#He doesn't care to. He doesn't care to. He karking doesn't care to.

[bruh-myguy-what]

Can I request Crosshair with "sorry, that was my first kiss." "i could tell." "...." "i'm kidding!" I don't imagine any of the Batch have ever kissed someone before. 🤭

Jealous Much?

Pairing: Crosshair x Fem!Reader Warnings: Massive fluff, Crosshair being a cutie pie and not understanding his own emotions because he's silly, light cursing, nothing other than that really Word Count: 2.2K Summary: After running into a "Reg" in the halls of Kamino, Crosshair hears something he doesn't like and it bothers him. A/N: I really liked this prompt for Cross and I've actually not written anything for him yet, so this was fun! Thanks for request precious anon! I hope it was what you were looking for when you sent in the request!

Requests are currently closed until I finish the ones I have in my inbox!

Don't forget you can also support me on ko-fi! If you like my writing, you can always just give me a little tip to help me continue my work!

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"Mesh'la~" A clone trooper called after you with a smile, "Why don't you stop hanging out with those defective boys and come hang out with real men, huh? I know you miss me~" He teased, mirthfully, as he blew you a kiss.

While you found the trooper's antics amusing, evidently none of the other Batchers had. Crosshair hissed a snide "filthy reg" under his breath as he took your arm and positioned himself between you and the other man. Hunter rolled his eyes with an exhausted sigh, Echo shrugging when Tech looked between you and the other clone. "What precisely does he mean when he says 'I know you miss me'?"

You only chuckled and shook your head in reply but flinched a little when you met Crosshair's sharp eyes. "W-What?" Your voice was hushed as it passed through your lips, almost as if you were intimidated by him.

The sniper simply lifted a brow at you, the tattoo over his eye elongating. "You didn't answer Tech." He answered with his coiled voice, toothpick moving over his thin lips. Was he serious? Why did it even bother him? You knew very well he had more contempt for the regs than even the others did, but for him to care so much about why the other trooper mentioned you neglecting him was odd- even for Crosshair.

You shrugged unhurriedly, eyes wide, as if you'd been caught in a speeder's headlights. Glancing toward the others to see if they were as confused as you were, but instead noticed they were also staring at you- waiting for a response. Tech adjusted his goggles on his face while Hunter rested his weight onto one of his hips, arms crossing over his broad chest. Echo blinked at you, and Wrecker tilted his head curiously. "What, seriously?" Was all you could summon as you looked at them all in amazement. "Is it really that big of a deal to you guys?"

"Well," Tech began simply, glancing at Hunter, "yes."

"Seriously?!" You shot back, your voice filled with offense then huffing out loudly at their insanely meddlesome behavior.

"Seriously." Crosshair's whispery tone upset you and the glare you sent him scarcely made him shift. "So, are you going to keep us waiting...or?"

"For kriff sake..." You muttered as a hand ran across your face, bitterness lacing your breath. "Fine! I made out with him once while we were at 79s on shore leave, are you happy now?" Your answer stunned them and they once again shared of look amongst themselves. "Stars. Karking fools, not everything is your business." Breathing out an annoyed sigh, you forced past them and fled into your bunk room.

"It would seem we have upset her," Tech noted after a beat of silence, to which both Hunter and Echo gave him a disapproving glance. "What? I am not incorrect. I am merely stating a factual examination as I have observed the situation."

"Stow it, Tech." Echo growled with a fatigued voice, pushing past him as they all began striding back to their own shared bunk room. Crosshair, however, lingered; eyes still eyeing where you had disappeared further down the hall. Why was it bugging him so badly to know that you had kissed that reg? It felt like gnawing in his chest like a wild nexu was bitting him.

He loathed it.

Why wouldn't it go away?

"Cross?" Hunter's deep voice broke the taller clone out of his thoughts and he looked over at his brother who was standing in the doorway. "You coming?" He questioned, a raise to his brow as he scrutinized him.

Nodding, Crosshair joined the others in the room with a faint 'yeah' and flicked his toothpick aside.

The night went on without much more discourse about your "adventure" with the reg but Crosshair couldn't get the idea out of his head and he was increasingly becoming cranky. Far more cranky than usual. The trooper was practically seething at one point while taking apart his rifle for the fourth time, griping to himself and shoving the pieces together sharply. "Any harder and I think you'll bust it, Cross." Echo comments, stepping over to his bunk to lie down.

"Shut up." The sniper hissed grouchily, driving a piece together especially hard and pinching his finger. He cursed under his breath spitting out his toothpick and placing his finger in his mouth to numb the ache.

Hunter chuckled at the exchange, "Listen, if you're so bothered by her kissing that reg, why don't you go make up for lost time and stop making the air so sticky with your angst." The man lounged in his own bunk, twirling his vibroblade around nimbly.

Crosshair prickled at the remark and turned to look at Hunter with a dangerous glare. "What do you mean by that?" His voice was low and lethal as he spoke, daring his brother to repeat himself.

"I believe you heard him well enough, did you not?" Tech piped up from his workbench, accommodating his goggles to look over at Crosshair. "However, if you were not clear on his meaning, he was proposing that you go and kiss her to make your intentions apparent."

Crosshair's nasty glower slowly landed on his intelligent brother and narrowed even further, his brow now raising in challenge. "What in the galaxy are you idiots going on about?"

"Well, you want to kiss her, don't ya?" Wrecker chimed in with a careful voice, making sure he was following the conversation correctly. Echo suppressed a laugh at Crosshair's dumbfounded expression at his larger brother.

"Of course, he does, Wrecker," Tech replied in Crosshair's stead with a matter-of-fact tone, restarting his work on whatever gadget sat in front of him.

Crosshair growled, stood up from the crate he was sulking on and lurked out of the bunk room into the hallway. Gritting the toothpick between his teeth, he groused to himself again, brown eyes traveling in the direction of your door. Hunter's comments persisted in his mind about going to you and...

But Crosshair barely considered the thought and waved his hand in the air as if he could swat away the notion. There wasn't any way in all the galaxy he was going to show up at your door like some loser with a crush.

The tall sniper rolls his eyes and then blinks in shock as he finds himself in front of a door. Your door. "What the hell?" He murmured to himself in bewilderment, eyes narrowed as if the door could give him an explanation.

He stood there for a surprisingly long time, debating with himself mentally; attempting to figure out what to do. Knocking on the door would require him to follow through with something he could easily make a fool of himself with, or...he could turn away and continue to seeth in jealousy over you being with other men.

Jealousy?

Wait...

That had just struck Crosshair.

It was the first time the idea of him being jealous truly passed his thoughts, though it made sense...the sentiment lingering in his chest corresponding to the word flawlessly.

He was jealous.

Aggravatingly so.

He hated to admit it. The thought made him feel...vulnerable; as if you have power over him in some way. But if he considered it in more depth, you did. Secretly he had been admiring you for months, amazed at how you took his brazen nature in stride and followed thoroughly alongside his banter. It startled him, pleasantly, when you first quipped back at him so effortlessly- his brothers typically being the only ones able to handle their comebacks well enough to leave him in silence. However, within weeks with the group you had smoothly grinned at him and shot back as if his offensive mood hadn't phased you in the least. He'd found himself gravitating toward you after that, interested in why you were able to tolerate him so well, wondering if he could push you further or cross a line that would make you furious; to which he uncovered nothing. The only thing he'd encountered was your gentle nature, sparked by sass and a smirk that made his heart race.

A whooshing sound startled him back to the present and he was met with your face. "What the hell are you doing out here, Crosshair?" You asked with a bothered expression.

Apparently the decision had been made for him. He was fully aware that if he turned around now he'd never live it down and would seem like a coward. He'd also have to deal with hearing about you kissing other regs which irked him even more than the idea of his brothers teasing him for being a wuss. So he rested his weight on one of his hips and smirked at you, flicking his toothpick past you. "You seemed annoyed back there, sunshine." He chose to go the route of antagonizing you, his more preferred form of communication; especially when breaching a matter he felt out of his depths to manage.

You rolled your eyes, infuriated. "That's because you and your idiot brothers were being assholes. It's none of your business what I do in my free time."

"What if I want it to be?" Crosshair heard himself speak before he could stop it but he chose to remain steadfast in the face of your changing expression.

Your raised brow and slow hand gestures implored him to continue as if what he said was unfinished. "And so what if you did want that? I'm not your-" Then it hit you and a blush rushed over your cheeks.

The clone stood there and he could feel his hands trembling, uncharacteristically. He wasn't predisposed to anxiety, none of his brothers were, but now he felt as if his heart were going to leap out his chest and through his armor directly into your hands. Silence continued to linger between the two of you with only the narrowing of Crosshair's eyes as a reaction.

"You..."

"Don't flatter yourself too much." Crosshair interrupts with a roll of his eyes, trying to fight off the embarrassment that started to creep up his own cheeks.

A smile began to form on your face, much to his dismay. "Crosshair...are you saying you're...jealous of that reg?" You were testing your luck and you knew it, he was never this clumsy in conversation with you but you couldn't help yourself when you caught the reddening of his cheeks.

"Stow it or I'll walk away right now." He hissed hatefully and crossed his arms over his chest, making no effort to move. While Crosshair despised the feeling of floundering he felt in the moment, he also found it...exciting. He was caught desperate and nervous in the sight of someone he cared for and your smile was stunning.

You chuckled at his expression, his face turning away from you to look down the hall where he'd come from. "You are jealous!" The triumph on your face was simultaneously aggravating and charming to the sniper, his trained eye taking in every detail even from his side glance. "I can't believe you're jealous because I kissed some reg, what are you a school girl? Little Crosshair feeling jealous because I kissed someone el-"

Your taunting was cut off quickly by the taller man as he covered your mouth with his; your eyes blowing wide. It was inelegant, awkward, and hurried but filled with an unexpected sweetness. You could feel his hands shaking as they held your face gently, his eyes squeezed shut. Scarcely given the chance to kiss him back before he pulled away, you grumbled in disappointment.

Crosshair stepped back out of your personal space with a dark blush across his cheeks, avoiding your eyes as he cleared his throat. He'd never felt so overwhelmed by emotion in all of his life and for him to act upon them in such a physical way left him tense.

"Crosshair..." You whispered his name with a grin, blinking a few times to make sure you were still in reality, not one of your many dreams. He peeked up at you momentarily and you could tell he would rather be shot by a blaster bolt than acknowledge that he'd just kissed you but you disregarded the look and stepped back up to him. "I'm gonna have to teach you how to kiss properly if you're going to want to keep doing that, ya know?" You teased softly.

Crosshair still denied any eye contact with you, missing the sweet expression on your face. "Th-That was my first kiss, so I don't know what you expected." His voice came out hastily by the end and had a bite to it, but you only chuckled at his shy behavior and kissed his cheek.

"I could tell." You joked lightly, a wise grin on your face.

Crosshair whipped his head to look at you, his glare fierce at your comment; which is what you had anticipated. You smiled up at him warmly and his heart leapt at the sight. Turning away from your captivating expression quickly, you hug him, resting your head against his chest plate.

"Wait! I'm sorry! I was just kidding!" You laughed at his pouting, knowing that you'd never let him live down the shade of red his face had gotten; even if just between the two of you.

[phoneycam]

(brainrot 5(?))))

Soulmates experience the same nervous or involuntary tics at the same time.

It all starts as an innocent inside joke from the 212 troopers. How their high officer where the best and one of the key proves of it was how in tune they are with eachother. That thought slowly evolved with every interaction they were able to witness until it turned into a kind of game, trying to understand just how deep the synchrony went. Space bingo if you will.

1.

Ever since he decided to have a beard, he touches it. at first it was because of the new sensation, later to show it of as one should do, then to display knowledge in hopes to seem more wise and finally evolving in his "in deep thoughts" pose.

It was on the early battles when it first happened. The clones weren't comfortable enough yet to being openly without their buckets and so, the moment both officers moved to rest their chin on their hand, Cody hit his helmet causing him to make an aborted movement pretending that he was trying to adjust it when the general turns to look at him. There is a pregnant pause around the holotable before Obi-Wan turns back to the holotable and the commander has to survive the rest of the meeting with the constant snickers from his brothers inside his helmet.

2.

In times of high stress situations he tends to scratch the back of his head, particularly the place where his padawan braid was, an unconscious tick he picked first from his time in Melidaan. He got to overcome it over the years when he came back to the temple, only to pick it back up after Qui-Gon died and he became a knight.

The first time the troopers note it is in Christophsis. Anakin is being he's usual reckless self causing Obi-Wan the go grey early with his invisible ship against a hole separatist fleet, and he doesn't even realize he's hand moving up to pass it over the back of his head, nor that his commander repeated the exact same movement at the exact same time, too distracted with the fight in sight. The other troopers on the bridge however? they did notice.

3.

This one happened before they where about to land in a highly unknown planet with an astonishing lake of information. They were walking into a trap, not that they knew at the time that.. or well.. not until both General and Commander deepened their frowns and mumbled quietly "I have a bad feeling about this". This time they did notice it tho and turned to look at eachother with a surprised look while the soldiers around them are gapping with a collective thought of "Oh kark we are so doomed" and "lmao check another one for the team."

4.

A defect of using a helmet for so long, is that you start forgetting how to keep a straight face and our dear commander, starts slipping his controlled mask especially when faced with stupid decisions. This is one of the main reasons him and Anakin do not get allong well. Because one of the first times they were all reunited strategizing their next move, Anakin decided to offer his brilliant idea and almost cried when faced with the pure power of the combined disgust Obi and Cody were inadvertently showing.

Ahsoka and Rex thought it was hilarious, Obi-Wan had to apologies multiple times before his formed padawan stopped sulking and demanding Obi-Wan to spend less time with his commander and the rest of the troopers just checked another mark.

5.

Kamino has never and will never be an easy place to live in. The facility was a nightmare and no one knew this better than the clones themselfs, between the kaminioan, the trainers and the Alpha batch, life was a challenge and any little quirk can be a dead sentence if you're not careful enough. Cody knows this and learns to deal with it.

It's in the middle of a peace negotiation with the local authority when they noticed it.

It was a small group for this mission, just Cody, Obi-Wan, Boil and Waxer accompanying a Coruscant team of negotiators. The prime minister of the planet was being unpleasant during the whole meeting, with nasty comments, senseless demands and baseless accusations towards eveyone. All bark, no bite.

The jedi was leading the negotiations putting him in front of everyone with the commander by his side; Waxer and Boil standing just behind them notice a pattern pretty quickly. Everytime the minister said something bad about the jedi or the clones, both of their officers would each start drumbeating their fingers with their thumb. A small thing that no one else could notice because their hands were behind their backs, but remarkable enough for the troopers witnessing it as a checkable tic.

6.

Dex notice the next one.

Obi-Wan likes to take every clone he can to visit Dex's reastaurant at least once, but the most regular companion is always the cammander. Not that it bothers him, in fact, he is rather fond of the good commander, but he can't help but notice how everytime the principal door opens a little bit harder than needed, they both will tense up and inmediatelly look at eachother.

And yeah idk, i just think it's neat as an idea. I can imagine a lot more of little scenes like these. Maybe some time latter both realize, maybe they know, maybe they will purposely start doing some to just mess with the troops, maybe it would save the galaxy somehow... just saying..

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Hello

I would like to request a smut prompt for Sergeant Hunter. (Only if you’re up for it oc)

I had ❛ let me come in you, please. i want to fill you up. ❜ in mind. It’s fits him so well 👀

Or, if you’re in the mood for something else,

❛ you're mine, and i take care of what belongs to me. ❜

The choice is yours, cheers ^^

emerges from my cave, writes hurt/comfort instead of smut, disappears back into my cave. sorry nonnie, the smut muse didn't want to cooperate for this one

Tell Me

Summary: Hunter does his best to protect you, but feels he must prove it in more ways than one. Prompt in bold and red.

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: allusions to harassment, Hunter being bad at talking about his feelings, fade to black so nothing NSFW but this blog is still 18+, first kiss, hurt/comfort vibes

You've never experienced Hunter's anger like this. He usually doesn't let his emotions get the better of him and, no matter his own issues, ensures the squad stays mostly on task. Even when hiccups interrupt the plan, he rolls with the punches. The Bad Batch has a 100% mission success rate for a reason. 

But tonight the issue is so much more than a mere hiccup. No, the creep at the cantina was far more unpleasant. 

The squad can gather intel in its sleep; any of you could've staked the cantina out alone and been successful. Hunter had insisted everyone partake. In hindsight, you're glad he pushed for it, even if you and Crosshair both grumbled aloud at Hunter's mother-hennishness. You'd strode straight into the shithole bar, determined to get what you were sent for and get out as quickly as possible. 

Then that stranger got a little too friendly. He'd invaded your personal space and put his hands on you despite your very evident discomfort, reeking of cheap alcohol and bad decisions. 

Hunter had stepped in. Well... he'd done more than that. You're not envious of the stranger and his freshly broken nose.

The sergeant, glowering and shaking his hand out, had growled at the others to stay put and finish the mission. Then he'd all but ordered you back to the ship, giving you no choice but to follow or risk his wrath as well. 

Now, back on board the Marauder, you sigh as your irritation grows, prickly and uncomfortable in your chest. "Hunter."

"What," he snaps. 

"You don't have to babysit me." Crossing your arms, you lean against the bulkhead, fixing him with an unimpressed glare. 

"I'm not—" He turns away, jaw working. Shadows play over his face, backlit by the ship's control panels. His heaving chest gives enough indication that he's mentally working through something.

Softening, you take a step toward him. "Will you at least talk to me?"

His nostrils flare as you move closer. "You— You smell him now." 

"I'm sorry?"

"S'not your fault," he says, misinterpreting your words. His shoulders slump. "It's my job to protect you- you all. And I was so close to failing tonight." 

"Hunter," you say gently, holding one hand out. 

He looks down at your outstretched palm and tentatively reaches to hook your fingertips together. Even through the coarse fabric of his blacks, his warmth scorches through you. Though his nose remains scrunched, when his eyes find yours, he seems to finally step back from the edge of anger. But the emotions continuing to shine in his eyes give you pause. 

Swallowing down the burgeoning hope in your chest forcing out the irritation, you squeeze his fingers. "I appreciate you looking out for me. I really do. But is this about protecting me? Or is this something else? I- I can shower if it's a sensory issue—"

"No," he interrupts. Adjusting his hold, his fingers twine between yours. He tugs you closer. "I mean—it won't be an issue for long. Kark, I'm goin' about this all wrong." 

The sergeant sighs, pulling you in for a hug. While you've embraced him before, surprise hums along your veins. Tentative, you wrap your arms around his middle, and tuck your face into the crook of his neck, where his own scent is strongest, a unique blend of earth and musk and sweat that makes your insides stir. He tightens his arms. 

"Not that this isn't nice," you say, voice muffled, "but what're you doing?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Making you smell like me." 

You blink. "Oh." Without meaning to, you inhale a deep breath, his warm scent swirling within your lungs. "You do smell good."

Hunter chuckles. The sound vibrates against your chest. "That right?"

Humming in affirmation, you press the bridge of your nose to his skin. His pulse beats against your nose; its pace quickens. For a heartbeat, you manage to contain the response that leaps to the tip of your tongue. Is this really the time?

But then again, you've been waiting for the right time to broach the subject of your feelings for months. You've shared a few hugs, left countless lingering looks when you think he isn't looking, chased an orgasm or two in silence when he's not around. If you keep waiting, the right time won't ever happen. And you'll be left wondering.  

Throwing caution to the wind, you say, "Be easier if you take your armor off." 

"Mesh'la," he murmurs. The endearment somehow sounds like a warning. "I- Your heart is racing. You're not thinking clearly."

Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you resist the urge to pull away at what feels like a rejection. Have you been reading all the signs wrong? Did you misread the situation earlier? You're relatively certain any of the squad would have jumped to your defense--but would the others have needed to be physically restrained from doing more damage? Would Wrecker have had to pry Tech, or Crosshair, or Echo, away from your assailant like he'd done to Hunter?

No, you decide, you've been reading the signs correctly. Stepping out of his embrace but not his orbit, you search Hunter's gaze. Threading your fingers together once again, you raise his hand to brush your lips over the knuckles surely bruising under his gloves. Hunter's lips part in surprise. 

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." You hesitate, then forge ahead. "Tell me you don't feel anything for me, and I'll go back to pining in silence. Tell me I'm the only one who sees something here. Tell me... Tell me you broke his face because I'm part of the squad, and no other reason. Please."

Hunter inhales a shallow breath. His eyes, gray in the dim light of the Marauder's controls, sear into yours with an unidentifiable mix of emotions. "I can't." 

Relief floods through you. With a weak smile, you gesture to yourself. "Do I still smell like him?" 

He nods. 

"Do you care for me?"

Another nod, stronger than the previous. 

"Then do something about it, Hunter." Guiding his gloved touch to your face, you lean into his warmth. 

His throat bobs when he swallows. After another moment of silent indecision, Hunter steps into your personal space, gaze searching your expression. He must not find anything worth stopping for, because his grip tightens behind your jaw. The tip of his crooked nose slides along the side of your own nose, breath puffing warm and unsteady over your face. 

You close the gap. Your mouths slot together, and it's like coming home after a long time away. Humming in the back of your throat, you press closer, deepening the kiss without hesitation. Hunter follows your lead. His armor still blocks you from truly feeling him, but you don't care. His lips are on yours, and your heart is his. 

Your name slips from his lips like a prayer. Eyes fluttering open, you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. "Yes?" 

"A-Are you sure?"

"I am."

"Then let me prove that you're mine," he murmurs. His touch lingers along your waist before drifting towards your center. "Let me prove that I take care of what belongs to me." 

A shiver skates up your spine. "Show me."

Ragu list: to be added or removed go here!

@dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations

@523rdrebel @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles

@starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator

@sleepycreativewriter @bobaprint @dickarchivist @a-single-tulip

@thorsterstrudle @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @cw80831

@mssbridgerton @isaidonyourknees @dreamie411 @jedi-hawkins

@dangraccoon @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl  @zenrobbins0021

[vodika-vibes]

Hello lovely! Could I please request Ruby for Dogma x female reader where they both have huge crushes on each other, but are too shy to say anything; one day after Dogma comes back from a long tour and she just decides to go for it and she glomps him, kissing him on the lips over and over again while his brother's are just standing there, jealously gawking lol. I hope this inspires you and I hope that what you're coming down with doesn't last long!🌼

Take A Chance

Summary: You’ve been crushing on Dogma for, what feels like, years. But you’ve always been too nervous to actually put your feelings into words. But, after your closest friend tells you that she’s going to invite Dogma into her bed when he returns from his deployment, you decide to take a chance.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Dogma x Reader

Word Count: 852

Warnings: Some angst at the beginning, but there's a happy ending. Also, reader has a toxic friend

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So, I didn't follow your prompt to the letter, but I think I'm happy with this, so I hope you are too!

Anxiety twists your stomach as you lean against the flowering tree on the base that the 501st call home when they’re not deployed. 

The Resolute docked about an hour ago. It’s only a matter of time before they actually come back to the base, and that’s the thing that is making you so anxious.

Not that they’re coming back, no. 

But the fact that you’re going to see Dogma.

Kind Dogma. Handsome Dogma.

Dogma, who you’ve been crushing on for months. Who you’ve been too shy to confess to, because he might not feel the same.

Dogma, who your best friend decided that she was going to try and bed, even though she knows about your crush on him. Her argument was that since you haven’t said anything yet, then he’s free game.

You warned her that if she did this, she would lose your friendship forever. And she just didn’t care.

So that definitely isn’t helping your anxiety. It’s not like you have so many friends that you can afford to lose any of them…even bad friends are better than no friends, right?

You lift your head when you hear the familiar sound of heavy boots on the paved road, and a small smile crosses your lips when you see the 501st trekking back to their barracks.

Knowing them, most of them are going to change and hit up the bars or go and find their partners.

They deserve it.

And then there’s Dogma, talking to Tup, joking about something based on the wry grin on Tup’s face, and your heart lurches. You love him. You want to be his and him to be yours and…

And…

And you can’t do it.

Your hands curl into fists and you drop your gaze away from the man that you love so much.

He deserves…more. So much more.

You jump when a pair of boots stop in front of you, “Credit for your thoughts?”

“They’re hardly worth that much.” You reply automatically, before you lift your gaze. Dogma is standing in front of you, concern written clearly on his face, “Ah…welcome back, Dogma.”

“Thanks.” His dark eyes scan your face, “What’s wrong, you look upset.” His brow furrowed, “Did someone threaten you?”

“No. Nothing like that. Just…coming to a realization about myself, is all.”

“Wanna share?”

“It’s not important.”

“It’s important enough that it upset you.”

You hesitate, “Well…” You fold your arms, “There’s a guy-” Dogma’s expression twitches slightly, but he just motions for you to continue, “And I just realized that I’m never going to be good enough for him.”

“If he thinks that then he’s a karking idiot.” Dogma replies, “You’re amazing.”

“No, he didn’t…” You hesitate, “That was me coming to that realization, not…” You sigh, “Like I said, not important.”

Dogma is quiet for a moment, “Well,” He finally says, “Since you have this…guy,” His tone is odd, but he continues before you can question it, “I guess you’re not interested in getting a drink or something with me?”

“...what?”

“Like, caf. Or maybe something else, since you don’t drink caf.” Dogma adds, and then he flashes a wry smile, “Sorry, I had a plan, but now that I’m standing here, I can’t quite remember it.”

“A plan?”

“For asking you out. On a date.” He rubs the back of his neck, “But, you just said there’s a guy, so I guess you’re not interested-”

You stare at him, blankly for a moment. And then you step into his space and press your lips against his in an awkward kiss. You pull away quickly, and Dogma stares at you, as though his brain needs a moment to reboot.

He stares at you for long enough that you shift nervously, and avert your gaze, “U-um…I shouldn’t have-”

You’re not able to finish your sentence before Dogma’s lips are hot against yours, and he has you pressed against the tree behind you. Unlike your kiss, which was hesitant and very chaste, his kiss is sure and quickly becomes passionate.

And you’re helpless but to match his intensity, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck and he pins you against the tree.

There’s a loud whistle and a shout of, “Get it, Dogma!” Which causes him to break the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away, instead he presses his forehead against yours, and he raises his hand to flip off whichever brother that was.

There’s the sound of laughter, and then the audience disperses, not that you notice that, as your focus is locked on Dogma, who has all of his attention focused on you.

“So,” Dogma says as he leans in slightly, his lips hovering just over yours, “I’m the guy?”

“You’re the guy.” You agree.

Dogma exhales slowly, his breath fanning across your face, “Good.” He breathes out.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops to your lips, “So…that date?”

“I’d like to go get some caf with you, Dogma.”

“Then I’ll go change and we can do that.” He murmurs, “But…first…” He trails off as his lips catch yours one more time. 

And, eagerly, you kiss him back.

[blackfoy]

MINE

Based on this fanfic:

The clones were made for the Jedi. The Jedi can tell this. They each have several troopers that resonate deeply in the Force in a way that just clicks. They are theirs in a way that is practically indescribable. In this universe, this affects the Jedi just a bit more than in the fic. Just enough to cause them to snap. They will not allow their men to be murdered because somebody else thinks they are defective, no matter what the Republic says. A Jedi only need spend less than an hour with one of their pieces to decide that the Senate can go kark themselves. Their men are brilliant bright unique lights in the Force, and they don't care how many laws or regulations they break to make sure they stay safe. 

Of course the rest of the Jedi don't understand why Obi-Wan is acting how he is until they meet their men themselves. But once Obi-Wan learns a sliver of the horrid truth about the men's lives he can't stand to let things continue how they are.

Obi-Wan braces himself with Cody's glorious signature, but in doing so he falls a bit deeper into the Force than he normally goes. He becomes a bit more instinctive, a bit more feral, and while he manages to drag himself most of the way back into his body he doesn't have the inhibitions to stop himself from going through with the pretty terrible idea he managed to come up with on the spot.

He has Cody get something to type on, and instructs him to write down the number of each clone he touches. Before Cody can truly ask questions Kenobi is off, wandering through Kamino brushing his fingertips and hands over each sunset orange trooper he finds. Cody and the rest of the clones are startled and confused, but they are afraid to say anything so they don't speak. Obi-Wan tries to comfort them as best he can, but he's half-in half-out of the Force and his attempts aren't the best. Especially when he's running his fingers across the Vode's arms and neck and cheek and hair without much thought as to what a non-Force sensitive might think.

Several hours later he's nowhere near done, but he's done enough. He tells Cody to make a separate list of all the troopers that are in danger of being decommissioned and have them all gather together along with the men Obi-Wan has singled out. He then rushes off to Comm the council, still in a bit of a manic state.

Barlex was just walking down the hallway when suddenly slender unfamiliar fingertips trailed up his spine. He froze, looking out of the corner of his eye and seeing the orange-haired man that stood there. It felt like the air had abandoned his lungs. That was a Jedi. There was a Jedi standing mere inches away, softly tracing the curves of his back and the nobs of his spine. He held his breath for a long, long moment, before the General moved on, hand settling onto the side of his ribs for a moment before leaving him and moving down further down the hall. He sucked in a hasty wheezing breath, and he shared a frightened glance with Commander Cody as he scurried past after the General with a datapad in hand. 

[electrikworm]

Long Hours

Relationships: Fox & Thorn

Content Warnings: Clone trooper Dehumanization, Blood and Injury, Broken ribs

Summary:

After a long day of work and a senator taking his frustration out on Fox he's dreading the patrol he has scheduled. However Thorn won't let his brother overwork himself any more than he already has.

Word count: 2,457

Read on Ao3

Fox groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patrol starts in fifteen minutes and he's gotten barely any work done.

All thanks to that karking senator. Fox wipes at the still drying blood coming from his nose and split lip with his glove. His blacks will have to go in the wash either way, a few blood stains won't make a difference.

Sighing, Fox leans his head backwards, resting it against the uncomfortable chair. The long hours he's got that day would have been bad enough without a persistent ache in his body. But the senator hardly cared how Fox's shift would be affected when he decided to take his frustration out on a clone.

A commander of the Coruscant guard shouldn't have to deal with some senator that likely only got the position thanks to his parents credits threatening him. If it came to a fight, Fox would come out on top with ease. But in reality, there's very little Fox can do against these situations.

If he were to defend himself, Fox would end up being charged with assaulting a natborn. If he refuses the demand, the shabuir will just vent his displeasure on some other clone, very likely some poor shiny. Only thing Fox can do is report the incident once its already happened.

He doesn't see much point in doing so. There would be so much flimsiwork involved and the worst the senator would be charged with is “damage of GAR property”. And even that depends on if Fox's claim is believed in the first place.

Fox checks the chrono again, annoyed at how fast time is passing. He should be getting going, but is dreading getting up. It's easy enough to ignore the pain when he barely moves.

Exhaling sharply, Fox slips his helmet on and pushes himself to his feet. He's immediately made aware of everything wrong with his body, the dark bruises that mar it, the possible cracked ribs, the sharp stinging in his knee. In fact, Fox's right leg almost gives out from under him. A couple months back, he took a blaster bolt to the leg and it hasn't been quite right since. The targetted way the senator aimed for that limb makes Fox question if the natborn might have been aware of the injury.

Fox takes a moment to dig his fingers between the plates of his leg armor to try and ease some of the pressure on his knee, hissing as it does little to help. He's going to have to walk about on that leg for hours, last thing Fox wants is for his limp to be obvious.

Shaking the limb out, Fox gets going. It takes a bit of concentration not to let on to the beating he took earlier, but it's far from the worst condition Fox has worked in.

The long, dull halls of the Senate building are a curse, making Fox's existence just that little bit harder. There are far too many natborns about for Fox's liking. He feels like they watch his every step carefully, waiting for him to slip up and let on to his weakened state.

Fox doesn't zone out whilst he walks, that would be unprofessional. No, the fact Fox was so focused on walking naturally is at fault for him only noticing Thorn moments before colliding with him.

His brothers hand on his shoulder shakes him from his stupor. “Fox?”

Giving a noise that could be both a response to his name being called or a greeting, Fox tilts his head upright. Their visors are equal in height of course, seeing as nearly all clones share the same height save for the occasional genetic deviance and shinies that have been shipped off Kamino too early.

“Just get off your shift?” Thorn asks, giving Fox the impression that his brother has completed his work for the day.

Fox shakes his head, trying to limit the amount he speaks with his split lip. “My patrol of the senate building starts in a few minutes,” he says, a hint of unclarity to his voice due to the bruising. Fox's round doesn't cover the entire building of course, but Thorn knows that so there's no point in explaining.

The way Thorn's stare seems to intensifies can be felt even through the helmet. Fox can imagine the look on his face beneath the bucket, brows furrowed as he observes his brother. Aware of Thorn's watchful eye, Fox straightens up a little more. No need to worry his vod about trivial things that Fox can and should handle on his own.

“You sure you're up to it?” Thorn asks, squeezing Fox's shoulder. The gesture is barely felt through the armor, but is appreciated none the less. That's the most comfort Fox has gotten all day. “No offence vod, but you seem a little out of it. When's the last time you slept or ate?”

Fox can't help but sigh. It hardly matters if he feels up to working or not, he'll have to do so either way. Clones get taught on Kamino that they'll have to push through pain their entire life.

“Going on patrol is hardly intense labour Thorn, I think I'll manage.” Fox rolls his neck as he speaks, hoping to release some of the tension in his spine. “And I've had plenty of rest and two meals today, I'm fine.”

He leaves out the fact that the rest he got consisted of a twenty minute nap Fox accidentally had at his desk and that all he's consumed that day was three cups of cheap caff from the dispensers clones are allowed free access to, half a ration bar and one of those horrible caffeine cubes the GAR hands out.

“I don't think this is a good idea Fox. What if there's an attack?”

“Then I'll handle it, like we were trained to do,” Fox hisses, trying to get past his brother. He's already late for his shift, delaying it more will only end up with him having to compensate with overtime.

A huff transmits through Thorn's helmet speaker before he pulls the thing off to look at Fox directly. Somehow, that makes Fox feel even more watched.

“I doubt you took the time out of your day to look at yourself in a mirror Fox, but you look kriffing terrible. Your movement is unsteady and you're limping every other step.” Torn steps closer to Fox again, tapping the front of his helmet. “If you took that thing off, I wouldn't be surprised to see eyebags bad enough to mistake for bruises.”

Fox almost laughs at the irony of that comment.

“None of that changes the fact that I have a job to do.” Fox tries to walk off, pain in his body amplified by the sudden movement, but Thorn keeps following him.

“We'll find someone to cover for you,” he says, making Fox shake his head. It's his shift, dumping it on a brother feels wrong.

“I'll see you after my shift,” Fox sighs, sidestepping to avoid his brother and continuing down the hall. Stubbornly refusing to give in seems to get Thorn to quit.

Thorn calls after Fox, wishing him good luck on the job. That's when Fox makes a mistake whilst turning back to look at his vod. Jarring his ribs with the motion, Fox can't quite bite back a pained hiss. Thorn isn't about to ignore that, no matter how much Fox tries to pick up his pace.

A firm hand on both his shoulders stops him. He'd have to shove Thorn off the get away from him now and not only does Fox not want to do that, he is also too tired to deal with additional physical exertion he can avoid.

“What happened?” Thorn asks.

Fox gets along well with his brothers, tries to look out for them. The unfortunate side effect of that is that they do the same for him, even if they wouldn't need to bother. That's why Thorn immediately clocks even a slight slip of the mask Fox has put up to hide his weakness from others.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Fox brushes off. This kind of behaviour from natborns is far from rare.

“Can't say I agree.” With that statement, Thorn activates his comlink and announces that he needs someone to cover commander Fox's patrol.

Covering his brothers comlink with his hand, Fox glares at Thorn. He's confident Thorn can feel his stare, even with the visor blocking his eyes from view. “Stop that,” Fox hisses.

“Not until you're honest about what's wrong with you,” Thorn shoots back.

“This is a waste of time,” Fox sighs. Thorn just raises an eyebrow and keeps talking on his comm, batting away any attempt from Fox to block him from doing so. Sighing again, Fox slouches somewhat. The longer he argues, the later he'll be. “Fine.”

Fox slips his helmet off, feeling very exposed doing so in the open halls of the senate building. “Happy?” Fox asks as he watches Thorns expression become serious.

“I wasn't aware of an attack,” Thorn says. It's an optimistic thing to say. The alternative, the reality of where Fox got his injuries, is much more grim. There's a war going on and people get hurt, but these kinds of small violences, dished out by the Republics own, happen to troopers for the simple fact that they come out of a tube rather than from traditional reproduction. It solidifies the place clones hold in society, and the fact that their situation won't change any time soon.

Fox shakes his head, dull throb in his neck worsened by the motion. “Not an attack, just a senator.”

Brows furrowed, Thorn pauses, pupils in constant motion as he studies Fox's face. Fox yearns to put his helmet back on. After a moments wait, Thorn turns to his comm-conversation again, seeming to find a replacement for Fox's shift.

Fox tries to reject the change in plans, but Thorn and the trooper on the other end of the line won't budge. With a tired groan, Fox is forced to give in.

Reluctantly, Fox follows Thorn back to their barracks. Initially, Thorn and Fox hadn't slept in the same barracks, but once they'd started getting along, Thorn moved his stuff to the same one Fox resides in. Those in charge hardly care where clones sleep as long as there isn't any problems.

The room their beds are in isn't one of the largest, only a little over a dozen other troopers housed in there if it's at full capacity. Currently, there are a few clones sleeping and two awake. Greeting them as they pass, Thorn steers Fox to his bunk.

“With how neat it always is, you'd think you barely sleep in it,” Thorn jokes. Fox doesn't bring up that he's slept on the floor of his tiny office or in his chair more and more often in the past weeks.

Thorn hurries off in search of the barracks medkit whilst Fox stashes his armor. He doesn't mind being out of it here, among his brothers, but he despises wearing anything else outside. Fox always feels exposed, even when wearing his off-duty grays.

Once he's returned, Thorn lays the medkit out on the bunk. This is far from the first time Fox has had to be patched up by one of his brothers. He's had to do so for his vode many times too.

With any other injury, they'd go to a med bay, to a medic, but anything related to a natborn venting anger at one of them would just cause a hassle.

Fox hisses as Thorn wipes his face down with a disinfectant wipe, the contact with any open wound stinging.

“Was it someone new?” Thorn asks, expression pinched in concentration.

“No, he's already on the list.”

Fox can't remember who started the list of dangerous natborns, but it's always been a good help. Since its creation, they make sure to never make shinies work near those people if it can be avoided. Having to deal with abusive assholes in the first few weeks of being stationed on Coruscant never does shinies any good. You can tell when a shinies been through that, they're different, skittish, jumpy, more likely to be chewed up and spat out by the planets dark alleys and maze-like city structure. Clones go missing on Coruscant all the time, Fox would rather avoid upping the probability of that outcome.

With the cuts cleaned, Thorn begins cutting a bacta patch into smaller pieces and sticking them on the worst of Fox's facial injuries. He offers some bacta gel for Fox's split lip, but he declines. Once the stuff gets in your mouth, you can barely get rid of the taste. Fox doesn't want to spend the next few hours thinking about the way bacta tastes.

Fox's bruised side and knee get coated in bacta as well, and Thorn even manages to find a cooling pack to help with Fox's ribs.

After removing his own armor, Thorn sits next to Fox on the bunk. “I don't think you're concussed, but be careful the next few days anyway, alright?”

“I'll be fine,” Fox says, adjusting the way he holds the cold pack to his side. He's certain he must have cracked a rib or two, but the cold helps a little. Their medkits don't carry painkillers, so Fox will just have to live with what remains of the pain.

“I was right about the eyebags,” Thorn says. “Even under all that bruising, I can still see how bad they are.”

“You don't look much better.”

Thorn scoffs. “At least I've slept a full six hours of the last 24.”

Fox finds he doesn't have a counter argument for that. For a moment, the hushed chatter of the two other wake clones and faint snoring from one of the sleeping ones are the only sounds accompanying them.

“You should sleep now, whilst you can,” Thorn states.

“Can't,” Fox replies. “I had a caffeine cube.”

“That wasn't very smart,” Thorn laughs, elbowing Fox's good side. Fox shoots Thorn a dirty look.

“I was planing to work for the next six hours at least, so it seemed necessary.”

“You don't need to sleep to rest,” Thorn says, leaning against the wall behind the bunk. After a moments hesitation, Fox leans on his brothers shoulder, sighing deeply. The caffeine is keeping his mind active, but Fox's body is feeling the wear and tear of the past days, bone deep exhaustion plaguing him.

After another moments pause, Thorn continues. “I hope the shabuire that did this trips and breaks his neck.”

Despite the ache in his ribs, Fox can't help but laugh. “Couldn't agree more.”

[neyswxrld]

of little brothers and their fights

The Cadet Batch, POV Wrecker

summary: Hunter and Crosshair have a heavy fight. Wrecker tries to interfere.

warnings: pulling on hair, biting, crying, fighting

words: ~960

a/n: hello everyone! this might have a little of an abrupt ending and i decided to leave the story somewhat open. even though the two of them fight, it's a story of mine so ofc they're having a "happy ending", no worries i got u people. this is another fic for @summer-of-bad-batch, with the prompt "stop touching me!" - "i'm not touching you!" (also, did i watch that scene from lilo and stitch for like 30 times just because it's so funny? yes i did.) i hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

SUMMER OF BAD BATCH MASTERLIST

Wrecker loves his brothers.

They are funny and kind. They share their things with him, no matter how small they were.

When he needs someone, they are there for him. They talk to him, cuddle with him, endure his hugs and he knows he can always count on them.

And of course they can count on him, too!

When Hunter complains about his smell, he tries to clean up his bunk and himself, of course.

When Crosshair is at his grumpiest, he knows that some good old Lula-slaps will knock him out of it.

When Tech has to rant about something, and needs someone to listen to him, Wrecker will try to do just that as best as he can.

At the same time, he knows they absolutely would do the same for him.

Like he said, he really loves them.

Except for when they are fighting.

It isn't uncommon for them to pick on each other, or to bicker around. Kark, sometimes he even just picks a fight with Crosshair out of boredom.

But sometimes, when Hunter didn't sleep well, or Crosshair is already irritated, small arguments can turn into a whole war.

Just like now.

Wrecker isn't even sure why his oldest and youngest brother are at it again, but he feels like they will get very physical, very soon.

Hunter and Crosshair are often up each other's throats. They are screaming, yelling, sometimes even shoving each other around, but this time it is just a little more intense.

Tech is sitting next to him. He has his fingers in is ears, overwhelmed by the loud noises, and is curled into Wrecker, trying to shield himself from whatever is going on between the other two.

All he can do is sigh and shake his head at their brothers antics.

He doesn't know if it is expected of him to step in, as the strongest of the team, or if it is even his right to do so, but when the moment arrives, he knows it.

As soon as Crosshair puts Hunter in a headlock, pulling his hair, and Hunter digs his teeth into Crosshair's tight, he knows that he can't keep them going like this.

"Hey!" he calls out, standing up, careful to not push Tech around too much. "Stop it! What the hell are you even fighting about?"

He stomps over to his tangled brothers and pulls them out of each other's arms, separating them.

"Stop touching me!" Crosshair calls out, shoving at Wrecker, actually trying to kick his shins.

"Hey!" Wrecker calls out, while Hunter yells back: "I'm not touching you!"

"Calm down!" Wrecker yells and places Hunter in his bunk, throwing him a glance that says "don't you dare moving away".

Then he grabs Crosshair in a different angle, laying his arms around him, so he isn't really able to move his own anymore, and putting him in a so called "Wrecker-Cage".

"Leave me alone! Stop touching me!" Crosshair calls again, struggling in Wreckers arms, but the latter one doesn't really budge at first. He's definitely stronger than his gray haired brother, but he isn't sure if he really should let him go now, still so full of rage.

"Let me go!" he growls and keeps wiggling himself out of his arms.

Only when Hunter croaks out a quiet "Let him down, Wrecker," the giant gently lowers his smaller brother.

Crosshair huffs, looks at Wrecker like he wants to kill him, before growling out an "I don't need your help!" and storming off into their fresher.

Wrecker is sure that if he could slam the doors, their sound would still echo in their ears several hours later.

When he turns around, Tech carefully looks around, pinning his eyes on Hunter.

Hunter himself is curled up on his bed and with the way his breathing sounds way too controlled for the fight that just happened and the way his shoulders are tensed, he knows that Hunter must be at the verge of tears.

Slowly, carefully, he makes his way over to Hunter.

"Hey, you're okay?" Wrecker asks, even though he sees that this clearly isn't the case.

"Fine," Hunter murmurs and pulls the blanket further up.

"You don't exactly look like it, if I'm honest. What was this about?" the bigger clone asks and sits down next to Hunter, refraining from touching him.

"It was nothing," Hunter almost whimpers, covers his face with said blanket and as if that isn't enough he starts to sniffle quietly.

Wrecker is at a loss for words.

Tech crying? Well, yes, he's seen that before.

Crosshair crying? Yeah, that's more likely than anyone would expect. He might be doing just that now, hidden behind the fresher door.

Himself crying? Hell yeah! He's an emotional wreck, sometimes he wonders if this is the reason why they gave him his name.

But Hunter crying? No. He's never seen that before. Not once in his whole eight years of life.

"But... But you're... It can't be nothing if you're feeling like that," Wrecker mumbles and decides to put his hand on Hunter's side, hesitantly.

"It's okay, Wrecker. Can we just leave it? I don't want to talk about it," Hunter sniffles, his voice rough and thick at the same time.

Wrecker moves his hand a little up and down on Hunter's back, sighing.

"It's going to be okay," he tries to assure him, but Hunter just shrugs: "I don't know..."

It takes the two squabblers over a day and a fight with a few regs to talk to each other again.

To all their surprise, it's Crosshair who makes the first step when they're in med bay and get patched up, and apologizes to Hunter.

Hunter, just sighs, nods and accepts the apology.

Tech and Wrecker never really find out what this fight exactly was about.

TAGLIST

@isthereanechoinhere96 @trixie2023 @freesia-writes

[kybercrystals94]

Local Flavors

Read here on Ao3!

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 5 | "You're a bad liar." | "Need a hand?"

Rated: G | Words: 1733 | Summary: Domestic living has a learning curve.

Hunter stares at the basket of small, glass canisters, each filled with some kind of crushed plant or seed. He hopes the bewilderment he feels isn’t evident in his expression when he looks up at the woman, their immediate neighbor to the west, Kyly. “Thank you,” he says. 

Kyly grins at him. “You don’t know what they are, do you?” 

Hunter considers lying, but he considers a moment too long for it to be convincing. “No,” he admits. 

“They’re seasonings,” Kyly says, as though that simply explains it. 

It doesn’t. 

“Ah,” Hunter says anyway.

Kyly rolls her eyes. “For cooking. For flavor.” She starts sorting through the bottles, rattling off the meaningless names of each. That’s when Hunter notices they are labeled in pretty, decorative font…probably hand written by Kyly herself. 

“Let me know if you need any help figuring out what to use with what,” Kyly concludes with a charming, toothy smile. She wiggles her fingers when she waves goodbye, and walks away, disappearing around the corner. 

A snicker behind him makes Hunter’s face and ears burn.

“Making friends, are we?” Crosshair asks. “Pretty friends.” 

“Knock it off, Cross. Kyly just brought us a housewarming gift,��� Hunter mutters, turning and shouldering past his brother to deposit the basket of seasonings on the kitchen counter. 

Crosshair plucks one of the bottles from the basket, holds it up and shakes it. “What the kriff is this stuff?” 

“Seasoning,” Hunter says. “For cooking.” 

Crosshair manages to screw off the lid one handed, sniffing at the contents suspiciously. He makes a face. “I do not want this on my food.” 

Hunter snatches it away from him. “You wouldn’t know good flavor if it bit you in the shebs,” Hunter says. He doesn’t mention that he can smell the seasoning in question without lifting it to his nose, nor does he admit that it doesn’t smell appetizing. Instead, he screws the lid on tight and puts the questionable seasoning aside. 

“And you do?” Crosshair snarks back. “Maybe you should take Kyly up on her cooking lessons.” 

Hunter rolls his eyes. “It isn’t intergalactic science. I’m sure I can figure it out.” 

“You do that,” Crosshair says with an annoying smirk Hunter wants to slap off his face. 

Crosshair must sense the threat, good soldier that he is, and slips through the front door before Hunter does anything drastic. 

***

Omega and Wrecker return from the docks as the usual time for evening meal approaches. As they approach the house, Omega sniffs at the air. “Do you smell that?” 

Wrecker takes a deep breath through his nose, carefree expression crumbling into a look of utter disgust. “It smells like something died.” 

“That stench is dinner.” Crosshair slinks out from behind the house, arms crossed with a pleased look on his face. 

Wrecker and Omega exchanged horrified glances. 

“What happened to it?” Omega asks. 

Crosshair flashes her a feral grin. “Hunter.” 

Wrecker gapes. “How? 

“Oh, I assure you he took great care in destroying every semblance of edibility,” Crosshair says. 

Omega makes a face. “Hunter wouldn’t ruin food on purpose.” 

“He’s trying to impress our neighbor by using the housewarming gift she brought this afternoon,” Crosshair says loftily, leaning against the railing of the front porch. “Problem is, he doesn't know kark about seasonings.” 

“Hey, language,” Wrecker grumbles. 

Omega, unfazed, clasps her hands together. “You mean Kyly?” 

“Yep,” Crosshair says, popping the ‘p’ with finality. 

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Omega coos, but another waft of clashing flavors drifts by, and her demeanor crumbles. “Maybe we should ask her how to use them instead of just…” 

Crosshair huffs. “I tried to tell him that.” He pokes Omega in the forehead. “It's your turn.” 

“Me?” Omega squeaks. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings!” 

“You think I do?” Crosshair asks. 

Omega narrows her eyes. “It hasn’t stopped you from telling him anything before.” 

Crosshair shrugs, conceding the point. 

“Well, one of us has to tell him,” Wrecker groans. “Otherwise, we’re never gonna eat anything good ever again.” 

“Be our guest, Wrecker,” Crosshair says. “Break a poor man’s heart.” 

Wrecker balks. “He has to know. I mean, can’t he smell it? What’s the point of enhanced senses if you can’t smell what you’re cooking?”

“As hard as it is to believe, Hunter isn’t perfect,” Crosshair retorts. 

Omega’s shoulders sag. “Fine. I’ll tell him.” 

***

The moment they walk in the door, Hunter is on them. “Just in time for late meal,” he says cheerfully. 

Omega’s resolve melts like an ice cone in the late afternoon sun. 

Crosshair gives her shoulder a nudge, and Omega subtly shakes her head. Her youngest brother sighs. “You said…”

“Shh,” Omega hisses. 

They sit down at the table. Some sort of dish is displayed in the middle. 

“It’s called a casserole,” Hunter tells them. “I found the recipe on the holonet.” 

“Did you follow it?” Crosshair asks. 

Omega kicks his shin under the table. 

“What’s in it?” Wrecker eyes the food like it’s a coiled snake about to strike. 

Hunter lists off the ingredients. “There were measurements, but we don’t have measuring spoons. Any seasonings we didn’t have, I substituted for ones that looked the same color and texture.”

“Maker, help us,” Crosshair breathes. 

Omega takes a deep breath. Maybe it will taste better than it smells. Bravely, she wraps a fist around the serving spoon and scoops a generous helping of casserole onto her plate. She has to bite her cheek from grimacing at the reek that curls up in rolling steam. 

She is surprised when Crosshair follows her example next, then Wrecker. Hunter serves himself last.

Then they sit in loud silence, waiting for someone else to try it first. Finally, Wrecker picks up his fork, spears the prongs into the casserole, and takes a bite. Omega and Crosshair watch him carefully, waiting for the facial contortion soon to follow the courageous act. Wrecker barely chews, swallowing with a gulp. 

“Mmmm,” he says, but his eye twitches.

Hunter frowns, looks down at his own plate for a moment, then takes a huge bite. His eyes widen before he spits the mouthful out into his napkin. “It’s awful!” 

“It’s not that bad,” Wrecker says. 

Hunter casts him a withering look. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

Crosshair heaves a heavy sigh, shoving his plate across the table. “In his defense, you should have known it was terrible before either of you took a bite.” 

“What are you talking about?” Hunter asks, looking genuinely confused. 

“Can’t you smell it? It smells terrible…Wrecker thought something died when he and Omega got back to the house…and they spent the day at the docks,” Crosshair says. Omega tries to catch Crosshair’s eye, tries to signal him to shut up, but Crosshair successfully misses every cue thrown his way as he adds, “I bet Kyly could smell it from her house.” 

Hunter looks mortified. “And you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you say something before I kriffing served it?” He stands up and begins gathering the plates, dumping the untouched casserole back into the dish. He gives a sharp whistle, and Batcher comes bounding into the dining area, a place she is normally forbidden. “Here, girl. Got something special for you,” Hunter says, putting the dish on the ground. 

Batcher snuffles at it loudly before slowly backing away. 

Omega can’t help the snort of laughter that bubbles up, and she claps both hands over her mouth to try and stifle it. She doesn’t dare make eye contact with Wrecker or Crosshair. 

“Well,” Hunter mutters, “looks like we’ll be eating in the market tonight.” 

***

The next morning, Omega knocked on Kyly’s door. The woman answered immediately. “Omega! What a pleasant surprise. I was just making morning tea. Please, please, won’t you join me?” 

Before Omega could answer one way or another, she was pulled inside and guided to a lovely little table covered in a crocheted cloth and a vase stuffed full of wild island flowers. Kyly left to the kitchen and returned with another cup and saucer and placed them at the other seat. 

“Do you take cream or sugar?” Kyly asks, sitting down across from Omega and pouring the hot, aromatic beverage into Omega’s delicate cup. 

Omega admires the thin curving teacup, so different from the thick mugs her brothers drank caf from each morning. “I like both, please,” Omega says. 

Kyly drops two large lumps of sugar and a generous splash of cream. Omega carefully imitates Kyly in stirring the tea with a spoon, the soft tink, tink, tink sounding absolutely musical.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Kyly asks. 

“I wanted to thank you for the seasonings you brought yesterday,” Omega says. She takes a careful sip of tea and is pleasantly surprised by its mild, sweet flavor.

Kyly smiles. “I grew the herbs in my garden and dried them myself. Have you gotten to try any of them yet?” 

“Hunter used some last night,” Omega admits carefully. “I’m not sure we know how to use them…properly. We grew up on rations and formulated meals from Kamino. We don’t have a lot of experience being–” Omega searches for the proper word. 

“Domestic?” Kyly supplies. 

Omega grins. 

“Perhaps,” Kyly says slowly, “I might be able to lend a hand.” 

***

“I need your help,” Omega says, standing in Hunter’s doorway. 

Hunter is towling his hair dry after washing up from his morning and afternoon spent down on the docks with his brothers. He glances at his sister. “With what?” 

“Late meal,” Omega chirps happily, bouncing on her toes. 

Hunter levels her an unamused glare. “Hard pass.” 

“Ah, c’mon, Hunter,” Omega says. “I promise it will turn out better than last night.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Hunter deadpans. 

“Kyly told me this recipe is Hunter-proof,” Omega says, matching Hunter’s tone; however, her eyes are glittering with stark amusement. 

Burning embarrassment scorches up Hunter’s neck and across his face. “Kyly said that?” 

“Well,” Omega amends gleefully, “maybe she didn’t say Hunter-proof.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, we’re blaming you. I can only be responsible for one botched supper a week.” 

“Fine by me,” Omega says, shrugging one shoulder and grinning at him. 

Hunter huffs and follows his giggling sister into the kitchen. 

***

That night, when a hearty fish stew tastes every bit as wonderful as it smells, Omega gives Hunter all the credit. 

END

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[lilolilyr]

Fic rec time! Star Wars: Obi Wan x Jaster Mereel

'The Temporary Temple Guards': 60+k, by RoosjeM on Ao3, not rated, prequel trilogy

Summary: It was a widely known fact within the Temple, that the Temple Guards stationed at the Coruscant Temple were experiencing a ‘shortage’ at the moment. Seeing as Knights were sent out to complete missions and went on protective details, they were also the Corp that was responsible for the Temple Guards.

“I may have an issue.”

“What is it?”

“I have a youngling in front of me. There is no one else around and I am pretty sure he’s Mandalorian, and he's lost.”

Or: it’s Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi’s turn to be a Temporary Temple Guard and of course one of his past missions comes back to haunt him.

It's quite canon-divergent from even before the fic timeline starts, the author sums it up quite well in a note on chapter 2:

"Korda VI happened differently, Galidraan didn't happen but Mandalorians and Jedi have not been in contact so all they really know about each other is galaxy wide rumours and their troubled history [...].

I moved Obi-Wan's timeline up. [...] the Missions to Mandalore [was] his last missions as a Padawan in this fic (meaning he's early twenties when he is there). The Naboo mission is not a thing.

Jaster [...] writes the Supercommando Codex earlier. His Haat'ade were only starting to gain allies which eventually led to the Clan Wars.

Jango is younger as well because I think baby-Jango is top tier comedy."

This fic is so good, I'm trying to follow it along despite my usual modus operandi with wips being either a) ignore it till it's finished or abandoned or b) read what's written then forget about it forever, because i just don't have a good enough memory to know what fic it is whenever sth updates...

I just re-read the first ten chapters (because, again, no memory) and summarized them all so in the future once the fic updates, or if I don't read the next chapters in one go, I can just read my summary instead to remember where I'm at - when I wanted to continue my summary on my bookmark for c11-16, I ran out of character space! So I'm continuing it here on tumblr instead :)

Feel free to save this post if you are also following the fic along as it's written and have the same memory problems as I have :) if you aren't up to date with the latest chapters yet, beware the spoilers below the cut!

~~~ continue reading ~~~

C1

Obi & Quinlan are temporary assigned as guards bc of a staff shortage

A Mandalorian kid is lost, sees a man in armor & asks for help, not caring that it's a Jedi, not a Mandalorian! Obi brings him to little keldabe as taking him to the temple could cause an international incident, breaking pretty much all Guard rules apart from the vow of silence which he keeps the entire time.

In Little Keldabe he is threatened with weapons but not harmed because the kid is in the way. Once the kid's Buir shows up (Jaster, though he doesn't recognize him), Obi escapes through the sewers.

C2

Flashback: obi's mission on mandalore! Satine and the new mandalorians are a bother, Obi-Wan doesn't like their fake-pacifist weak ways, he wants to join with the Haat'ade for his and Satine's protection. They go by Ben and Tina for anonymity.

Present day: Jaster POV: on Coruscant for peace talks the Senate asked for, he hates the planet. When guards lose Jango he's even more pissed and ofc worried.

"You saved the squad that just so ended up being the current Mand’alor’s squad.” Quinlan remembers about Obi-Wan's time on Mandalore.

There's video footage of Obi bringing Jango to little Keldabe, so the mandos see (and Jaster thinks Obi seems familiar), and the Jedi find out- obe's not worried about the council because 'Yoda felt guilty for all the kark Obi-Wan had to go through under Qui-Gon Jinn’s care since he was the one that pushed them together.'

Turns out the council isn't too pissed anyway because his stunt improved the image of Temple Guards quite a lot. He's still asked not to repeat it.

C3

Jaster's mandos observe the temple looking for obi-wan. Jango also wants to find 'his Aran'.

Obi-stays temporary guard with Feemor, and they have lineage tea with Dooku, who's quite nice if you get to know him better.

The Temple Guards bring the lurking mandos datapads: subtly and threateningly telling them to piss off.

Flashback: obi on Mandalore with his late adopted dad Bardan Jusik of House Skirata (Kal's uncle btw), learning about armor.

C4

Overtired obi in Guard armor (& hidden Mando vambraces) after his shift stumbles across visiting Jaster, they fight and Jaster takes off his helmet to reveal - they knew each other, friends when Obi was on mandayaim

More flashbacks of the haat'ade, mentions that Qui-Gon left obi behind and did a shit job at mentoring in general, and more flashback to how Obi became Ben be aliit Jusik of House Skirata: Bardan offered to adopt him, asked him to consider becoming haat'ade. The Goran had figured out he was jettii and offered armor anyway. He also became close to alor Jaster, into the inner circle of the Haat'ade.

C7

Flashback: Jaster x Obi get together ♡

When death watch attacks, Obi-wan fought back with his lightsaber. Bardan's death by darksaber was blamed on him by the Skiratas and he named Dar'manda. Obi took Satine and left without telling Jaster goodbye. To

Present day: Jaster tells him he should have come to him to clear it all up, that he would have protected him, that he loves Obi-Wan/Ben and doesn't think their time was a lie, that he wants to get to know Obi-Wan properly now.

C8

Jaster tells Obi that his buir Barden lived! The Skiratas have been looking for him all this time.

The mandos are offered lodgings in the temple (bc Jaster and Obi are taking so long in Obi's rooms xD) they recognize Feemor as the threat/message bringer bc he 'moves the same'. Feemor is freaked out by this.

Barden POV: he is impatient, not having heard from the mandalorians on Coruscant since they went to the temple. He and Alor Skirata are also looking for Ben, going to MelidaDaan.

Jaster finds the dha'ka'dau in Obi's room, who didn't know what it was, just that the kyber wanted to rest.

Mandos incl Jaster&Obi are invited for breakfast, the mandos realize the Jedi are all just one big family.

Council meeting: it's revealed by Jaster that Obi is still considered adopted mandalorian, even if Barden had really died. It's decided he should go to Mandalore as a potential watchbeing and to give him the opportunity to meet with the Skiratas.

C9

The darksaber decides to come along to Mandalore, bullying Obi-Wan into it (sentient sword!!)

Obi-Wan won't hide his Jedi heritage this time. He's being a bit petty about it, refusing to wear any armor apart from the kom'rk(vambraces).

En route, Jaster and Obi meditate together. Jaster is just slightly force sensitive.

C10

Bardan learns about the former Young on Melidaan but doesn't figure out that 'Obi-Wan' is his kid. The Young regret that Obi-Wan left and they don't know what happened to him.

Arriving on Mandalore, Obi-Wan is greeted with weapons aimed at him when Jango asks to be picked up. Jaster reprimands the mandos and has Obi with Jango walk next to him despite him not having a rank

C11

Walon Vau, a friend of Bardon and so Obi's uncle, comes to collect him for first meal. He is asked to sit with him, Jaster and the other alore. Jaster says that despite first meal not being socially important for mandalorians, he wants to spend it with his cyare Obi-Wan because it is important for Jedi.

Obi-Wan goes to the Forge with the Goran, who asks why he isn't wearing his armor, and Obi-Wan finally admits he struggles with the dual identity of Jedi and Mandalorian. He meets Mand'alor Tarre Vizla in a vision who thanks him for taking care of the dha'kad and asks him to unite Mandalorians and Jedi. Obi-Wan's armor is to be reforged.

Bardan and Obi-Wan have a tearful reunion.

C12

Obi-Wan tells his buir everything and asks for advice about what to do after the three months posting in Mandalore is up.

Erri Skirata feels guilty for being the reason Ben/Obi-Wan ran away. Obi-Wan and Erri have an official clan dispute talk with the Goran and Jaster, and Obi-Wan forgives her for what happened, saying given the circumstances, he understands why she thought he killed Barden. He just wants to move past it.

Jaster with Kal's help starts an investigation in the Jedi's ties to the Senate and the Ruusan reformation.

C13

Obi heals a plant, thought on Mandalore to be the last of its kind, and recognizes it from a Jedi garden.

The Young are visiting and Obi-Wan has another tearful reunion! Nield apologizes for blaming Obi for Cerasi's death. Barden realizes Obi-Wan the General of the Young is Ben, his son, and breaks down crying.

Ao3: C1 | C13

the bookmark that started this post

Fyi, I use this code to hide spoilery summaries on Ao3 bookmarks:

<details><summary>spoilers </summary> WRITE YOUR TEXT HERE </Details>

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[mwolf0epsilon]

Dogma and the Mouse Droid pt.8

Dogma, carefully cleaning Buggy who came out of the vents covered in a collection of dust bunnies: You really need to be more careful of which section of the base's vents you go into. Some of those vents are older than even the Chancellor himself... Buggy, beeping sadly as he tries to purge all the dust clinging to his cooling fan: <:( Dogma: Well, at least you're brave enough to try to clean those areas. Buggy, chirping fondly at him: :D Caprichoso, walking into the barracks and spotting Dogma: Oh, hi Dogma! Who's your little buddy? Buggy: ??? Dogma: Oh, hello Caprichoso. This is Buggy. Caprichoso: Aww, he has a little chevron paintjob on him! That's neat! Dogma: Yeah... He wanted to distinguish himself from his peers. Caprichoso, sitting down next to Dogma: Who doesn't? Being carbon copies is honestly so boring... Even droids deserve to be more than just another unit among who knows how many... Dogma, noticing that Capri seems to be in a bit of a mood: ...Is everything alright? Caprichoso, looking to him in question: Hm? Oh uh, yeah... Just had... A bit of a falling out with a few guys is all. Nothing I can't handle really, just... Annoying. Dogma: Ah. I see. -returning his attention to cleaning the little mouse droid- Caprichoso: I'm just... Frustrated with the situation. I hate it when people just, ignore the facts and don't listen to me. Dogma: ... I've learned that if people refuse to listen you might as well just give up and fall into silence. Continuing to push will only start a fight or make others unwilling to be in your presence. Caprichoso: What? No way! If I got my two credits to give and am doing it to help, then they better damn well listen to me instead of karking off to get themselves into trouble! We clones have to stick to each other you know? Vode an and all that! Dogma: ... We're not Mandalorians. That doesn't apply to us at all. Caprichoso: We don't need to be Mandos to value our brotherhood! We learned that on Kamino! No brother left behind! Dogma: Yes. We learned that on Kamino. But we're not on Kamino anymore... What we learned there doesn't seem to apply anymore. Especially when you're... Caprichoso: ...Yes? Dogma, frowning before putting Buggy back on the ground: ...Nevermind. I'm going to wash up and go to bed. I have a shift at 0600... Buggy & Caprichoso, watching Dogma go before exchanging glances: Caprichoso: ...Boy it's not just those guys who can't see who's at fault for Umbara. Dogma's also blaming himself something fierce isn't he? Buggy, trilling sadly in confirmation: Caprichoso: Well... For what it's worth, I'm glad he at least has someone in his corner. You're a good friend little buddy! Buggy, beeping happily: :D

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Late Afternoon) - 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 in this segment, more explicit conversation about death and what comes after], 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: 5,342

Late Afternoon

Everyone will look a little sun-kissed by nightfall after spending all day basking in the light of Little Archossi's nearest star. It'll be easier to notice on some members of the crew with skin different than the deeper browns commonly found among the Clones. Hopefully people found and remembered to use sun protection this morning. (Or, the medics aboard the Triumphant have a lot of bacta gel in case people come back to the cruiser looking redder than the skies over Dathomir.) 

You’ve been doing your best to prevent getting sunburned, others don’t give a single kark in the galaxy. Much like this particular Clone who’s lazing in the grass, fingers interlocked and tucked around the back of his head, one leg propped up in the air on the opposite knee as he sways and bobs his foot in time with some song stuck in his head that’s popular on the Holonet these days. Maker alive, you can only hope he won’t get sunburn, given that he's a spacer. (You're pretty sure he is, anyhow, given the uniform of a naval officer.)

 "I wish we had more days like this… Don't you, Arcadia?"

Those who spend much of their time in space and under artificial lighting are loving this. Sun lamps can only do so much for keeping their overall mental well-being buoyed. For all the technological advancements in the galaxy, there are some few things there are still no shortcuts for. 

You certainly don't disagree, but you need to finish passing out the rest of this crate you volunteered to distribute to people on this side of the clearing. This trooper lazing about in the grass is slowing you down, so you playfully roll your eyes, and fix him with your best look to show him you're not afraid to mean business if he doesn't sit up soon. "Maybe when the war's over, soldier. C'mon, take your ration so I don't lose my momentum. Commander Wolffe wouldn't be happy to hear if anyone goes hungry today." 

No, he probably won't be, the trooper agrees with a kind chuckle. He sits up and takes the ration gratefully. "First thing I'll do is have a picnic, I think. When the war is over." The troopers and crew are - technically speaking - having a picnic right now, you point out with a bemused grin, handing off another individually wrapped ration bar to his neighbor. "I mean a proper one. With food, instead of rations! Something with flavor. Not colorless and loaded with bland preservatives." 

"Beige is a color." you retort. 

"Karkin' ugly one, sure." 

You fix him with a teasing grin this time. "Are you pulling a prank on me by pretending to be Orchid? I can actually tell the men apart from one another, you know." A careful balancing act of patience and practice, to be sure, but the time spent observing everyone pays off for moments like these grateful smiles. 

"You can? Then who's that over there, slinking out of the forest just a little off to the left?" 

Yes, you definitely can, you promise the Clone trooper who's decided to be cheeky with you. And- perfect! You've got just one ration pack left in the box, and he doesn't have one in his hands, as far as you can tell. "Everything okay, Comet? Have you gotten a lunch ration yet?" 

"Oh good, I would've hated to miss chow. Thank you, Arcadia. And yeah, everything's good; just well-hydrated." 

You toss him the last ration pack from right where you are and tuck the box against your side now that it's empty. "Better that than being dehydrated. Enjoy your lunch, Comet." 

"Where's your's?" He's sweet enough to worry and ask why you don't have any food for yourself, but it's unnecessary. 

"I'll get one from another crate, don't worry, Comet." you assure him with a warm smile. You'll probably see him soon enough when he joins the small assembly on the hill under the red and yellow leafed tree with Sinker, Boost and the Commander. You imagine you'll be joined by Plo Koon as well. 

But will you still get to address Wolffe like an equal in front of his sergeants when it’s no longer just the two of you? Or should you play it safe and return to addressing him as commander and sir rather than risk looking, acting, overly familiar?

"All finished, Arcadia?" 

"Passed off the last in the box to Comet." you explain, sitting across from Commander Wolffe rather than next to him. His brothers have taken up their places beside him, leaving you no room to join. And that's fine; you already sat side by side with Wolffe for hours. 

“Then that should be everyone. Here.” Rather than ask one of his brothers, Wolffe gives you one of the rations in the box settled behind him in the shade, sheltered from the sunlight. You take it gratefully from his hand. “Thank you, sir. Hopefully these aren’t too bad.” Always a bit of a gamble, ration bars… Some are pretty soft and crumbly while others are tough and chewy. The flavor is oftentimes fairly plain at best, or rather unpleasant if you’re unlucky in your choices of supplier. But a meal’s a meal. 

As you’re chewing your first bite of the ration bar thoughtfully, trying to imagine who in their right mind would willingly scarf these down were it not for a war, the Commander politely clears his throat to get your attention. 

“You’re still welcome to call me Wolffe, Arcadia.”

The slight warmth in your face has nothing to do with the sun above you; it's the six eyes trained on you and your every little move as you further shuck the wrapper encasing the foodstuffs. "Sorry, I… didn't want to assume it was still okay now that it's not just the two of us." you explain, nodding hello to Sinker and Boost in kind. (They return the gesture just as politely.) But if you're still invited to address him without his rank, or a respectful term, then you certainly will. It had just been better to play it safe. 

"I see…" His eyes narrow here, and for a heartbeat, you think he's almost sort of glaring you down, but you realize he's squinting and looking behind you. "What is the General doing…?" 

You turn and look.

Master Plo Koon is standing at the edge of the clearing, speaking with Comet, who's pointing deep into the trees. He's making animated hand gestures, and demonstrating the size and shape of something to the Jedi. Tall, and coming to a peak. And he's not having a lot of luck with properly conveying a few other things, as evident by the long, growing pauses and the Kel Dor softly shaking his head. Finally Comet gets a better idea, and is gesturing for the General to follow him. 

"Arcadia, could I use one of the pages in your sketchbook? There's something I'm trying to figure out how to explain to the General. There's something in the forest, I think."

That gets Wolffe's attention. 

You carefully tear one of the pages out by the perforated edge, and pluck one of the graphite pencils from your bag for him to borrow. The words something in the forest sounded a little urgent to you, and like the Jedi, you want to understand what's going on now. Like Wolffe, you want to determine if this thing is a threat. 

Comet thanks you, and begins to send the pencil shwoop!-ing against the page without a moment of hesitation. He's gotten a good look, some of the shapes looked pretty organic to him, from what he could make out. Boost chuckles, trying to lighten the growing tension when Wolffe gets to his feet, and stands beside his brother, observing. 

"Yeah, they're called trees, Comet; those are pretty damn organic." 

Comet shakes his head firmly, his full lips pursed together in concentration as he quickly tries to sketch down what he saw. "No, it looked different. Like a sort of… hut built around a tree. But it was really far away, so I couldn't see it clearly." When he came back from doing his business out in the woods, he meant to inform the Commander and General what he saw; but you had stopped by with food, a momentary distraction. 

What Comet thinks he saw was some kind of structure from the inhabitants of Little Archossi. "Perhaps I should investigate the structure and the surrounding area, to determine what it is that Comet saw... Commander Wolffe, remain here with the battalion, and be prepared for anything." Plo Koon offers, beginning to walk where he's been directed. 

Wolffe bristles at the idea of General Plo volunteering to investigate the structure alone. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, General." 

He is invited to stand down, asked to watch over his brothers and the crew once again. "Don't worry, Commander," the Kel Dor adds soothingly, laying a steady hand on the shoulder bell that bears the face of the wolf on the flint-gray armor, "I do not sense any threats or hear any warnings from the Force, for the time being."

"... very well, General." the man with the mark of a survivor agrees reluctantly. 

Survivors get scars for their efforts, Arcadia. Skin-deep, scrawled in the deepest recesses of their minds… it doesn't matter. A scar is a scar. But the victims… the dead… they are lucky if they get a crude headstone in this war. 

"I'll keep an eye on the men. Wait for your orders." Wolffe promises a little more firmly. And you, interrupting Boost and Sinker without intention, offer to help the Commander keep an eye on everyone this time. The look the three of you direct his way says, in a way impossible to mistake for anything else says you think you're doing this again, alone? 

Somehow, we'll pass the time together. 

According to the display in the upper right-hand corner of the datapad in your hand, the time is 14:30. You have another half-hour to go before it is 15:00, and have agreed with Sargeants Sinker and Boost that is when you should start to become concerned for the male Kel Dor's absence. 

Jedi Master Plo Koon left to investigate the structure out in the forests of Little Archossi at 12:30 sharp, and he has not yet returned. But he has touched the comlink at least once, to inform his commander of his findings. 

"The structure is a crude hut… One in desperate need of repair; time has not been kind to it in its occupant's absence. I sense it has been empty for a long, long time. I saw other, similar structures further still into the forest - I intend to investigate these as well. No trouble in the clearing still, I hope, Commander Wolffe?" 

"No sir. Everything is fine." Wolffe had promised him, likely grateful that the Jedi could not see the tightness of his jaw, and the disapproving shake of his head. He still didn't (and still doesn't) like the idea of his general being so far from the safety of the clearing without company. 'Someone should have gone with him' has been uttered more than once to the three who have volunteered to split the load of monitoring the company and the edge of the surrounding forest. 

"General, I-"

"Yes, Commander?"

Wolffe had shaken his head again, and changed his mind. "...I thought you would like to know Tack confirmed the blue flowers are in fact Dinocaeruleus anthos and has checked the credibility of the original findings. He and Arcadia believe it will still be best not to draw excessive attention to them." 

You and Tack both had been praised and thanked for your diligent assessment and skills as a researcher respectively before the Force-wielder said he expected to return to the clearing by 15:00 at the earliest. If anything delayed him, he would be making contact once more. 

The nearest star is no longer directly overhead, and the shadows are just beginning to lengthen and throw themselves further eastward. You distract yourself from your worries about the General's absence with something to read for a moment, something chosen at random. (You were "instructed" to take a break as part of some protocol (one you are partly suspect of being made up).) 

You're not paying much attention to the Aurebesh on the screen, quite honestly. 

You're more distracted by the Commander and his acts of quiet anxiety. Patrolling the circumference of the clearing once again, routinely stopping and watching in the direction of the dilapidated hut for any signs of the Jedi. Discreetly conferring with Sinker and Boost. And when they can convince him, he returns to either of the tallest grassy hills for a moment to stop and observe all of his men at once. 

The time is now 14:35. 

And your reading material is about as interesting as an instruction manual on how to polish and clean up a blaster without corroding the material or compromising its firepower. So you decide it's time to try something else from the reading material you have loaded up on the device. 

It's labeled as one of the free holo-novels of the month, courtesy of the five-credits-a-standard-month subscription service that was recommended to you, a best-seller. But there's no synopsis or pitch of any kind that advertises what you'll find inside and why you should read it. It boasts a generic title (The Rush of Hyperspace) and pretty innocent cover artwork of an astro-map. 

Curious, you select the best seller just as Orchid passes by behind you. The whispered words from over your shoulder chill the very blood in your veins.

"Psst, hey, Arcadia! You realize you're reading that in public, right?" 

"What do you-?" your eyes flit to the very first sentence now that the screen has loaded in, and oh galaxy and all her stars. The very first sentence talks about how much this protagonist - a soldier - misses his girl, and the steering column is not the only thing he's throttling at the mere thought of her… the words 'a loud, sinful groan filling the cockpit' are practically seared into your retina. 

Oh fuck, fuck, FUCK! 

You've never backed out of a story so fast, nor anxiously prayed that Orchid would keep his fucking trap shut. "I had no idea, I swear." 

"One of those stealthy ones?"

"I don't know, Orchid. And keep your karking voice down." you warn him, removing the free story from your suggestions so you can't make the same mistake twice or be recommended more of the same thing in the future. 

"Sorry. Was only trying to warn you that your screen was visible to everyone. What you do and don't read isn't my business, just like what I read isn't yours." Orchid replies with a casual, little shrug. "I ain't gonna tell anyone, Arcadia." he promises.

Your voice comes out in a low, threatening purr as you tell him you're going to keep him to his word. "They'll find you fertilizing the rest of the flowerbed if I find out you have, Orchid." 

While the threat doesn't have quite the intended effect, you're grateful that Orchid is taking you seriously, in his own way… "Hah, I suppose that'd make for a fitting end. Name myself after a flower, get turned into flower-food when I die..." He smiles, finding humor in the threat while promising again that he really won't tell anyone. 

"I hope I'll make really beautiful flowers when I die." 

It's a little strange, almost unnerving to you, that the possibility of dying doesn't seem to phase him. That he's making jokes about it, almost. You suddenly feel worried about him. "Orchid-"

You're stopped with a single, apologetic smile. "Sorry, sorry. I know that all sounds pretty morbid, Arcadia. But I've made my peace with it and I don't bar myself from joking about it either, really. Now, I don't want to die, of course, but I'm not really afraid to, either." 

You suppose that's fair, with some internal reasoning. "I guess that makes sense. Everyone has different thoughts about the inevitable end of a lifeform's conscious existence. What it means for them, to them. What happens to us after. Or, what we hope for, like…" you add with a nod to Orchid, "making beautiful flowers from… whatever's left." 

There's a partial, amused chuckle from Commander Wolffe, who's recently returned to the hill following another perimeter sweep, and has been listening to you and Orchid for the last few moments. The time is now 14:50, according to a fleeting glance at the top of your datapad. "More of your philosophical ponderings, Arcadia?" And care to explain why you threatened to bury one of his men in a flowerbed, while you're at it? 

(Thank the Maker he didn't hear what sort of novel Orchid had seen you open, at least. Something so raunchy it opened right into the act of self-pleasure and cultivation within the very first paragraphs.)

"Ah, y'know me, Commander," Orchid says dismissively, taking the heat off of you to explain away the situation, "just saying the usual banthashit that makes Soapsuds threaten to wash my mouth out. Arcadia got a little more creative than that, though!" 

Commander Wolffe sighs, looking both surprised and unsurprised. Yes he certainly does 'say the usual banthashit', but to turn it into a discussion about death and what comes after, that's an unusual thing to follow up with. (Usually it's more lectures about discipline and reading the room.)

"Well, Arcadia has a knack for that." 

Strange how only this morning, you and the commander were little more than perfect strangers, and by midday, you were calling the other by name in private. And now, here in the early afternoon, you had briefly shared lunch together, and still called each other by name, only now permitted - promised, even - to do so in the presence of others. 

"Oh yeah, I saw the art," Orchid replies with a strangely wolfish grin, "good stuff. Looked like worship."

The words "The fuck do you mean by that?" find themselves clawing out of your throat before you stop and consider the tone, the snappy weight of them. Trying to cover your self-perceived blunder, you're now laughing nervously, tugging a hand through your hair in a harsh movement. "Maker alive there's something really weird about this planet, everyone's saying all this sage shit and acting so damn… strangely today!" 

You've fooled Orchid. But you haven't fooled his commanding officer. Not entirely. 

"Oh I just meant-"

"I would agree, Arcadia…" Wolffe begins with a thoughtful look as he regards a chrono for the time - now squarely 14:55 - and chews over something on his mind before speaking with brevity, "Today has been anything but normal. Strange planet. Strange plants and animals…" Strange lack of communication from his General, you figure he must want to say. This is a little out of character for the Force-wielder to behave in some of the ways he has today; by and large delaying the 104th battalion for most of a full day that could otherwise be spent traveling just for a day in the sun. 

All for what? has been asked, secretly, over and over. By yourself. By the flint-gray Commander, of course. By Sinker and Boost, too. 

Why are we here on Little Archossi? Where is Plo Koon? 

And how will you keep a newly forged friendship of sorts from fizzling out after today? … Are you even friends? Have you misread your interactions of the day so far, believing there's something special? With you, for you? 

You're not special. 

You're just Arcadia.

Taking note of your silence, or perhaps a troubled expression, Orchid asks you what's wrong. "You look deep in thought. Something on your mind?"

"Just hoping General Plo returns or contacts us at 15:00 when he said we should likely hear from him." you offer after a shrug. It's true enough at least. Unless he's run into trouble, or has been delayed, there should be little reason that you would not see the Jedi as he concludes his search of the area beyond the decaying structure. 

"Same here," Orchid replies, nodding to his Commander in a more respectful manner than he would when talking to Suds, "you too, I reckon, sir?" The singular, short exhale is Orchid's answer. "Oh, right, stupid question; of course you are, Commander." he offers almost apologetically, face darkening with embarrassment. 

"I had to watch, helpless, inside that damaged escape pod, as my General and my brothers fought off those battle droids who were killing the survivors… Desperately trying to keep that distress beacon active, all because he had the hope someone would come for us." 

You had finished adding some of the deep blue to the fluffy black curls of his hair that served as the highlights while Wolffe recounted for you, in more detail than what had been supplied by Tack, the Battle of Abregado. 

And the way he was telling you, it seemed to suggest something to you. Something you could only guess at. 

"Well… given that you're sitting here next to me, telling me this story, obviously General Plo was right. Did you…?" The words "not fully believe that at the time?" hang in the air between you, unspoken. He'll know. Smart and capable man that he is, the seasoned leader of the 104th battalion will figure you out. 

"I wasn't sure." Wolffe admits with a grim expression, ripping up blades of grass by the fistful the longer he talks. "We were promised, pledged to, that we were not expendable to General Plo. Now perhaps General Skywalker and Commander Tano still would have come to scout the wreckage even if it wasn't for General Plo, because they seem to truly care for their men from the look of things… But we had no way of knowing at the time, for sure." 

A tender hand is laid on his crossed leg, just for a moment, a silent offer of comfort for him. 

He takes a deep breath before speaking in a hushed voice. "Given that I am sitting here, next to you as you said, Arcadia… ultimately, the General was right." 

"I'm glad he was." you whisper back, just louder than the slow, smooth sweep of the coloring pencils in your hand against the page.

Stirring up such emotions to the surface will take a toll on him the longer you draw out the conversation, so you were sure to move on to something else. Something innocuous, something ordinary. 

Does he ever play games to pass the time?

The chrono has barely ticked over to 15:00 when the Commander's comlink trills. A sound famous for being rather startling at times is for once one of the most wonderful sounds in all the galaxy: it promises that the Kel Dor is safe.

"There are more dwellings further from the decaying structure that Comet saw from the clearing. I believe I found one of the settlements, but I will be returning to the battalion instead of making contact."

"Why is that, General?" Commander Wolffe wonders, brow furrowed with confusion. 

"I believe the inhabitants of Little Archossi are nocturnal… and should I wake them simply trying to make contact, I'm afraid I would appear to them as a threat instead." the Jedi explains haltingly, voice sort of rumbling down the mic and audio sensors. You wonder, with how cautious his tone is, if he is near the settlement right now as he speaks. "I will be back shortly… and will explain in more detail."

"Understood, sir." Commander Wolffe dismisses himself from the communication, just short of breathing a sigh of relief. The General is safe and will return in a timely manner, then. He can allow himself to loosen his guard. 

Orchid is a little more crude in his relief as he thanks the Maker before excusing himself. Being soldiers, you rationalize that their language is going to be more colorful than most peoples', but Orchid… he's something else. 

"How the fuck do you even spell that?" you wonder to yourself with a shake of your head, "And where does he find all these words?" 

"It's best you don't ask." Wolffe cautions you. "Only inspires him to find more." The look he supplies you with suggests more than just speaking from experience. Don't encourage him. I don't need more headaches on the day we're meant to be relaxing, apparently.

"I'll be sure not to." you promise with a soft laugh and a teasing smile. "Best not to invite trouble in the General's absence." 

Best not to invite trouble, or give the impression of it, at every available opportunity. 

Wolffe, still as a sentinel beside you, greets the Kel Dor as he extracts himself from the forest and reenters the clearing. "Welcome back General." 

You imagine you're being regarded with a great deal of confusion, an unexpected sight beside the Clone Commander. "...Arcadia, is something the matter?" To be greeted by his men is one thing, a normal and familiar occurrence, but this time one of the crew is present. Has something happened in his absence? Given your talents in risk assessment, have you found anything that would be a cause for concern? 

"Just keeping him company," you explain, indicating Commander Wolffe beside you with a little gesture of your free hand, "while I sketch one of the Dinocaeruleus anthos flowers. For Tack." You felt you'd rested your wrist long enough when you made the offer to the researcher Clone, concerned for the device when he complained it was growing hot after hours without end in direct sunlight. 

Offering to draw this strange little flower with blue silky petals, as accurately as you could to the best of your abilities, once again made for a pleasant distraction for the one-oh-fourth's battle-hardened leader. (He'll actually stay put so long as you're working on something, it appears.)

"That's very kind of you, Arcadia." Plo compliments you deservedly. "Making Tack a botanical illustration to reference at a future opportunity… Most helpful." 

"Feeling rather spoiled." Tack chuckles agreeably. "An Arcadia artwork of my very own." 

Stifling a sigh for the time being, you instead laugh softly and opt for teasing him in return. "Consider yourself lucky that I was bored and wanted to kill some time while waiting for General Plo to return. Can't expect these every time, Tack." 

"Oh, I would never," Tack promises, "that'd be pretty karkin' entitled of me…" Swallowing his sudden nervousness, Tack recomposed himself after a beat. "It's good to see you've returned safely, General Plo." 

The Kel Dor before the three of you dips his head in a gesture of polite agreement, mirroring the relief felt by the collective trio with gratitude of his own from the way his shoulders slacken ever so gently, and the time he takes to answer. "Thank you, Commander Wolffe and young Tack, both. I am relieved that no trouble found you all while I was away, and that I was able to return safely as well."

You don't need the use of the Force to sense the budding concern within the men to your left and right. "Oh? Did you run into trouble, General?" you ask, verbalizing the wonder shared by all. 

With a simple shake, whatever fears swelling within you are abated, for the moment. "Not the sort you assume, no. There was something nearly troubling about the settlement when I came upon it; the stillness was unexpected. I presumed the inhabitants would be going about their lives up to my approach, expecting them to flee or fight if I made myself known, should I have made contact… But there was nothing. The entire place was still, deep in slumber."

And waking them up would have been unwise, Wolffe paraphrases the relayed message sent in earlier, connecting all pieces of the explanation. "Came back to avoid giving the impression of a threat in the event they found you." 

General Plo nods before further adding he also sensed a strange presence in the Force in the settlement; he wants to wait closer to nightfall to potentially return, rather than leave. "I understand you must have your concerns, all of you… Especially yours, young Tack. But there was something strange… a flutter in the Force in that settlement that I cannot ignore." 

His mere acknowledgement of the concern is a slight comfort for the moment. But why had Tack in particular been singled out? He had reacted the least between Commander Wolffe and yourself to the addressal of strange presences and the notion to remain on Little Archossi as night fell, rather than leave before the full setting of the sun as was originally planned. 

The tight squeeze of the Commander's jaw had you concerned for the eventual ache to come following such an action; not to mention the sort of subconscious, nonverbal signals commonly associated with it were not entirely positive. Subtle insights to Wolffe's way of thinking. 

The General wants to stay here past dark, now? A flutter in the Force could be anything, mean anything, or worse yet, nothing. Is the Force known for playing tricks on those it bestows its blessings, could this be a test? (But why would the General be tested here, now, on this likely uncharted planet untouched by war?)

Tack had given no such signs on the other hand, apart from now with the stammer in his voice. "G-General, I'm not certain what you mean…?" 

Later, Plo Koon promises, he'll likely take the time to explain how he sensed the worries Tack has about this situation; for now, it appears he's getting a feel for the opinions of his commanding officer, Wolffe, and a member of the crew with training in risk analysis, you, first. "Are there any reasons you believe we need to consider that sway in favor of leaving before nightfall?" 

Someone, between the two of you, gives a long-suffering sigh first. 

"The safety of the Clones, and crew, sir." Short, to-the-point, and continual in his concern for his brothers, Commander Wolffe makes a rather obvious and deliberate point to communicate his reasoning. 

And you did not miss the way his eyes, the brilliant silver and the rich vandyke, had raked you from head to toe as 'and crew' parted his lips. It wasn't a simple glance, or meeting your eye, but he eyed you up and down. (Why? Why had he done that?)

Since Wolffe has expressed concern for Master Plo's forces so succinctly, you opt to voice your concerns stirred up by the Kel Dor's observations he's reported back with. 

"I'm not wild about the idea of looking like a threat to the people living on Little Archossi… There are so many of us. We had no real way of making contact before taking the gunships here this morning, and… I hate to make assumptions, but I have concerns we could vastly outnumber the inhabitants of the settlement and not know it. If I were them… I think I would be concerned about so many people suddenly showing up on my planet by the time I've woken up." 

Two sides of the same credit, you and Commander Wolffe. In the end, the concern of overall safety, and the concern of appearing safe have been taken into account. 

If he explains his findings to everyone else in the clearing, Plo Koon thinks inviting everyone to decide for themselves is the best option. It is officially the start of the late afternoon here on Little Archossi, and there is still time to plan for an encounter.

Those who wish to return to the Triumphant will leave before the sun begins to set. 

With the will of the Force, and a healthy dosage of luck, any potential large-scale interaction between the soldiers of the Republic and the people on this forested planet will go off without a hitch.

Don't have a fic taglist form for the time being. For now, though, if you'd like to join a taglist for specific types of fics (for example: just TBB-centric or just TCW-centric (or both)) don't hesitate to ask. 🩷

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

[Golden Dawn part 2]

[etoiline]

this aching lonely place

(read with tags and characters on AO3 instead)

Maybe it’s the thunder, sounding like it’s crashing right over their heads, that makes the hand of whoever’s on the cutter slip, tilting the wing of the craft Cal and the rest of the crew are working on, so everyone’s balance is shot.

Maybe it’s the lightning that grounds itself into the now-disconnected cutter laser, burning out its power couple and causing the explosion that sends the whole crew flying, Cal included.

Maybe it’s the ozone that stings his nose when he finally inhales after his inelegant imitation of flying knocked the breath out of him, his entire chest protesting the motions of breathing.

Maybe it’s the metal that floods his mouth from his bitten tongue, worse than when the Guild tattooist had mistaken Cal’s fear of an echo from the well-used and poorly-cared-for tattoo gun for an frightened unwillingness to take the Scrapper Guild tracker and shoved a pewter bar, allover teethmarked already, into his mouth to take the screams as the tracker darkened his skin.

Maybe it’s the feeling of corrugated metal under his cheek, cold and wet and sharp, the imprints of thousands of footprints beating against his skull, none of them enough on their own to be called an echo, but together forming a chorus—that convinces Cal that he is in some pretty serious trouble.

And he’s alone. The Force is jagged here, and it slips through his grasping fingers, no living points of light nearby for him to use as an anchor, even if his connection wasn’t broken. He thinks he hears his name, shouted from above, but it’s distorted, far away, bouncing off walls and pools of water.

He’s alone.

Cal pushes himself up, leaning at a crazed angle on the wet wall behind him. He cradles his ribs with his arms and leans his pounding head against the plastoid cladding. Through bleary eyes he looks up, trying to find a path back...up, somewhere. There's no obvious egress, no handy pile of rubble leading back to where he'd been. The foreman had Cal working on the edge of the wing, and when it fell, he’d caught a few floors’ worth of metal with his chest, and the whole wing had fallen with him in it. He’s honestly sort of surprised he survived—if he’d been anywhere else he could still be falling, windmilling his way to the Ibdis Maw. He tries to tell his ribs to be grateful, but they don’t believe him.

He’s in a hallway of the scrapped Venator, crew quarters, he thinks. Pressing a hand against the wall, he stumbles forward until he can hang onto the edge of a door, peering inside. The layout of the Albedo Brave plasters itself on Cal’s eyelids. All the ships are designed the same way, so transferring from one to the other is easy, even if the ship is broken, like this one. He takes a moment to get his bearings, then nods. Definitely crew quarters: the tattered remains of blankets and mattresses lie tossed about, and the body of a clone trooper—

Before he can faint at the sight of that too-familiar armor, before he loses himself in the grief of his clone brothers turning on him, before he sinks into the memories of high-fiving Commander Cryo hard enough that the commander jokes his charge will take the yellow paint right off his pauldron—Cal blows out a breath, really looks at the armor and realizes it’s just the plastoid itself and doesn’t actually contain a body (which is good, because the position that it's in...doesn't really seem anatomically possible). He’s still alone here. No one left on this ship but ghosts.

Kark but it’s cold down here. His poncho is soaked through—he really should have spent the credits on a new waterproofing job—and one knee of his scrapper pants sprung a hole on the way down, so he stumbles into the room and sorts through the scraps, hoping to find one dry enough to use as a little cover. With one hand clamped around his ribs, it’s slow going, but finally Cal finds a not-too-fragmented piece he can swirl around his shoulders. It smells of must but doesn’t fall apart when he tugs it close over his chest, which is about all Cal feels like he can ask right now. It’s even mostly free of echoes, just soft things he can brush away like cobwebs, or dreams.

The synthweave does its job, reflecting his body heat back at him, and if Cal lets out a quiet sob—that echoes in the empty, broken space—there’s no one here to tell him not to.

He shuffles out of the room, trailing a gloved hand along the off-true wall, letting the echoes of clone troopers brush past his gloves. He has the unsettling idea that if he let himself fall into an echo here he might never come out of it, might be stuck on this broken wing, living someone else’s memory, until he starved.

So he doesn’t listen to the echoes, instead moving toward the end of the crew quarters, where he knows there will be a lift—which won’t be working, of course, but where there’s a lift, there are stairs, and stairs will get him out of here. Even if he has to climb all 70 levels, he’ll get out of here, and away from all these echoes and memories.

Cal finally finds the lift, its door helplessly fallen at an angle, counts over seven panels, and bangs on the one he ought to find the stair access behind—it’s blessedly hollow-sounding, and he finds the tab to pull to reveal the stair access. The panel doesn’t want to bend—or bend again, given its current state—but Cal manages to remove it, though it leaves him winded and panting against his bruised ribs. The sign inside informs Cal he’s on floor 57 of the Chalcene Thunder, which makes him sigh at the upcoming effort, but also that he’s not on a ship he knew. If he does come across any bodies they won’t be friends, or clones who used to be friends…

There’s hardly any light in the stairwell, only what comes through cracked plastoid and bent metal as lightning flashes outside, and his saber is tucked away in its hideyhole in his tiny apartment, so Cal climbs by feel, only pausing when his bruised ribs protest enough that he can’t catch his breath. When he reaches a tiny landing, he all but collapses against the wall, staying mostly upright because he knows that if he falls over, he’s going to pass out from the pain. Just a few breaths, then move on, he tells himself, pushing off the wall. No one is going to find him in here, so he has to keep moving. He takes a step in the darkness, only to trip over something soft, and Cal sprawls to the floor, his hands flying out to catch himself, tangling in the fabric of whatever tripped him—

“Run, Deonis! Get to the stairs, it’s the only way out—”

He stares at his Master, their lightsaber flashing, deflecting one blaster bolt, another, but it’s not enough, and one burns into the floor near his feet, setting Deonis jumping. He turns halfway, but doesn’t want to leave his Master, so he draws his saber, moving into the guard they’ve been practicing, but it’s not the right stance for this, because he misses the next bolt and it drills into the shoulder of his dominant arm and it burns, and he coughs, and his Master turns at his agonized sound, and there’s a violent orange hole through their belly and they fall—

“Go,” they whisper, and Deonis is flung through the air with his Master’s Force, fetching up against the emergency exit and there are troopers simply marching over his Master’s body, coming for him, and he scrambles for the latch and pulls at it, makes it through—

but there’s a new burn in his stomach and he stares down at the perfectly neat circle in his robes, brown at the edges, the smell of burnt fabric strong in his nose, and he goes to his knees because he’s so confused, that the troopers shouldn’t be trying to kill them and his robes shouldn’t look like that, and there’s a blaster’s whine near his head—

Cal inhales with a whoop as the echo dissipates, breathing through Deonis’ pain, trying to convince his brain that he wasn’t dead like the poor Padawan at his feet. This death could have been his, if Master Tapal hadn’t saved him, if they hadn’t trained to escape a Venator, if he hadn’t flung his measly Force at the troopers who’d just that morning been joking about the severe lack of educated conversation on the ship as he tried to join them. Cal carefully opens his senses in search of Deonis’ lightsaber, but no kyber sings nearby—either it’s fallen too far or been crushed or Cal’s jagged connection to the Force can’t listen for it anymore. The Padawan died alone and scared, so Cal keeps his hand on the decaying fabric and desiccated tissue underneath for a moment longer, breathing out a blessing in the Force for his fellow Jedi, hoping he found peace in that which binds all things.

It could have been him, here, but somehow it wasn’t. And if Cal wants to get out of this lonely aching place, he’s going to have to keep climbing, until someone can hear him, until he’s not alone, aside from the echoes.

So he climbs, one hand on the rusting railing, one hand supporting his ribs, slipping on the odd angles of the treads, until the stairs abruptly end, the wall crumpled and torn where it had ripped away from the main body of the ship. He can see waving lights above him, bobbing as folks walk the treacherous line between the sheared-off wing and the void. If he shouts, will they hear him?

He tries, though at first nothing comes out of his dry throat. How long has it been since he fell? It’s dark, but it’s always dark on Bracca in storms like this. At least the rain has let up a little, and Cal tilts his face to the sky, letting a little of the metallic droplets wet his tongue. A few drops won’t kill him, not today. Swallowing, he tries again, and this time his voice works, and one of the dancing lights turns his way.

Faintly he hears his name, in an achingly familiar tone. “Prauf!” he shouts back, waving his free arm and wincing when the stretch hits his ribs. He thinks he hears something about rope and wait and he does just that, startling at the wet slap of rope as it slithers down the stairs. Someone has already tied a loop for him to step into, and Cal gathers up some of the slack and tugs hard until he feels resistance, and the rope goes taut above him as someone pulls the rope up and up and up.

Cal looks down at the broken wing as he’s lifted into the air, fingers white against the rope. The twisted metal is a tomb, and Cal wonders if anyone else is ever going to find Deonis’ body, or if the Maw will simply devour it as a matter of course. Cal will never be able to go back there, not alone, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone why he would want to go back to it without exposing himself.

He looks above him, just able to see Prauf’s face, creased with effort and worry as the Abednedo hauls away at the rope, and tries to find comfort in knowing he won’t die alone, at least not today.

Prauf reaches down to pull at Cal’s scrapper harness when he’s close enough to the edge, and Cal finds himself suddenly on mostly level ground, engulfed in Prauf’s embrace, the rest of Cal’s squad slapping Prauf on the shoulders and laughing the slightly unhinged laughter of those who have cheated death for another day.

“Glad you’re back with us, Cal,” Prauf says. “Thought we’d lost you there for a minute.” He hugs Cal tight, smelling of metal and wet and familiar and alive.

Cal thinks of Deonis and squeezes Prauf back, ignoring his ribs. He’s not alone anymore.

[the-starry-seas]

decided to take a brief break from Fox angst to give him some fluff

It's only years of expertise that keep him from sighing when someone knocks on his office door past midnight.

His back straightens, his shoulders go back, his chin lifts, his frown smooths into something more neutral that the natborns will find acceptable. His exhaustion is gone. Only the commander remains.

"Come in," he says.

All his walls fade away when he sees Stone.

"I couldn't sleep," Stone says. "Figured you'd be up."

"Is this the part where you try to make me go to sleep?"

Stone shakes his head, closing the door behind him and slumping against it.

"Just didn't want to be alone."

Fox can understand that. He nods, and Stone peels away from the door to shuffle across to him. His palms spread on the desk as he leans forward, his forehead touching Fox's.

His breath comes out in a sigh that's warm against Fox's face. Fox reaches up, brushing his thumb over the tattoo on Stone's temple, his fingers tucking a few stray curls back into place.

"My work's on a datapad anyway," he says, and waits.

It's a long few minutes before Stone leans away.

Fox gets up, putting everything back in the drawer of his desk that doesn't squeak, and tucking his chair against the desk legs. There's not much room in his office to leave things laying about at random. But there is room for an old couch, dragged up off the street by a few enterprising shinies. He still has no idea how they got it up the stairs, but he suspects it's related to the CATCH THE KARKING THING BEFORE IT'S ALL THE WAY BACK DOWN that he heard screamed to high heavens a few weeks ago.

He stretches across the cushions, one foot planted on the floor so he doesn't risk sliding off. It's a little lumpy, and there's some rubs through the fabric to the stuffing beneath, but when he's as tired as this, it's as comfortable as his bunk.

Stone has to be careful joining him, with the storage bins mounted on the wall not too high above it. Makes it cave-like. Makes it feel safe. Fox won't ever have the luxury of hiding, but he can take a few hours to actually rest. It's that or get half the medic corps after him again.

Fortunately, Stone is also careful with his elbows and knees, as he settles on top of Fox. He lays to the side a little, so Fox isn't crushed, but it's not nearly enough for Fox to be able to wiggle away without Stone noticing.

He assumes that that's on purpose, but doesn't say anything. Instead he wraps his arms around his brother's waist, noting the even move of his back as he breathes. At least it's not the anxiety that so often plagues them. Stone has always taken those episodes... poorly.

But right now, there's nothing to bother either of them. It will be at least an hour before Stone's breathing signals that he's asleep. And that's a lot of time to lose, for work. Work that Fox needs to finish by daylight, if he's going to stay on schedule the rest of the day.

He knows better.

He does.

And still, he tucks his face into Stone's hair and closes his eyes, a hand sliding up and down Stone's back in the way that's comforted him since they were cadets. Fox has never said it, but it comforts him, too, to have a brother so close. To have another commander with him, who already knows everything he would consider hiding.

He doesn't have to be anything or anyone here, except himself. Every so often, he wonders if he's forgotten who that is. But with Stone or Thorn or Thire, in these rare moments of quiet and peace, it all seems to come back to him so quickly. It all seems like it-

Well, he's never believed that they'll end up okay. But he can believe that, for a little while, it won't hurt. That nobody will knock on the door, that none of the shinies will have emergencies, that none of the officers will need guidance.

That they can sleep.

By the time Stone dozes off, Fox has been snoring gently for twenty minutes.

[tennessoui]

For the prompts:

“I believe in you”, but if possible said in a funny/teasing way ? Like when someone doesn’t want to do something that they’re perfectly capable of doing and they kinda drag themself to do it so you’re like “you can do it, I believe in you lol”. Does that make sense ? I’m not sure it makes sense.

hello!

so this is a teasing "i believe in you" but it definitely isn't. like. as light-hearted as maybe was desired. this is set in the cheating au (list of the ficlets in the beginning notes of this ao3 chapter) where obi-wan and anakin are married to other people, satine and padmé respectively, but they cheat on their spouses to be together. satine knows and is fine with it, so long as obi-wan doesn't divorce her. padme doesn't know.

padmé wouldn't be fine with it if she did know....especially because this affair has lasted years, her husband is cheating on her with her senate mentor and friend, and said mentor keeps trying to edge her out of her own family and co-parent her twins which is going honestly pretty successfully at times

(2.1k)

It is a rare sweltering day on Coruscant. The systems meant to create cool air to filter through the entirety of the city-planet malfunctioned late last night. A Senate investigation will be opened into the incident to determine if someone should be held in contempt on sabotage or if this had been a natural break of a system used near daily and updated perhaps once a decade.

It’s not really any of Anakin’s business. Padmé will tell him about it if she finds herself on the committee. Obi-Wan will tell him about it if he requests the information far enough in advance that Obi-Wan has time to bully the latest from any number of Senate staffers.

Anakin doesn’t particularly care about the workings of the Senate. It frustrates his wife sometimes, he knows.

It thrills his lover, he knows this as well.

With Padmé, he must nod and look concerned about the idea of some malicious sabotage on their air cooling system. He must ruminate aloud rather or not this qualifies as an attack upon democracy as he fixes their morning caf the way they both like: hers, with two splashes of cream and a cube of sugar. His, with three sugars and no cream.

He must care about the answer as he helps her feed the twins. Luke is going through a stage where he will not willingly eat any food. Leia is going through a stage where she will only eat Luke’s food, which Luke does not like at all.

He must ask his wife questions about the Senate, about the possible committee, about how long it may take to bring the saboteur to justice, and what that justice looks like.

He must not under any circumstance throw the plastic spoon heaped with mushed zana fruit onto the table and ask her why this isn’t enough for her. Their family, Luke’s diet, Leia’s reluctance to wear her bib and the fact that she keeps ruining the hundred credit blouses Padmé’s parents keep sending them. He must not demand to know why he should care about democracy and Senatorial committees and malicious intent when his babies are right there in front of him, tiny fingers reaching out to grasp his thumb.

He knows Padmé loves their children with her entire heart, of course. He believes that. Understands it to be true.

But his wife’s heart is larger than his own. She has room in it to love her lofty ideals, her planet’s people, the seats she holds on her Senate committees. She loves all of this and her family, her twins and her husband.

Anakin’s heart is small in comparison, narrow and focused completely on the few things he loves. That is enough for him.

When Padmé steps out of the room to begin her long process of donning her Senatorial outfit, one of those few things calls his comm.

It is not the first time he wonders if Senator Kenobi has monitoring equipment set up in his home. No man’s luck is that good so as to only call his paramour when the paramour’s wife is not around.

“Do not talk to me about the karking central cooling systems, I swear on the Force, Obi-Wan,” Anakin mutters into his comm link as he wriggles his spoon of zana fruit in front of his face in the hopes of awakening latent predator instincts. “I’ll hang up, I’m not joking.”

“Darling, as much as I enjoy your dirty mouth, you should be careful in front of the children,” Obi-Wan replies lightly.

“Okay,” Anakin puts down his spoon, and Luke coos in victory. “Do you actually have my house bugged?”

“Don’t be silly,” Obi-Wan says airily, which isn’t actually an answer. “It is early enough in the morning that you don’t need to get ready to go to work and the twins’ care providers have not yet arrived. Of course you are around them.”

Leia lets out a bubbling laugh of agreement that seems to startle her. She glares at him as if it’s his fault.

Anakin glares back because he doesn’t know how to feel about Obi-Wan’s words, the truth behind them: that he does not need to spy on him. He just…knows him.

Knows his life intimately well, even when he is not physically present with him.

It makes Anakin’s heart race, his chest tighten the way it always does when he is confronted with the truth of how far he has allowed this affair to invade his life, how much of himself Obi-Wan Kenobi possesses, how much he knows.

“What do you want?” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face and quieting his voice. The twins are barely two years old, they can understand him, but it isn’t him he’s afraid of eavesdropping. His wife is somewhere in the other room. She may have—questions, if she walked in on a commm conversation with her mentor and her husband, people she believes are loose acquaintances at best.

“What are your plans for the day?” Obi-Wan asks. “To beat this unrelenting heat."

“It’s not that hot,” Anakin says. “You’re just used to cool, human controlled air temperatures.”

“Darling, not everyone grew up in a desert,” his lover says, but he’s smiling, Anakin can tell. “For us unlucky folk, it is quite sweltering outside. If I were you, I’d be worried about the paintings in your art gallery.”

“What, do you think the paint will melt off?” Anakin asks, and now he’s smiling as well. Luke grins back at him. 

Obi-Wan hums agreeably. “It is so very hot that I think there’s a good chance that your metal sculptures will melt if they’re left out in the sun,” and he sounds so very certain that Anakin feels a familiar pang of painful love followed by a swell of hatred: it isn’t fair that Obi-Wan Kenobi is so attractive and ridiculous, that he knows how to make Anakin smile, how to make him blush.

It isn’t fair that Obi-Wan has made it so very easy to fall in love with him, despite all the reasons Anakin knows he shouldn’t have ever even considered it.

“Actually, I thought perhaps we could venture to the Valiuem Community Pools for the day,” Obi-Wan proposes lightly. “Take the children, perhaps pack a lunch.”

Anakin’s eyebrows furrow. “Don’t you have to work?” He looks down the long hallway Padmé disappeared through. “Pads is getting ready to go in right now.”

“Nonsense,” Obi-Wan says. His tone is more cutting. It always gets like this when Anakin accidentally reminds him of the affection that exists between himself and his wife. Existed. Had once existed. “It’s much too hot for assembly today, I have it on good authority they will give us recess until the air systems are fixed. Anything else would probably spark galactic war.”

“The twins don’t know how to swim,” Anakin points out, and Obi-Wan laughs brightly. He must know he is winning, that Anakin is picturing the feeling of the cool water on his overheated skin, the warm, solid presence of Obi-Wan beside him, a twin in each lap so they have an excuse for their closeness should anyone be looking.

“Yes, I suppose teaching them how to swim was part of my nefarious plot,” Obi-Wan agrees.

“Just a part?”

“Well, the other part was, of course, to see you scantily clad and dripping with water.”

Anakin gets up from the table so fast he hits his knee hard against its underside. “Fuck,” he hisses into the comm. He goes to stand in front of the large windows overlooking Coruscant so he won’t be looking at his babies while his mind is playing a reel of explicit images.

“It will be fun,” Obi-Wan coaxes, laughter still in his voice. “Korkie will be out of school, it’s been so long since he went for a swim.”

And it’s been a few weeks since Anakin saw Korkie too. He hums before an awful thought occurs to him. “What about her?” he asks.

“Yours or mine?” Obi-Wan shoots back and Anakin glares out the window. 

“Yours,” he grits out.

“Satine can be convinced to come along or stay away. What would your preference be, darling?”

Anakin opens his mouth to say that Obi-Wan knows his preference, but before he can say anything at all, Padmé’s voice cuts him off at the knees. “Anakin?” she asks, “Who are you talking to?”

He turns to face her. “Just Obi-Wan, angel. We were discussing the weather.”

“Were we?” Obi-Wan asks. There’s something dangerous in his tone. “I don’t recall much of that.”

“Oh, put him on speaker,” Padmé instructs, bending down to pick up the abandoned spoon still loaded with mushed zana fruit and holding it out to Luke plaintively. “I want to get his thoughts on the sub-committee for the—”

“He’s not interested,” Anakin says even as he flicks the comm to speaker and sets it on the table. “Luke,” he clarifies when Padmé makes an offended noise. “I’m sure Obi-Wan would love to discuss Senate committees with you.”

“What is Luke not interested in?” Obi-Wan asks keenly, voice back to his normal, slightly higher register as he must realize that he is in fact on speaker. “Not politics, I should hope, though he may have too much of your husband in him, dear.”

Padmé laughs and offers the spoon to Anakin. “I think it’s a bit soon to tell who they take after more, Obi-Wan. We’ll have to give it a few years yet.”

“If he survives this damn hunger strike,” Anakin adds, and Luke yells his agreement.

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says. “Is this recent?”

“Just for the last month or so,” Padmé says, rolling her eyes at Anakin, smile pulling at her painted lips. She looks beautiful. She looks at him like she’s in love with him. Anakin hates it.

“He ate the other day,” Obi-Wan says, and he sounds confused, as if Luke’s reluctance to eat food has baffled him. “I fed him that whole container of mushed blueberries.”

Anakin stills as he watches the smile slip off of Padmé’s face. “I didn’t realize you’d seen the twins recently,” she says carefully.

“Oh, I suppose I really haven’t, not in a substantial way,” Obi-Wan replies. Anakin can hear the shrug in his voice. He can also hear the forced brevity of the words. But why is Obi-Wan talking about this? What is his goal? Why would he— “Oh, it must have been a week ago, right, Anakin? Our walks in the park near the Senate building coincided. It became a sort of picnic when Leia decided she would simply perish if your husband did not feed her her specific favorite brand of bland mush—”

“It’s baby food, Obi-Wan,” Anakin gripes, “it’s supposed to be bland—”

“And while he ran to the store to buy it, I sat with the twins. Luke loved the blueberry mix.”

And after the twins were fed and asleep, Obi-Wan had coaxed Anakin into his office at the Stewjoni Cultural Affairs museum for an afternoon delight of their own. 

For obvious reasons, the story ends before the truth leaks out. 

“Well, we don’t have blueberry mush,” Padmé snaps, her previous good humor nowhere to be found. “We have zana fruit and baju melon.”

“He should like the zana fruit,” Obi-Wan says, as if he is not treading on very thin ice. “Have you tried making pod-racing noises?”

“What.” Anakin says.

“He has much of you in him, Anakin,” Obi-Wan laughs, voice warming. “Wriggle the spoon and make pod-racing sounds as you fly it into his mouth. He loves it.”

Anakin takes the spoon from Padmé’s hand. “I think you just want to make me look foolish in front of my wife,” he mutters.

Obi-Wan ignores this, which isn’t really a surprise. It is also, possibly the kindest thing he could do, seeing as the truth of the matter is that Padmé, sitting next to him and listening to Obi-Wan recount a date, listening to her husband chat with his secret lover, is already the fool without even knowing it. If he thinks about it too hard, the guilt will kill him.

“Come on, Ani,” Obi-Wan coaxes, his tone somewhere between playful teasing and dark promise. This is not about feeding Luke anymore.

It is about Obi-Wan proving that he is a good parent to Anakin’s child, right in front of the child’s mother, who is looking at him with a confused and vaguely offended expression.

“I believe in you,” Obi-Wan says down the line, teasing and gentle and evil and the thing Anakin’s narrow and terrible heart loves most in the entire galaxy.

Anakin sighs and lifts the spoon up so it’s in Luke’s line of sight. The boy looks up at him skeptically.

“Vroom,” Anakin says, wriggling the spoon. “Vroom, krccck, pudda-pudda whoosh vroom.”

Luke laughs delightedly, claps his hands, and allows the food into his mouth with a happy shriek.

“Good boy,” Obi-Wan says cheerfully. Anakin doesn’t know if he’s talking to him or his son, but he hangs up the comm before the older man can clarify.

[unus-nauta-2407]

ohohoho *rubs hands together* this is gonna be good

"You cannot save me."

“That was unfair of you.” “All is fair in love and war, brother.” “Well, which one is it this time?” “I’ll let you decide.”

"Don't fall asleep again."

“Who the kark do you think I’m doing all this for?!”

“Kriff,” he hisses, “Kriff.”

"Wolffe, get your shebs here this instant."

For an onslaught of reasons, his heart screams within him.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know, clone.”

At last, he finds peace.

“I will not stand by and watch our brothers fall this way.”

“Just try and kriffing finish that sentence. You’ll lose that entire jaw for good.”

“You can take off your helmet, you know.”

“Do you really think leaving is going to solve anything?”

eesh all angsty

anyways, have fun and you're always welcome to mix and mash 'em up or tear 'em apartor whatever <3

Did you know. That I spent literally all day writing this

I think this wins the award for the longest and most involved fic I've ever written. Also probably the darkest. Also probably the most graphic (I mean it's not bad but like. I mostly write character studies you know? This is one of my first fics with an actual, uh. Plot)

The other deal is that this is HFSW but I didn't have it in me to do everything I just mentioned and also write it in the more archaic style that I write most of HFSW in, but since you're probably the only person who's gonna end up reading this (besides maybe Evie. oh and also @majorproblems77 cause Major I know you wanted to know what I was doing) I don't think it matters for now, and if I ever do publish this as an actual work I'll go in and edit it when I have more spoons

Happy New Year!

His back aches. So much.

He... doesn't remember much of the past few hours. Everything was hot and loud and painful and... red? But that's as much as he can gather. The only reason he's awake at all is because someone's calloused hands were trying to be gentle while massaging something creamy and cool into whatever's making his back scream.

"Nngh." (His voice is slow and slurred from sleep and the fact that he can barely raise his head from its pillow.)

"Oh, kriff. Sorry, vod, did I wake you?"

He doesn't open his eyes, but judging from the gravel and melancholy folded into the syllables, the voice and hands belong to his Captain. 

"'S fine. Hurts. Where'm I?"

Rex is too quiet for two seconds too long.

"Cap'n. W'happened. Wha'sup with m'back."

"Do you not... remember?"

"Not really. 'Sa blur. Red? Hot. Loud." He pauses, considers. Furrows his brow confusedly. "M'arms hurt too? 'S bruising? Where's Kix?"

"...Kix was... forbidden from coming to see you."

This only confuses him further. "Why'd'ja do that?"

"...Fives, it wasn't me."

"But'chure th' Cap'n. Who--"

The memory that floods his senses with the force of a tsunami is enough to make him gasp. His eyes slam open and, almost of its own accord, his body launches itself off the cot and to its feet, which promptly reopens several of the scabs on his back, which in turn release a gush of blood and rip a scream from his throat as his legs turn to jelly and give out beneath him. Rex catches him before he can hit the floor and eases him back onto the medical deck cot where he was laying.

Everything is crystal clear, suddenly. 

"There's a rumor on this ship that someone, somewhere, is planning a mutiny. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Legionary?"

"No, Sir." He's careful to enunciate the sir with all the thinly-veiled disdain his voice can carry. "Can't say that I do."

Krell's eyes narrow, and he bends down to come face-to-face with his least-favorite soldier. "Is that so? Because my sources also claim that 'someone' may be you."

Fives tosses an eyebrow in a half-shrug. "Oh, I'm flattered, really. But, y'know, people talk. The boys get bored. Especially on long campaigns under questionable leadership.”

The force of Krell’s slap is enough to knock him dizzy to the floor. It was stupid of him to say, he knows. Rex, or maybe Kix, gives a cry of concern.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know, Clone,” Krell growls, “and you’ll speak to me with all the respect I deserve.”

His smart mouth’s gonna get him killed one day. But he can’t resist one more shot as he stumbles to his feet and wipes the shock-tears from his eyes.

“Oh, but Sir, I am. It’s not my fault that’s none.”

He thinks Krell might just execute him then and there, and honestly? He’d die with no regrets. Krell, too, looks for a moment as though that wouldn’t be such a bad plan, but then he straightens, smoothes his snarling visage, and announces, in a clipped tone:

"Your pride is getting tiring, Trooper. Thirty lashes.'

The scowl drops from Five’s face, and he pales.

Death he could handle. He faces it every day.

But not even the Kaminoans ever turned the lash on him.

"Sir, you can't-- you can't be serious."

"As death."

"But thirty lashes, that's-- it's sadistic!"

"Forty, then. You really do need to learn to curb your backtalk."

"Wait, please, Sir, General," Rex pipes up. His hands shake. "You don't-- don't do this. Please, he'll apologize, he--"

"--Needs to understand he must respect his superiors. As do you, apparently. I am acting General of the Five Hundred First Legion, I will discipline my soldiers as I see fit, and I will take no interference from defective-" and here he gestures with a sneer to Rex's close-cropped blond curls- "little Clones, no matter what rank they may possess. Perhaps you too would benefit from a few kisses of the whip, Seventy-Five Sixty-Seven."

Shock turns to fury, and thrusting an arm out almost protectively, Fives practically throws himself between his Captain and the usurper-general. 

"Don't you dare talk to the Captain like that ever again," he spits. He doesn’t care that Rex chokes out a Fives--, he doesn’t care if this earns him a hundred more lashes. That’s his bu- his Captain.

“Ah, but I’m only following your example!” Krell smiles with all the fake cheer he’s capable of. “Though, I must say, even if it is a double standard, your loyalty to your Captain is truly admirable. So, as a reward, I’ll bump the number from forty to…” And now, his grin is real, and crazed, and dangerous:

“Oh, why not. Let’s make it fifty-five.”

Everything goes silent. The mockery hangs in the air like a noose, daring him to challenge once more, to go one more step over the line, to make any additional comment that could justify cutting his tongue right out of his mouth. But Rex’s trembling hand on his pauldron begs him silently not to speak, and the next words are not his, but Kix’s.

“Please, sir,” he pleads. There’s something thick in his voice that Fives thinks may be tears. “Please, that’s-- he’ll bleed out. He’ll die of bloodloss, and you need him alive if you want him to tell you anything.”

“You make an excellent point. Tell me, what’s the most potent medicine on the Resolute’s medical deck?”

“I-- uh, well, I have a bottle of refined Kaminoan bacta--“

“Then you’ll administer it to him after the flogging. Is it oral or topical?”

“Sir, I--“

“Answer the question.”

“It-- uh, oral, sir, but--“

“Very well, I’ll even let you give it between lashes. I think after the twentieth should be reasonable. Is it, Medic?”

Kix can’t speak, just nod his head weakly. He looks almost more terrified than Fives himself. 

“Excellent!” Krell claps all four of his giant clawed hands. “You have half an hour to prepare. I want the entire legion at the mast by then.”

“Fives? Fives, are you alright?” Rex kneels by the cot to look the younger man in the eye, exhaustion and worry in his knitted brow. 

“I… ugh. Yeah. ‘M fine. Just… remembered.”

The Captain grimaces and straightens, and wrings out a cloth into a barrel of what Fives suspects (and, quite frankly, can only hope) is a bucket of precious clean freshwater, before he starts to sponge away the fresh blood from the reopened lacerations. One of his hands moves to Fives’s thick curls to gently massage his scalp.

“You did so good, you know,” he whispers. “You took it so well. I’m… really proud of you.”

Fives just sighs and screws his eyes closed.

Whatever happens, he swears to himself he’s not going to give that demagolka the luxury of hearing him scream.

Umbara’s air is cold and bitter against the bare skin of his torso and arms, but really, he didn’t expect anything less from the shadow isle. His brother’s faces in the crowd range from shocked to terrified to almost in tears to stony, tight-lipped stoicism. He just squares his shoulders, straightens his backbone, keeps his chin up, and looks straight ahead. 

He can’t, however, resist locking eyes with Rex when he passes, and the Captain’s face is grave and grieved and hopeless… and, as he gives his Legionary the tiniest of subtle nods, maybe just a little bit proud.

He says nothing as he’s tied to the mast, he says nothing as Krell makes a speech to his assembled brethren about loyalty and obedience and how ‘good soldiers follow orders’ or some rot like that, and he says nothing as Krell leans over to growl in his ear about how much he’s going to enjoy teaching him this lesson. 

The first lash hits and, though his clenched fists spasm open and his vision goes white with agony, he doesn’t make a sound.

Rex, after managing to staunch the bleeding, has quickly gone back to smoothing bacta over Fives’s mangled back. He finishes with a final rub of the shoulders and then reaches over to the supplies he’s gathered to grab a length of clean white bandages.

“Come on, Fives, I need you to sit up for me,” he murmurs. Fives peels his eyes open with a vague garbled murmur before he finds the Captain’s strong hands so gently helping ease him into an upwards position without disturbing any of the fragile lacerations. Rex very carefully starts wrapping the bandages around Fives’s torso.

“Gah.”

The older man pauses. “Are you alright?”

“Mmmh. Yeah. I…” Fives takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, his voice is very strained and heartbreakingly young-sounding. “It aches so much, can I lean on you, please?”

“I… yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He does. It feels so much better.

“Sorry,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed into the juncture of Rex’s neck and shoulder. “I’m not makin’ it any easier’ta bandage, ‘m I?”

“It’s okay. You’re good. Don’t… don’t worry about it, kid.”

True to his word, Krell lets Kix to the mast after the first twenty strokes. Fives can barely see through the pain-blindness and the tears that stream silently down his face, but he hears a yelp of surprise and a stumbling of feet and winces at the thought that his poor brother is slipping in the pool of his blood that seeps ever outward from the foot of the post. Yet despite the near-disaster, Kix draws up next to him and gently reaches a guiding hand to carefully tip his head back before lifting something cool and glassy to his lips.

“Drink it. Please,” the medic softly whispers. It’s so bitter that Fives nearly chokes, but he manages to take a few sips of it before Kix withdraws the bottle. In the motion, he tips their foreheads together for a brief moment and murmurs, “I’m so sorry I can’t do more. You’re doing so well.” One of his thumbs gently sweeps under his brother’s drenched lower lashes to catch any more tears from rolling off his face for now. 

“Medic! Get back here, you’re wasting time!” comes the bark from across the deck, and though Kix’s entire body tenses and there’s a jumpy glint in his eye, he takes one final second to clandestinely press a kiss to Fives’s brow before scurrying off with his half-full bottle of bacta.

“There you go.”

Fives can’t pull himself off of Rex’s shoulder. His whole body feels cast of lead; if anything, he sags more heavily into the Captain now that his bandage is tied off. 

“Thanks.”

“Any time.” Rex’s hand finds its way to stroke his young trooper’s hair. “You need any help laying back down?”

“Mmmh. Can I… stay here? For a little bit?”

“Wh-- I… of course. Of course, Fives.”

The thirtieth lash is where he finally breaks.

He doesn’t know if it’s that the torment that mounts with each fresh stroke has finally become too much to bear, or if by a fluke the flail traces itself in just the right way along his spine, but the whip leaves its thirtieth kiss and finally manages to tear something ragged and wet and raw from his throat.

It’s such a little gasp of pain. 

It chokes him.

He tries to pull himself back together.

Thirty-One. He’s silent.

Thirty-Two. New, thick tears drip down his cheekbones and run their fingers down his neck, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Three. His head snaps back when the tail grazes a rib it hasn’t touched before, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Four. His hands spasm and shake and his fingers twitch in distress, but he’s silent.

Thirty-Fi— Fi— Oh, Force help him, he can’t take it anymore.

He gasps again.

He doesn’t even register that he was falling asleep until he jolts himself awake.

“Easy!” Rex exclaims, catching him by the shoulders. “Hey, kid, if you’re dropping off we should probably lay you down, yeah?”

Fives just softly groans in response.

Fifty.

He can’t check his gasps anymore; by now, they come with every stroke, and they’re only growing more and more desperate. But, true to his promise, he still hasn’t screamed. He’s held out this long and, thank the stars above and sea below, it’s almost over.

How he’s still this lucid is beyond him. It must be Kix’s high-potency bacta, because in addition to the strange coherency of his thoughts, he can also feel his flesh trying to stitch itself back together between lashes. If he’s being honest… it makes it that much more painful, but there’s no way his poor brother could have known that. He was just trying to help. Force bless him. 

Fifty-One. He lost the ability to see at all around the twenty-third lash, but it’s still jarring to watch the black spots dancing in the white fog that’s replaced his vision.

Fifty-Two. Just three more, he tells himself. It might have been mingled with his latest strangled choke. At this point he almost doesn’t care. Almost.

Fifty-Three. He can gasp and choke and fight for his every breath, but he’s not going to scream. He’s not going to scream. He promised himself. Krell is not going to hear him scream.

Fifty-Four. Krell is NOT going to hear him scream.

Fifty-Five. 

It’s too much.

He can’t tell if the sound is a swear or someone’s name or just one long shriek of agony, but it’s horrible and loud and broken and his. It arches his spine and throws back his head and splays out his fingers and he shakes, and then his voice gives out and he slumps heavily against the mast. 

He screamed.

He failed.

He hates himself. 

He thinks he hears someone say, somewhere, Cut him down. His wrists come loose and there’s warm arms gingerly easing him to the ground, careful not to jostle his flayed-open back as they guide him to rest in their owner’s lap.

There’s distant sounds of what might be an argument. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He wants to sleep.

The arms very gently hoist him into a fireman’s carry, and he leans- as much as he can, with his weeping back- against his supporter, but it’s no use. He blacks out after three steps.

Rex, after gently maneuvering Fives into a sleeping position on the cot, facedown and back up so as to not disturb his slowly healing back, had knelt down beside the cot to hold his limp hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers after an indeterminate amount of time. “You didn’t deserve this.”

“‘S not… your fault.”

“I’m the Captain. This is my ship. You’re a member of my crew. I should be able to stand up to Krell. If I had a stronger backbone, this never would have happened.”

“Cap… tain. Listen t’ me. You’re a good man. You’re a good Captain. ‘S just tha’ Krell… isn’t. He hates me. ‘S not your fault.”

Rex hums noncommittally and strokes Fives’s hair with his free hand. 

“I… promise, Cap. Not’chure fau–”

“Shhh. You should sleep. I doubt Krell’s going to give you much of a recovery leave.”

“But--“

“Shhh.”

Fives sighs and begrudgingly closes his eyes. He’d love to argue with the Captain for another hour, but the fact of the matter is he’s spent. He can barely keep himself conscious. 

Still, with as much strength as he can muster, he gently squeezes Rex’s hand in his slackening grasp. He’s met, in turn, with an infinitely soft kiss to the temple, and then he slips away into sleep.

[totallyrotten]

Kp is a advanced and better version of Indian serials.

It has everything all the masalas to fit and enjoyed by indian audience.

U have family drama ( indians love it), enemies within family, jealous cousin of ml who wants steal all the property of ml , jealous uncle, wayward younger brother, fl in this case mc(Porsche) who has a younger sibling for whom they can die, orphan protagonist with a sibling to take care of, people faking death,secret within secret, no matter how much main characters are hurt or shot they won't die,dead people coming back to life, Siblings marrying into same family, vicious ex who probably left or died is suddenly alive and wants the ml back.bitch fight and ex telling the protagonist at the end he will always choose me(showing arrogance), brother in law( Tankhun) who supports the protagonist even if ml doesn't, people unable to tell their feelings,too many times getting hurt,

uska bhale ka liye apna pyaar ko apaman karke hurt karke tukra dana -kim ( for the safety and betterment of ur loved one deny and hide the feelings and if needed hurt them so much they start to hate u ) but still not letting go , u want to let go but u can't, magically appearing to protect ur lover in time, ultimately can't stay away and beg for forgiveness yet have hesitance.

Changing for love , villian turns into good guy coz of love.

I think I got it all covered now u guys can kill me.

Lath joota khane ka liye ready hu main