

It was just Mikey, but he couldn't let you get hurt so he fought. Rocksteady threw you so he could join the fight. You hit the brick wall behind Mikey. He cried out. He ran to you, not caring about the other 2 mutants.

"Stay with me!" He sniffed, picking you up, running to the lair. "Y/N, please stay with me."

Mikey jacket was soaked with your blood by the time he made it to the lair. He called out for Donnie, but it was too late. He knew it, but he had to hope, right? He looked down at you in his arms and you smiled at him sadly. Mikey watched as the light in your eyes faded out.

"Mikey..." Donnie cautiously approached, seeing you limp in his arms. Leo was behind Donnie, praying that Mikey didn't lash out. He wanted to scream, but everything went black.

Mikey woke up gasping, grabbing at his blankets. He fumbled for his phone, dialing your number. His arm still felt warm from where your blood stuck to his skin. You didn't answer. He called again, still no answer. Mikey scrambled out of bed, throwing on clothes before racing to your place. Calling constantly.

You woke to banging on the window. You got up, flipping on your bedroom light. Mikey saw you shuffling to your window, sleepily.

"Baby!" Mikey sighs in relief. He slips through the window, closing it afterwards, and tackling you into a hug. "I tried calling, but you didn't answer."

"Mikey, it's 2am... I was asleep." You yawn. He didn't move, his arms still holding you. You felt your shirt becoming wet, his body shook slightly. "What happened?"

"I had a nightmare..." He took a deep breath. "You died. It felt so real... My arm was still warm with your blood and then you weren't answering your phone and I just-"

"Shhh... I'm still right here..." You wrap your arms around him. He slowly gets off of you and you lead him to your room, turning the lights off. You laid down, patting yourself so he knew it was okay. Mikey laid between your legs, his head on your chest. "Hear that? It's still beating. I'm not leaving you any time soon."

He hums softly, falling asleep to your heartbeat. You massage his head, drifting back to sleep yourself.

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters Masterlist

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…

RATING: Mature | STATUS: Complete | POV: 2nd Person | GN Reader

☀️Early Morning

🌤️Midday

⛅Late Afternoon

🌓Evening

🌕Deep Night

🌄Golden Dawn Part 1

🌄Golden Dawn Part 2

Started 9/15/23 | Finished 2/29/24 | Total word count: 43,005

[FFF Masterlist] [TCW Masterlist]

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 13

Warning: None Words: 1.7k Pronouns Used: She/Her - Use of Y/N. Note: Wishing everyone a Happy New Year x

Wolffe growled when he entered the barracks on Coruscant once more. The latest tour across the galaxy had been just as cruel as usual, perhaps even worse in some cases. Battling droids of distant worlds and in the endless vacuum of space was far better than some of the relief missions the 104th had been sent on and some of the often brainless Nerf herders who were put in command of missions.

"Commander," called Boost, already sensing Wolffe's frustrations; everyone aboard the cruiser could, regardless of whether they were forced sensitive. "Coming to 79's?" he asked, receiving his answer in the simple form of a growl, the one Wolffe sent to those around him when he wanted to be left alone.

"Don't do anything stupid," spoke Wolffe, his comment chasing Boost from the cold barracks. Wolffe grabbed the datapad resting on the shelf behind his bunch with little thought, rarely used compared to commanders. Mindlessly, he found himself searching the logs again; initially, he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was out of habit to see if some of his brothers were back on shore leave two or if he’d be spending the hours alone; maybe he could get around to reading some of the books he found an interest in.

Silence seemed to grow more comfortable as Wolffe mindlessly scrolled through the logs. Many legions had returned before the 104th, some since their much-needed retreat from the front lines, but just as many had departed Coruscant in the hours before, too. The 501st had been ascending the skies of Coruscant as the 104th had been arriving, practically celebrating a familiar sight.

“Can’t I rest in peace?” asked Wolffe upon hearing the familiar sound of the door to his private room woosh open. He’d been under the impression that Comet, Warthog, or one of the boys was coming to convince him to join them at 79’s.

“Nope,” Gregor chuckled in response. Welcome to the not-so-peaceful retreat away from war,” he commented with the same lighthearted chuckle. Despite the words flooding Gregor’s lips, Wolffe couldn’t help but find comfort in the Commando. If he was there, then surely that meant his Jedi General was on Coruscant, too.

“I take it Ca’tra is also back on Coruscant?” questioned Wolffe, finding it almost funny how the pair always seemed to cross paths when away from the battlefield. However, his most recent encounter with her was in a cruel warzone. He found out quickly just how skilled she was as a warrior and how heart-stoppingly reckless she could be.

“She was sent on a relief mission,” replied Gregor, trying to rack his memory for the last time he could recall the Dathomirian being set on a relief mission, even more so when it wasn’t her specialty. “She seemed just as confused about it, but Senators Organa and Amidala requested her specifically.”

“Ca’tra, on an aid mission …” smirked Wolffe, as if he could imagine the havoc she could cause, although he could understand why the senators requested her. Despite her lack of trust in most of the Jedi, she was among the best in the order; her unorthodoxy also came as a challenge for the enemy when it came to predicting her movements. “What about the rest of you, Commandoes?” questioned Wolffe, as if suddenly suspicious of where they were and what they were doing if their Jedi General wasn’t around to keep them on their toes.

“Wherever we’re needed,” replied Gregor as if to defend the others. We at the Foxtrot unit are here until 0900 hours tomorrow, and then we’re off to aid the 212th and 501st on Umbara. Delta and Omega units are with us. " He added this to illuminate the old ways of the commandoes ignoring the Senate. Jedi alike were a thing of the past. “Our princess gave us orders before she left, and we intend to follow them.”

Wolffe huffed a laugh upon hearing another Commando refer to (Y/N) as Princess. He’d thought about asking one of them about the chosen nickname but soon realized Plo also similarly referred to her, generally by the variation of a little princess.

“Why do you call her Princess?” asked Wolffe, finding the spurt of confidence to word the knawing question; almost every Commando in the GAR referred to (Y/N) by the royal title; very few, if any, called her general, not even the more obedient ones did.”

“Her title,” voiced Gregor with confusion; quickly, he summarized his previous assumption everyone knew had been wrong. “We clones are taught to call our superiors by their highest ranking title. (Y/N)' s is the Princess of Dathomir,” he explained, again shining a light on a truth that seemed to have alluded Wolffe. As well as possibly answering why she got away with so much.

“You’re assuming he speaks to her outside of imaginary conversations,” teased Fox, casually ignoring the death glare Wolffe threw at him. “He hasn’t spoken to her since finding out what the Jedi’s failure was,” added the Marshall Commander, highlighting how awkward things were between the two if they weren’t sharing a typical battlefield.

“Speaking of which, how did you find out about it?” asked Wolffe, his voice stern as he focused on getting answers to questions, even more so when he could remember (Y/N) saying she didn’t know how Fox had found out.

“Old Palps,” replied Fox with dread flooding his voice; still, he theorized there was a reason the chancellor had sent the file over without prompt, even more so when Fox was sure the old man hadn’t done it out of the kindness of his heart. Deep down, he’d questioned if it was related to the never-ending nightmares almost every clone suffered or if it was related to whatever the politician schemed from the shadows when he thought no one was looking.

“Now that’s interesting,” spoke Gregor as if he had an incline of what the two akin to twins were talking about; in truth, he didn’t, but he also didn’t mind not being in the know. Night Sisters were mysterious to all who came upon them; he saw no reason to unravel such mysteries. Even more so when the one he referred to as Princess seemed to bug Wolffe in many ways. “She evades him more than sleep does you.”

“She’s good at it, though; not even Skywalker can get her near him without some sort of trouble,” announced Fox, as if he could see the last effort Anakin had to get said Night Sister to the chancellor’s office. Still, no one knew what that meeting was about outside those involved. Whatever it had been about had some odd consequences; Skywalker had become distrusting of the Jedi Council, more than usual at least, and become protective of several that often appeared in his close circle, Senator Amidala, Ahsoka, and (Y/N) among them.

(Y/N) On the other hand, she drowned the night away at some questionable nightclubs on Coruscant’s sublevels. Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten into trouble outside the expected drunken maylays that normally occurred. Most ignored her being there outside the normal intrigued one had when coming upon a Night Sister outside of Dathomir.

“She’ll be back from her relief mission tomorrow. Do me a favor and actually talk to her,” called Fox, suspecting (Y/N) was who Wolffe was looking for when Gregor had disturbed the peace. “She doesn’t bite Wolffe, and as you found out, she’s just as confused by you as you are about her,” he added, recalling his experiences with the tricky sickness of love.

Senator Chuchi had been the downfall of his duty and sanity. Her passion for helping her people and giving clones a voice in the Senate and her desire to be the best version of herself and a reliable friend struck something in him. Like all Clones, he didn’t understand the need to be around the senator or what made her so special compared to the others; he didn’t understand the pining or outright jealousy either. That was until Quinlan Vos, of all people, noticed and explained everything.

Since then, Fox had embraced the confusing gift of love and promised himself he would help his brothers navigate it if they were lucky enough to find it. Although he’d admit, Wolffe was by far the hardest to help. Even more so with the awkward limbo, he seemed content to stay and his conflict over who (Y/N) was. Not only a daughter of a Sith lord but also a Night Sister from the same clan as the person who began his endless hatred.

“Why are you so insistent on pushing us together?” grilled Wolffe, although he’d admit Fox appeared to be the kinder option. The force seemed to be making him the butt of all manner of jokes.

“It's the force working through me,” stubbornly replied Fox, his words in such a flat tone that even Gregor chuckled upon hearing the quick-worded reply. “Either that, or it’s because you’re an idiot for not seeing what’s in front of you,” he added before leaving the small room entirely and leaving Gregor in a fit of laughter. Wolffe was so stunned that his mouth hung agape.

“Take her on a date,” quietly worded Gregor between his attempts to catch his breath. Another round of laughter escaped his lips shortly thereafter, this time by Wolffe's reaction of questioning both their sanity. “Maybe it will settle both of you and help you find a way to co-exist without practically avoiding each other like the Blue Shadow Virus.”

“Either that or Cody’s recruiting Fives and Jesse to send them on a blind date,” called Thorn as he walked past, no doubt doing his routine sweep of the base, ensuring nothing was out of place. “We’ve already got a grouchy love-sick Cody; I’d rather not have a growling love-sick pup hiding around the base, too,” he added as he darted around the corner as quickly as possible.

“Love is the death of duty,” started Wolffe, with a wise echo to these words, as if he was trying to imitate those he looked up to. “I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of my duty yet, let alone drive head first into the unknown,” admitted the Commander, finally shining a bright light on what stopped him from reaching out and grabbing the precious gift that awaited him.

Series Masterlist

[dukeoftheblackstar]

by @amorfista

"Home"

— a state of being, a state of mind, a state of feeling, a state with you.

[Sappy stuff under cut because I have no self-control on overexplaining things.] [The Duch in me just wants to drown between his knees.]

I think the universe conspired that day when the comic by @exosorcery came out, I saw @veny-many do a Warthog segment on their post, I was obsessing over Kel Dor languge by @plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows because I named the kid Plo with the egg 'Kiv' and wanted some 'tomatoe vibes for some reason, and my Plo Koon bestie @saengak is just being all over the place with me xDxDxD.

Then the support and overall love the 104th (not just Wolffe, because the rest of my boys are slept on) is getting and Kel Dor/Dorin & Plo Koon reblogs were just increasing and my dash was blossoming with so much of the 104th and Plo Koon.

And I've had this beautiful, beautiful, deep conversation with @amorfista about love and I went on about the concept of being someone's home and then there's this for context:

And then right when I told @amorfista I did the fic, they sent me the drawing at that same moment and I don't know how to explain it but it's just so wild! I didn't get why she asked for hair details but then when she sent this I was already crying over the fic and now I was just a hot mess (still am).

Somewhere Only We Know - Plo Koon x OC/Reader Fic

And then @idontgetanysleep made this fab mood board and dividers for our shared favorite song 'Electric Love' by BØRNS because you know, zappy zap zap Plo, and the water aesthetic just blew my mind!

So much encouragement in writing from @daimyosprincess @kimiheartblade @what-i-meant-to-say and the @space-whores being such fab people ♥

And you, @starrrgazingbunny for actually writing with me and keeping me company with angst, fluff, and for being the first one to deal with my unhinged bitch of an OC. ♥

So like, everything is just absolute Plo Koon love and I just wanna thank all of you collectively because you've made me so happy. I love y'all so much and sorry for this sappy post ♥

[dreaminggirlsblog]

Hi! I was wondering, if you could do a Leonardo [2016 Bayverse T.M.N.T.] X Reader, where the reader is a friend of April's. Therefore, in the second movie where after they meet Casey, April has this friend who's smart, and can fight. So, she tells the turtles about the reader and all, them thinking she is a badass, stand-offish person, but really the reader is the epitome of badassness and sunshine personality?? And Leonardo is smitten, of course everyone else notices and maybe they try to set him up? You can change anything you wish, this is just a request! ^^

Leo X Fem!Reader - Are you falling in love?

April ran away from Shredder's ninja soldiers followed by her friend Y/n, who tried hard to get them away from them as they ran through dark, isolated alleys.

They were caught, though, by three more soldiers who surrounded them, the one most frightened was April who was holding the strange object containing the substance with which Stockman had just mutated Bebop and Rocksteady into a warthog and a rhinoceros.

"Give us the container girls," said one in a deep voice as he pulled out his katana.

"Or what?" retorted Y/n defiantly stepping forward.

"Y/n what are you doing?!" whispered April to her but was surprised by a ninja soldier who was hit in the head by a hockey puck.

This fell at the two girls' feet and caused the men around them to panic.

Immediately Y/n jumped into the rubbish cans and pulled out a weapon, a metal pipe that slammed hard on the head of one of them, distracted by the previous scene.

Meanwhile, April was blocked by another of the men and dropped the purple substance until it rolled in front of the strange boy with a mask and a hockey stick.

"Who are you?" shouted another of the ninjas without receiving an answer, receiving a hockey puck in the middle of his face.

This was the same one holding April and she then managed to free herself by retrieving the container, while Y/n fought with the rest of them.

The y/h/c realised this and went to her rescue by taking the container.

When April got up, they ran off followed by one of the ninjas as the others were blocked by the arrival of the police.

They made it to the end of an alley, there was no way out and the soldier managed to catch up with them.

"That guy in the other alley," April began, "we have no idea who he is."

"What does that have to do with anything?" whispered Y/n to her through clenched teeth.

The ninja was knocked out by a very hard blow with a hockey stick and the boy who had rescued them showed up again.

"Thank you," April exclaimed.

"You're welcome," he replied but couldn't hear much being that the mask lowered his voice.

"What's your name?" asked Y/n instead.

"Casey Jones."

The two girls couldn't hear the answer and in fact looked at each other confused.

"What?" asked the brunette.

"Casey Jones" he repeated.

"Stacy Mones?" ventured April.

"She doesn't look like much of a girl to me," retorted Y/n.

The boy then took off his mask and smiled at the two girls, repeating his name "Casey Jones" again.

April was almost captivated by his beauty "Hello" she murmured with a smile.

Suddenly, there came four tall and mighty creatures, totally the opposite of men or ninja soldiers since they had shells and scaly skin.

"Get away from her," shouted one of them as Casey had picked up the two girls and stood in front of them, the bat pointed at the creatures.

"Stay behind me," Casey shouted, moving the bat from left to right in front of the creatures.

Y/n stared at them strangely while April had a calm expression as if she already knew of their existence, this was confirmed by the fact that she approached them after a short while and pointed at the two.

"Casey, Y/n, these are my friends," she said pointing at the four turtles.

Y/n's expression was very confused and the boy's was still frightened but he lowered his bat anyway.

The one with the orange bandana began the introductions and pointed to the turtle with the purple bandana and glasses "Donatello, with the purple mask, is a brilliant technician and is technically a genius".

He then moved on to the red bandana turtle "Raphael, there the red one, is a big, adorable teddy bear" he paused briefly as he stared at the turtle he had just mentioned and his smile faded for a few seconds "if teddy bears were violent"

He then looked at the turtle with the blue bandana "He is Leonardo, wearing blue, a fearless leader, silent but deadly" he chuckled at the end of the sentence.

"And I am Michelangelo, with the orange insignia, I have it all: brains, brawn and a great personality. The girls call me Mikey"

Leonardo approached him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders "Are you finished?"

Michelangelo became serious again "Yes"

April then approached Y/n, still confused, and pulled her in front of the four turtles "And this is Y/n, the friend I've been telling you about all the time"

Immediately the orange bandana turtle approached her, made a half bow and took her hand to lay on it in a light kiss "Enchanted"

"Stop it Mikey" Raphael said annoyed.

"It's a pleasure to meet you! Right Leo?" exclaimed Donatello looking at the other turtle.

Leonardo however had frozen staring at her, he probably still hadn't realised that the girl he had fallen in love with simply from a description of her friend was right in front of him and he still didn't want to believe it.

"Leo," Donatello elbowed him, awakening his brother.

"Huh? Yes, yes, it's a pleasure to meet you Y/n. April has told us so much about you."

"The pleasure is mine," smiled the y/h/c to the four.

And that is how the two met and slowly, the feelings Leonardo felt were reciprocated.

Even so, he was not aware of this and feared that he might ruin the relationship that had been created between him and y/h/c.

On the contrary Y/h/c, he was waiting for nothing more than to find the right moment to tell him and finally get this burden off his chest that he has had for months.

Leo's brothers are the first ones who always try to push him to open up to her, knowing about the reciprocated crush and the fact that he thought he would ruin everything despite being fake, but it doesn't always end well.

On one occasion, Raph thoughtfully invited Y/n to the den at a time when they were talking about her so that she would feel that he liked her and push her to tell him so Leo would realise he was being unnecessarily paranoid.

Unfortunately, however, that day Leo was only thinking about patrolling the city at night and, to the topic, he replied with a simple 'Y/n? I think at a time like this you are my last thought".

A couple of times, Mikey organised a movie night where they all watched a romantic film together and then left Leo and Y/n alone.

Both times, however, Y/n got sick from the pizza prepared by Mikey and Leo could do nothing but take her home to let her recover.

On all these occasions, Donnie was always against the brothers' initiatives and continually repeated that 'when the time comes, one of them will confess how they feel about the other and it won't be us pushing them to do so'.

Opinion never heeded, of course.

One evening, Y/n and April spent the whole day together to celebrate the reporter's birthday.

It had been a long time since they had spent any time alone after Shredder's disappearance and the defeat of the Kraang, so it seemed right to do it on the brunette's birthday.

In the evening, they decided to go to April's house to watch a movie with popcorn and soda, and while preparing for the evening, the subject couldn't help but come up.

"So, how's it going with Leo?" asked the brunette as she put the popcorn in the microwave.

The y/h/c replied with a smile after taking a sip of her soda "Well come on, although sometimes I don't understand him"

"Yeah I know, sometimes it's weird. First he asks me about you all the time and then he says to focus on the good of the city instead of thinking about a girl" April then added gesturing at the end of the sentence.

"Yeah" laughed Y/n "How I wish I could tell him without blushing or freezing as soon as I'm in front of him"

As soon as the click of the microwave was heard, the brunette pulled out the popcorn and took the bowl with her, then placed it on the coffee table and sat down next to her friend.

"Have you ever thought about what to say to him?" he asked her, nibbling on a piece of popcorn.

"Of course," she nodded, imitating his gesture, "every moment of the day."

"And what do you want to tell him?" the other asked, smiling.

Y/n blushed, moving a strand of hair back into her ear and then clearing her throat "So I was thinking something like this... "

Leo’s pov

Here at the lair it was boring as hell, it's been Y/n or April all day and I don't know what else to do but work out or check the city cameras with Donnie.

With that, it's the third time he passed my brother's room and the third time he was startled at my entrance.

 I don't know what he was looking at but he immediately closed the computer after almost jumping out of his chair.

"Leo! What is it again?" he asked angrily while I was apparently calm and almost afraid of him. 

"I just wanted to see what the situation in town was like," I murmured.

"Still? That's three times you've come here to see the situation in town and that's three times you've lingered over April's house to see what she and Y/n are up to, can you tell what's wrong with you?"

I didn't answer right away, even though I already knew what I was going to answer.

"I want to go there and tell her I love her."

Obviously that was not what I said, in fact quite the opposite.

"I don't know, Donnie, I don't know," I said, simply lowering my gaze and walked out of the room.

I headed towards the dojo, where I found my father sitting on the floor cross-legged, he was meditating.

"Father, am I disturbing you?" I asked in a low voice, immediately catching his attention.

He turned to me, peered at me for a moment and then motioned me to come closer.

"Sit opposite me Leonardo," he said and so I did.

He noticed my dull, sad face and I noticed how immediately he became concerned "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head "No, everything is wrong" I murmured keeping my head down.

"Heart problems?"

I sighed "Yes father, heart problems."

"I see," he nodded, stroking his long goatee, "what exactly is troubling you?"

"Not knowing how she is. We haven't seen each other for days and I don't know if she will ever visit again like before and-"

"Leonardo" he blocked me, realising I was talking too much.

"Firstly, I want to point out that it's been a day since you've seen her" he said with a half-smile "and secondly, you should tell her how you feel without worrying about your appearance"

"What if she doesn't accept me?" I asked, almost bright-eyed.

He brought his paw close to my face and stroked my cheek softly, smiling again "I am sure he will accept you if he really loves you".

At those words, I almost seemed to revive from that state of sadness and realised that perhaps I had been wrong all this time.

"If she really loves me? What do you mean?" I asked confused.

"That she's in love with you idiot," exclaimed Raphael, receiving a knock on the head from Michelangelo.

"You shouldn't have made yourself feel stupid!" he scolded him, then catching a glare at which he seemed terrified.

"Does she really love me?" I asked, sounding almost like a child happy to have just received candy from mummy.

My brothers exchanged a look of understanding, smiling at each other, then looked at me and nodded in unison.

I then turned to my father, he too was smiling and seemed almost moved, and he too nodded, inviting me to stand up, he took my hand and shook it.

“Go to her,” he whispered simply before leaving my hand and getting away from me.

I listened to my family's advice and ran through the sewers looking for the nearest manhole to find her, even though…

“"Where could she be now?" I asked myself before picking up the phone and looking for her number to call her.

Having found the number, I called her while I was running very quickly between the pipes and the phone only started ringing later since she doesn't get much here.

"C'mon” no response from her, the phone just rang.

“"Hello?” she finally answered.

“Y/n! Can you hear me?” he was so happy that she finally answered.

“Leo? Yeah, I can hear you”

“Great! I need to talk to you right now. Where are you now?”

“I'm at a cafe with April. She is ordering our coffee while I'm at the table. If you want to meet me go at my house, I'll be there in a few minutes”

“That sounds great, I'll wait for you at the roof of your house" he smiles, he was very happy that he would see her after a long time (one day but for Leo it's already too much).

After hanging up the call, he arrived at the roof of her house and sat on a ventilation duct waiting for her to arrive.

Meanwhile, he thought aloud about what to say to her.

"Hey, how are you? How was your day? Is everything alright? No, no, too many questions” he cleared his throat "Hey Y/n, how's it going? It's been a lot since we last met each other” he smiles but then realised the stupid thing he was saying “It was yesterday, not two years ago“ he murmured to himself.

"Ok, let's try this” he takes a deep breath “Y/n, I've wanted to tell you that I fell in love with you and maybe you don't want to be my girlfriend because I'm a mutant and it would be weird if we date but” he sighed “"_ I don't want this to ruin our friendship”.

“It won't”

Leo turned around and I noticed km/h standing, with a glass of coffee in her hand and a contagious smile on her face.

“Umm” he was embarrassed "how much have you heard of my speech?“

She smiled at him, he put the glass on the ground and slowly approached Leo, standing at his height and bringing his face closer to that of the turtle.

Breath to breath, Y/n rested her hands on his chest and whispered "Everything" before touching their lips together in a sweet, delicate kiss.

----------------------

Words: 2500

I'm so sorry for the long wait, I'll try to be more active and to answer at all the requests!

I hope you like this!

chia <3

[hanjyukutamago]

to kill a shadow

(imagine based on the graves' betrayal scene) (also definitely not proofread) (edited bcs i wanted to make the story longer) (also this is my first time writing a fic--well at least after 5-6 years?? so pls be kind to me uwu)

words count: 5,655 character count: 31,118

contents: violence, guns, blood, everything you would find in a typical cod game ofc(can be read as reader!!) x ghost x soap(platonic), everyone r mates, mentions of death, angst!!

(illustration is mine)

"Johnny, Mouse. How copy?"

"Solid."

"Great. Thought we lost you there. Mouse, how copy?"

Silence.

"Mouse?"

Not now, Ghost. I'm working right now. She thought to herself, a knife held tight in her left hand. Crouching right behind a Shadow soldier, her small figure gets even smaller, undetectable to the eyes of the American.

Small hands show to either shoulder of the soldier, the right holding his vest and the left stabbing right to the arteries on the neck. Making sure that there won't be any eyewitnesses, she withdrew the knife to her right, making a big slash no one could able to survive.

The soldier went limp, her right hand already on the vest went tense holding the weight of a dead man two times bigger than her, then left hand soon helped after sheathing the knife back into its pocket. Slowly she put down the soldier to the ground, making sure there was no noise made.

"Mouse busy. Killed a shadow."

"Was already thinking on how to look for a dead body as small as you." Ghost sighed in relief, two comrades alive is better than one.

"No need to. Mouse dead, more Mouse show up later. "

"Yes, and we've got a whole exterminator team outside." Ghost said, his voice low, reminding her of the situation. The sergeant tried to flip her brain right to left, front to back, trying to find a solution. There is no way they're going to hide along the way to safety right? There are just too many of them. Fully armed too, to remind her of their disadvantages.

She was lucky she still had her knife sheathed into her vest when the chaos broke out. Turns out Graves was not the cooperative man they were expecting to be. A fight between teams in this kind of situation is the last thing you would want. Especially against the ones who own attack aircraft that would end anyone in seconds.

The city of Las Almas probably is not the best, most peaceful one in the world, but it has its own charms; the music, the voice of children laughing, the chatter of people, it is never quiet in the city Los Vaqueros dearly loves.

Mouse took a small peek outside the alley, the first one after the last hour running and looking for a shelter to hide. The road that used to be so bright, so busy with locals running here and there is now dark, with nothing but bodies on the ground; men and women-children and also babies, the oh-so-beautiful terracotta floor painted with a shade of blood, streaming down the street, wet with rain.

"Bloody hell." She cursed under her breath, which is definitely the most normal reaction to this kind of scenery. "Does Graves know that they're doing a fucking war crime here?" The three of them can definitely hear the screams of wives, and scared husbands usually followed by a bang that ends them all, and the interrogative Shadows trying to force the Iranian out of his hiding, at least that is what they believe.

"These are innocent civilians..." Soap replied, she can hear the rustling behind his voice, probably still moving around trying to find a place safe enough to take a breath peacefully. "Shadows trying to play hero, aye?"

"Typical American move. Ghost, any ideas on how to escape this shithole?" Mouse has never been happy working with Graves, Shepherd, and anyone who's on their side. Too many orders, no solution. Too many noises for a small mission. She is not a fan of those unnecessary brrrts from the sky but she doesn't hate it, the Warthog-faced plane had saved her life numerous times.

"Stay low. Move through the houses. Make use of what you have. " The Lieutenant is a man of few words, but she had to admit that the things coming out of his mouth are usually useful.

Lucky. Mouse thought to herself, "I've got a knife with me. Soap?"

"Shite, got nothing on me. Probably dropped it somewhere in the forest--ouch--" Soap groaned, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the pain on his right shoulder, it keeps on coming back.

"Soap, you injured?" Mouse went into the empty-used-to-be-homey-coffee shop, her whole body complaining because instead of the sweet smell of her beloved coffee, she is greeted by the fishy smell of dried blood.

"Bullet to my right shoulder. But I'll be fine." Mouse nodded to herself, acknowledging Soap's report. Relying on the minimal light from the street and bright Shadow Jeep headlamp, she scoured the area looking for any extra weapons. It may be an empty house right now, but it still feels bad stealing something that used to be someone's. Especially when they're right there, eyes open wide with blood coming from the hole right between their jaw. The blood is fresh, meaning the Shadows were here, not long ago.

"Give me a sit-rep."

"Welcome to Starbucks, what would you like for today, Sir?" Mouse was proud of that one. She and Soap have been competing on who can make Ghost laugh harder. "Brits don't drink coffee, Mouse." Soap chimed, and she swear she could hear the targeted man chuckle a little. "Wid ye lik' some cuppa, Sir?" He continued teasing Ghost, he enjoys doing it every time. The comedian duo laughed together, satisfied by the joke. "MacTavish, sit-rep." Mouse can swear he was holding his laugh too, but for now, his stern reminder of the ignored comment is all they can get. "Rite, rite. Gated alley, Lt."

Mouse loves it every time someone makes a joke on the comms. These small interactions provide a little reminder of them still being human, not man-killing machines. Being in the army has never been easy, and will never be for anyone in the world, whether you're the strongest soldier or weakest loser out there. The emotional toll will always come like a big wave of a tsunami after every mission. When she was a Private, she believed that there is no way the missions would affect her mental health, that as long as she put nothing but her logical side of the brain into it. She was so tired of the stereotypes that women are much more emotional than men and tried so hard to prove them otherwise. But sometimes the percentage is right, and the surveys don't lie. She broke down in silence not long after her first mission.

Mostly, it was the blood. The only times she has seen blood is when it's flowing out of her flesh. The first time she has seen a fresh body it was so weird, and quickly realized how weak a human body could be.

The guilt of not being able to save everyone will never fade away, no matter how many missions she goes on after that. The kid in the Middle East. The small, weak old grandmother in Russia. The young man who died trying to protect his family in front of her.

The man was holding a handgun still wrapped tight by his dead fingers. Mouse noticed the weapon, and proceeded to take it from the cold skin of the owner, gently. This will help me survive outside. Thank you, and sorry I couldn't arrive earlier to help you. She spoke to the lifeless body in her mind, hoping that it would reach him somewhere, that he would forgive her for not being able to save the family.

She then looked around for any ammunition, because if he owned a gun that means he would have the refills for it, right? She thought and while she scoured the master bedroom for more possible useful stuff, she heard footsteps from the front door.

She stopped for a while trying to listen better to the noise, then held the pistol in both hands. By the weight of it, it seems like the previous owner didn't even get to shoot a bullet before having them in their head. Mouse kept her back to the wall, crouching behind the table in the corner of the room. The suspect of the noise stopped for a while, and from her position, she can see nothing but a familiar pair of boots.

The man is like a walking tower, yet his steps are feather-like. Mouse kept her presence hidden, she knows better than anyone that it would be a stupid idea to ambush a 6-foot-tall military man from the front. The scars and wound marks are proof of it.

She was going to wait until the giant walked past her so she could attack him from his back-until his face come into her sight. It was the lieutenant, probably looking for her and the other sergeant. "I'm inside the coffee shop." She could hear Ghost clearly from her comms, also from the man she planned on killing just a minute ago.

"Ghost! Sir!" She whispered loudly. It has been a long while since the last time she felt comfort in her heart. Seeing a familiar figure after hours of hiding in cold rain surely provide some kind of warmth, at least psychologically. The man in the balaclava somehow is fully-geared from head to toe, looking like a killing machine fresh out of the base. He quickly turned his head to the source of the sound, shoulders relaxed upon realizing that it was his junior behind the wooden table.

"Any injuries?" He asked, keeping it short and simple as always.

"No, Sir. Not a single drop of blood out." She answered, finally stood up, and walked to her superior.

"Good. Keep it that way. Gonna need a backup for exfil." He nodded, then proceeded to go upstairs. Mouse follows him automatically, keeping her footsteps light despite the heavy-duty boots. Ghost walked to the side of the window, Shadows can be seen still scanning the area that is now silent because there is no one alive to be killed anymore.

"See that church? We're going to secure our transportation right there." He pointed to the tall building up on the hills, easily visible because of the lights surrounding it. Probably a Shadow team meeting point. Ghost brought the walkie-talkie to his cloth-covered mouth, "Soap, I have regrouped with Mouse. Meet us at the church, how copy?"

"Loud and clear," Soap responded, almost immediately.

"Soap, can you manage? I can regroup with you first." Mouse reminded herself of Soap's injuries, worried about the lad going to the meeting point alone.

"Aye. Bleeding has stopped, kind of. Will somehow manage." He said, followed by a slight chuckle.

"Stay alive, Johnny." Ghost knows Soap probably better than anyone on the team, he would know when the Scotsman needs help or not.

"Roger, Sir."

Ghost moved his head in the direction of the stairs, ordering her to go downstairs first. She then moved to the direction of the kitchen, then opened the door leading to the back alley. The rainy clouds reflected the light from the church, making it easier to find a way out. Ghost followed her, always making sure no one is looking every time they make a turn into another tight alley.

They made their way into another house, the walls yellow-colored with a splash of dark brown here and there, plants on every corner of the room. Must be a cozy house before this shitshow, she thought. Ghost went straight to the kitchen, finding a rather big kitchen knife and handing it to her. 'Make use of what you have', as the skull-faced man one time said.

"Sir, can I ask you a question?" Mouse broke the silence, either it was her habit of being chatty at the wrong times or her attempt on getting her superior to speak more.

"Speak, Sergeant." He answered, eyes on the kitchen cabinets in front of him.

"How come you're so fully geared? You get a special drop or what?" She chuckled at the last sentence like it was a joke, but it really has been in her mind for a while. She has been going in and out of houses for hours, yet didn't find anything to hold on to as a weapon. How come this man has not one, but two rifles on his back?

"Your first guerilla warfare, kid?" He finally turned his back to the smaller women, slightly nodding his head in question. "You've seen my documents, Sir." Her eyes met with his for a second, then moved to the door to move again. He stayed behind her to keep her back, both of them safe.

Mouse tends to overthink her own actions, also over-analyze others' reactions. Usually by how their lips pout, how their eyebrows crease in confusion after she said something weird, and any changes in facial expressions. By Ghost's face not being visible, she could only rely on the slightest of his eye movements. They're a bit sparkly and strong when he's doing his job, dark when something didn't go his way, sometimes soft when he realized his teammate is injured, and she still can't prove it yet but also sometimes when he's looking at her. Is it because she's a woman? Because she's smaller? Looks weaker? Way greener than him? Anything it is, she doesn't care as long as she can keep working with the team.

"Sometimes you just have to let your experience talk, Mousey." He sometimes calls her Mousey when he's feeling a little bit chatty, usually to emphasize how small a mouse, and Mouse is. She doesn't hate it. Quite the contrary, she kinda loves it. It's like when your best friend gave you a nickname only they can use.

"Can't wait to be as experienced as you, Sir." She turned her head to Ghost one last time before stepping the wet road outside, again. They again stopped before making a turn on the alley. "Don't be like me, Sergeant. Do better." He has seen the glory and the muddy, stinky side of being in the army and he wouldn't wish anyone to see what he has seen and feel what he has felt before. If he could make Mouse stop her career in the military, he would. No human should live restlessly and hold the burden of world peace like this. Especially being in the 141 means that no one on the earth would be thankful for what they did, because if one does, that means they had failed on keeping the task force a secret.

"I can see the church, Sir, but there are too many Shadows walking around," Mouse reported to her superior who was behind her. This time Ghost went first, signaling her to get behind the car across the street. "Find cover. We're going to work our way to the church."

"Roger." The car's engine did warm her body for a bit, having it soaked in water for the last hours. She then peeked into the vehicle, the car key still stuck where it should be, feels like a gift from the great heavens for runaways like her.

"Sir, might want to mark this car. Engine's on, everything's there, we get Soap and run." Mouse said, excited to finally flee from the grasp of the Americans.

"Noted. Now let's move." Ghost led the way, avoiding the enemies' eyes which are ready to fire anyone who doesn't look like one of them. The pair kept on hiding behind cars, slowly making their way into the church.

"Any visual on the church?" Ghost asked the other sergeant.

"Aye. Road's blocked, though." Soap looked around for any threats, then moved to a darker alley, hiding in the shadow, from Shadows. "Try and cut through the shops. Much safer." Ghost warned. "Aye, sir. On my way."

After countless houses and shops, Ghost and Mouse finally reached the side fence of the church. The front steps were heavily guarded by an army of Shadows, making it not an option to sneak from the main gate. They could feel some kind of relief once they stepped on the cold granite floors of the religious building. Shadows might be carefree enough to kill civilians for zero reasons, but they wouldn't be brave enough to attack a church... right?

Whatever the truth is, they proceeded to go to the higher floor of the church. "I'll go first. Watch my back." Ghost said, holding his rifle tight. The church looks like it hasn't been touched by the chaos, chairs, altar, and everything still in place.

Ghost placed himself near the window of the fifth floor, prepared to give Soap the backup he would probably need when he reaches the building. Just right after he placed his sniper rifle(which Mouse kept staring at because how the fuck did he get that?), he noticed a figure that definitely doesn't belong in the Shadows squad. The figure ran into an alley, probably inside the house. The soldiers were facing another direction, not aware enough to notice him.

The pair both know it's ninety-nine-percent Soap who is inside the house. Ghost aimed his rifle at the front door of the said building, his eyes fixed right on the scope. "I'm nearby, Sir," Soap reported through the radio.

Soap was going to open the front door slowly and sneak up to the church, but it was unfortunately locked from the outside. Either he didn't realize that there are enemies outside of the house or a pure case of having so little patience left, he tried prying open the wooden door. Which of course was followed by a rather big noise considering you're hiding from a whole squadron trying to kill you.

"No, no, no, Soap! Not like that!" Mouse loudly whispered, her heart beating fast and muscles tense watching Soap's action from behind the walls of safety, or so she thought.

Soldiers swarmed the door in an instant, meeting one of the guys they have been looking for hours. A loud bang of gunfire echoed, not from the Shadow, but from the man beside Mouse.

Heads soon turned in the direction of the church, giving Soap time to escape. Shadows soon swarmed the church from the front gate, rifles on hand, definitely not trying to repel their sins. If you have done one war crime, why not add more, yeah? Nothing will change anyways.

"We've got visitors here! Meet me on the steps outside!" Ghost packed his sniper rifle, switching to a smaller, M4A1. They ran to the other side of the tower and went downstairs hoping that there will be fewer Shadows there. The American soldiers sure are fast, as one, or two already reached the fifth floor they were camping on. Mouse shot a bullet, piercing through the unprotected area of his face, replied by a bang from the other side. Two bodies dropped to the floor, one in all-black attire and one with a British flag on the right sleeve.

Ghost noticed the fight behind him, then turned his face to find that Mouse isn't there. She might sometimes be stubborn, but there was no time she doesn't obey an order. Ghost was midway to the 4th floor, then just as he was about to reach the fifth, another bang echoed, followed by a heavy thud.

He always has worst-case scenarios prepared in his head, and one is to work out his muscle a little bit and carry Mouse to safety somewhere in this mission. Sometimes his habit gets really spooky and becomes a reality.

"Don't--pick me up. I can go by myself." She grunts, holding up her body with the help of the wall, one hand waving to Ghost, signaling him to not worry. She is not scared of blood, but she hates the smell and the texture of it. She hasn't dared to look at her wound but can feel it from her inner left thigh. "Fast, before another Shadow shows up and kills us both."

Ghost opened his pocket and took out a leather belt, then fastened it right above her wound. He tightened it as much as it could go, then poked a new hole with a knife, the belt resting nice and steady, and of course doing the job of reducing the blood loss at the very least.

"Now we can move." Ghost gave a look of approval in his eye, then helped Mouse to stand straight on the ground. "Quick. I can hear the footsteps. You go first."

Mouse nodded, and they change places. Ghost gave an extra look every time he checks his back, and also every time Mouse took another step downstairs. They stop every time the rustling of army vests and heavy steps of the boots can be heard, wait until they are gone, or shoot them when they're heading their way. Mouse kept count of how many bullets will be left in her handgun, making sure every bullet out are deadly accurate. By the time they reached the ground floor, she only got two left inside the weapon.

Finally made his way to the steps outside the fenced church, Soap was a tad bit confused when he couldn't see any Shadows there. "I'm here, Lt! Area clear, no Shadows!" He reported, but of course, there would be no Shadows outside, because they were all inside chasing for the other two 141 members.

The wooden gate of the church opens, showing a limping small soldier and following a tall man with a skull balaclava, both running for their dear life. "Soap!" Ghost shouted to the man waiting outside of the fence, moving to his location to regroup. Soap shot the gates' lock with a handgun he found earlier, strapped to the body of a dead Shadow. He then opened the heavy gate with his unwounded arm, making it easier for the pair to exit the area they were in.

"Steamin' Jesus, Mouse! Y'alright?" Soap noticed the gunshot wound, the camo cargo pants now dyed dark red. Adrenaline keeps Mouse up, running, and shooting bullets, but other than that, she finds it hard to process. She finds it hard to make a proper sentence to answer him, so she just ran to the car she found before going into the church.

"Mouse found a car before we got here. We need to secure the vehicle!" Ghost ran behind Soap and Mouse, then noticed how Mouse became less and less fast. The bullet probably grazed her femoral arteries, and although not completely sever it, it's still one of the main arteries and it will leak more and more blood as she goes. It is undoubtedly Ghost's belt did wonders because if it doesn't she would've been dead from blood loss right now.

Ghost, being the only unwounded one then ran to the front of them, then picked up Mouse along the way. Usually, Mouse would've resisted, but she had little to no energy for that. "What... the... fuck..." She moved her mouth slowly, still processing what had happened, why is she on the lieutenant's shoulder, why is she not running anymore. One good thing is, Mouse is small enough, at least for Ghost, to carry on his right shoulder.

"Soap, use this!" Ghost passed his assault rifle to the sergeant. "Cover us!" He opened the back door of the Jeep, placing Mouse in a position where she could sit comfortably. Her eyes are still open, aware of everything that is occurring in front of her, but not strong enough to react. The handgun was still held tightly in her left hand, her right hand on the car seat, holding the weight of her body. The blood seems like it's not going to stop any time soon. She grunts, and straightened her body, planning on giving support by making the best out of the two bullets inside her gun.

Soap got inside the car, passenger's seat, and Ghost is driving. The car engine is still on, just like the time they found it. Ghost hit reverse, did a whole donut then hit the gas, reaching the speed that definitely will get anyone a ticket if the town is in its normal state. The Shadows, of course not giving up yet, tried to chase the stolen car. Soap shot rounds of bullets, killing the Shadow that was shooting at them. The driver is still chasing them, but no matter how many times Soap pulls the trigger, the bullets are not coming out. Mouse realized the crisis they're in right now and moved her body to the left side of the seat, took a look at the target, and shoots him. The first bullet was stopped by the window, and the second, the last bullet hit the driver near his neck. Was not the headshot she expected it to be, but still enough to help them run away.

Mouse let out a sigh, adrenaline stopped pumping and a wave of fatigue washes over her. She rested her head on the headrest, then moved her eyes, scanning the inside interior of the car. 'Oh, right' She thought, as her eye stopped on the wet wound. Everything is slow and blurry, and all she thought about was how she wanted to throw her body to a bed and sleep.

"Don't you dare sleep, Osborne." Ghost took a peek in the rearview mirror, finding the sergeant about to doze off. Soap turns his body, keeping a look on the wounded soldier in the back seat. "I'll keep my eyes on her, Lt. Keep driving." He said, and he kept his words, as he literally stared at Mouse without even blinking.

Mouse found the sergeant's action funny and let out a weak chuckle. "Stop. You're scary." Mouse knew that it was game over once she closes her eye. She knows it too well, she has seen it too many times, more than enough.

"Where are we going, Sir?" Soap asked the driver, eyes still on Mouse. "Alejandro has a safe house. We're meeting his men there." If Ghost could go faster, he would. The thing is, this is the fastest a Jeep could go. The blocked roads are also not helping. Soap unfastened his seat belt, then jumped to the back seat. "I'm sorry, little mouse, you know I hate violence but I had to do this."

He hit Mouse's cheeks from both sides, squeezing them and bringing his face closer to hers. "Let's do a little quiz, aye? What's your favorite subject in school?" The surprise slap and sudden quiz did open Mouse's eyes a little bit. "Heh, Lame." The driver chimed in.

"What the fuck, Soap." She laughed. "Mom wansme goodadmahhs." Every second she finds it harder and harder to move her body parts, her mouth not excluded. "Mouse... badadid." Her eyes started getting teary, Soap's question brought up some good memories of her hometown. "Tellmamom... Sorry-ah-lie...d." Her body shakes every time she sniffled, her head full of regret for not being honest with the people she loves.

"You tell them yourself, Natalie. Maybe after we are back in the UK?" Soap's mission was only one, and that is to keep the other sergeant talking. Having little to no energy left, Mouse nodded, hoping that her body wouldn't have to be sent to her house, because it will be funny that Natalie Osborne, who's supposed to be working in the paperwork department of the SAS, died because of a bullet wound.

People who have seen her documents, in this case, Captain Price and Lieutenant Riley, must've known that her parents actually knew about their daughter being in the task force. Her dad actually once became suspicious and called directly to the military hotline. He told them not to tell her, though, because he knows she would be embarrassed as fuck if that happened.

They were approaching the road out of the city but were met with barbed wires, preventing citizens to escape from the lockdown. Ghost didn't hesitate and drove through it, finally getting them out of the destroyed city. The surroundings of the car shifted from the street lights to the dark mountains, and them getting closer to the safe house. She doesn't know if it's because of the lack of lamps, but Mouse felt like her vision is getting darker as time passes. Her headache is gradually getting stronger and her eyelids get heavier each second.

"Hold on, Mousey. The safe house is close. We'll patch you up first thing first." Ghost held tight on the steer, he is not panicking, but no one will ever get used to seeing their teammate's soul slipping out of their hand. They are so close, so close to saving Mouse from the death's door.

"Am sleepy, Simon..." Consciousness fading in and out, she doesn't even realize she's calling her superior by his given name. Wrinkles show up between Soap's eyes, worried about the inevitable. "Come on, hey, you said Mouse don't die, aye?" He gave her cheeks some light taps, in an attempt to wake her up again.

Mexico is not supposed to be this cold, even if it's a rainy night. She doesn't know, it's her first time visiting the country. She could see Soap's mouth moving as if he was talking to her, but she couldn't hear anything. The last thing she wanted to do was to talk. She just wants to lay down somewhere warm and comfy, then sleep.

It all makes sense now. She's not going to be a better person than the Lieutenant, she's not going to be the first female captain in the SAS. The book is closing, and it is by an American betrayer. Should she become a wandering spirit, she will ghost Graves anytime she could. Yeah, that's probably a good plan for her future. She unconsciously chuckled with her last drop of energy, and finally succumbed to the fatigue.

"No, no, no, no, no--Fuck! We're losing her!" He slammed his fist to the car seat, then immediately rushed to fold Mouse's sleeves up and took her gloves off, desperate for any signs of a heartbeat. "How long 'til we get there, Lt?" He finally took his eyes off Mouse after a good hour and gave the Lieutenant a look from the rearview mirror.

"One last turn. Hold tight." Ghost made a hard turn but hardly a drift, the trees fading, and a big barn came into sight. It looks clean but somehow abandoned, with nothing but the field of grass surrounding it.

"I'll carry her. Johnny, you take care of your own wound." Ghost got out of the car first, then opened the back door. "Aye, Sir." Soap nodded, then walked to the said safe house. He kneeled to the iron plates on the ground, suspicious of the placement.

Ghost let out a heavy sigh, then carried the limp body out of the vehicle. He could feel her chest rise and fall softly, a sign for him to not give up hope. He may not say it out loud, but having his subordinate injured under his watch leaves a big guilt on him.

He stopped walking behind the kneeling Scotsman, and he too noticed the object on the grass. "Rigged plates." Soap deducted. "Smart bastard." Ghost approved, amazed by the Mexican Special Forces colonel.

Soap went inside through the open window, his now freshly loaded rifle ready in his hand scanning the lowly lighted area. Ghost followed with Mouse on his shoulder, and a red dot appeared on Soap's forehead. "Don't move." He ordered the sergeant, then a knife was sent flying in the direction of the laser, landing on the wooden pole.

"Who's there?" A familiar sound asked, answered by Soap who realized the owner of the voice. "Rodolfo!" He called, and the mentioned man then appeared from behind the pole.

"Soap! Ghost! Mouse!" His eyes light up, seeing his amigos alive and moving, but his face soon turned the opposite when he laid his eyes on Ghost's shoulder. He jumped out of his hiding, and gave back the knife Ghost threw at him, rushing to help them carry the injured sergeant.

"You guys equipped with proper infirmary?" Ghost waved his hand, signaling the Mexican that he will carry Mouse by himself. "Come," He nodded, then did a light jog to the light switch, turning on some of the barn's light sources. He then pulled down a lever, and wooden barn doors opened, showing them another door, hopefully, filled with medical equipment.

Ghost laid down her body on the hard bed, and gave her one last look, his eyes soft as always. The curious eyes that used to look up at him, were now closed, skin pale. He sighs, he has never been good at expressing emotions, on how to act when his teammate is nearly dying, in front of him. The Los Vaqueros had a combat medic, thank whoever's up there. The British Special Forces went out of the room, entrusting the life of little Mouse in the Mexican soldier's hands.

Whatever results that will come out of the door, one thing that Ghost, and Soap know, is that they were not ready to lose another friend. At least after they all saw her efforts in climbing the harsh world of the army. All those hard work, all the times they have bonded together as a team, as mates. How are they supposed to see Price's face after all this? How to tell Gaz? How to move on to another mission with one gear missing?

They don't have enough time to worry, never enough time for anything. They had to move forward, plan on getting their revenge on Graves and Shepherd, free Alejandro, find Hassan, and save the world from chaos.

One thing they keep in their head, is that you can never kill a Mouse. They will always come back, usually smarter, and even harder to kill. As someone once said:

"Mouse dead, more Mouse show up later. "