#imrowanartist

[narcissosbythepool]

Little something I wrote as a companion piece to this art 💕

Homecoming

He comes home a bit late.

It’s not his fault, really, it’s mostly the entire country halting to a stop whenever a speck of snow touches the ground, but he feels like a heel for coming in later than promised.

Especially with what's waiting for him.

All the lights are on but it’s quiet. John takes off his shoes by the door, leaving his duffel bag as company there for now, and then walks to the living room, carefully steps over the playmat and the numerous stuffed toys, bears and dogs and goats smiling up at him on the floor with their fur matted with an excessive amount of drool, the dog’s ear wrung into an unrecognisable state, no doubt between Rosie’s developing teeth. John smiles, a feeling of warmth expanding in his chest, and kneels down to rearrange the plushies to sit together to admire the baby gym with its dangling, sparkling fishes and starfish.

With that done he turns his gaze to the sofa and the pieces of his heart resting there.

They must have fallen asleep waiting for him. Kyle looks peaceful with Rosie tucked under his arm, held close so Rosie’s head is resting above his heartbeat. Rosie’s suckling on her pacifier, breathing steadily, and John gets a flash of a memory from a month ago, how that faint breath felt against his skin as he cradled her in his arms.

She had cried, when he’d left. He nearly had, too, and he at least held it together until he was alone. Kyle tried to calm her down, shushing her and smiling at John with a melancholic look in his eyes, telling him to just go, I’ll put her down for a nap.

John had nearly quit then and there. Had half the mind to call Ghost and tell him to take over, fuck the mission, fuck Laswell, fuck the brass, he’s going to stay with his family. He’d instead stood frozen by the door, duffel bag in hand, until Kyle had come back, Rosie still crying her tiny lungs out in the nursery.

“Didn’t I tell you to go already,” Kyle had quipped, but cupped his cheeks so sweetly, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” was all John could say, his eyes flitting from Kyle’s towards the nursery.

“Come back safe, and we’ll be here,” Kyle had told him firmly, and then basically pushed him out of the door.

It had been a tough deployment. Shorter than usual, due to their special circumstances, but every single hour away had felt like torture, constant worry on his mind and anxiety burning in his chest. It was like the stakes of combat he’d lived with every day for the past ten, fifteen years were suddenly stacked, he was in too deep for the first time of his life.

He’s always been careful on the field. He’s never been scared before.

But he’s here now, all in one piece, and so are Kyle and sweet little Rosie. He scoots closer so he can reach out to them. Rosie’s hair has grown – it feels silky under his fingertips, and suddenly he feels self-conscious over how rough his hands must be. Before, his hands were just tools, there to hold weapons and deliver justice with great violence, precise and strong as needed be. He always thought he was good with his hands, but his hands hadn’t found their true calling until he’d held his baby for the first time.

He’d felt truly foolish, then. All that training, those cuts and calluses and scars, and for what? He should’ve kept his hands soft. But at least they were dependable. They’d never lose their grip, never let go by accident, never miss a fall. This is what they were made for.

He sweeps a knuckle over her plump cheek. Let her sleep, now that she finally has dozed off.

Kyle looks lovely as ever, though tired. John knows he’s exhausted, can hear it in his voice whenever he calls. He’s so grateful to Diana and Dotty, Kyle's mom and sister, that they come over and help whenever they can, but he can tell it’s tough on Kyle to do this alone. This time his leave is a bit longer, he got it up to three weeks, and he still has a couple weeks of paternity leave left.

Kyle will make a dutiful house husband out of him yet. John has a lot to make up for.

With a faint grunt he gets up from the floor to put his duffel bag into the bedroom.

He peeks into the empty nursery and turns off the ceiling light, watching how the glowing stars the previous tenant glued to the ceiling come to life in the darkness.

He passes the kitchen, Kyle’s mom was just here last weekend and there’s still some of her heavenly cooking in the freezer. It looks like Kyle hasn’t done the dishes – no matter, John will do that, and unpacking the bag, tomorrow. And, probably… John looks over the sofa’s backrest and squints his eyes.

Yes, laundry too. Rosie, their little drool machine, has left a damp spot on Kyle’s shirt.

John puts on the kettle and takes out two mugs, acting as quiet as he would on a stealth mission. Once he’s already pouring the hot water, he hears Kyle grunt and shift on the sofa, and then go quiet.

“John?” a careful inquiry comes from the precipice of sleep.

“I’m pouring tea,” John replies. “Be there in a moment.”

“I fell asleep,” Kyle says, as if he needs to explain himself, and John’s smile widens. He puts the kettle away and then saunters back to the sofa, where Kyle is waiting for him, the arm not occupied by Rosie stretched over his head.

“The snow slowed me down,” John says. Kyle closes and opens his eyes slowly in lieu of a nod.

“Figured. Been all over the news. Good that you got home safe.”

“Eh, the road wasn’t the dangerous part,” John says and leans over the back rest to get to him.

Kyle meets him midway. The press of his lips is always always lovely, how his mouth opens for him like an inhale, and he finally truly, truly feels like he’s back home, he’s back in his own skin and his own life, not just living on borrowed time.

He’s never felt like this before in his life. It’s terrifying. It’s addicting.

“Let me take Rosie to the nursery,” he says then.

“Don’t wake her up,” Kyle warns but holds her up by lifting the arm holding her so John can reach her. Rosie detaches from him with great reluctance, frowning deeply as John takes her in his arms and letting out a noise of protest, but she calms again the moment John presses her against his chest. She inhales deeply, then huffs, and then fists her tiny hand in John’s shirt.

Kyle looks up at them with a grin. John feels like his knees are about to give in. Incredible how Rosie can stay asleep with his heart thundering beneath her ear like this.

“See,” Kyle says, “she remembers her Da just fine.”

If John wasn’t busy holding the love of his life in his arms, praying not to wake her up while he puts her to bed, he’d kiss Kyle senseless. Alas, he cannot, but he can be patient. He’s been nothing but patient for a month.

“You wait right there,” he tells Kyle.

“Bring me a clean shirt while you’re up.”

“Are you hearing this, Rosie?” John chuckles, already on his way towards the nursery. “Your dad’s making me work already.”

“I’ll show you work.”

It’s good to be home.

I may have started an entirely new AU with @narcissosbythepool in which Gaz and Price have a kid together oops

Anyway, they fell asleep while waiting for Price to come home 😴

[catawampuscorner]

I'm back on my Muppets LotR bullshit 💅✨

✨Patreon✨| Bluesky

@ahsoka1 @all-hallows-evie @onwardsandsideways @pentowrite-wingstofly @pyromanicdaydreamer @dangerousstrawberrypie @clonecyare @youngcheesecaketale @techissweet @ladykatakuri @freerunner4427 @weridgreenaurora @burning-quesadilla @constellation-savvy @chromia7567 @ahsokatano-thetogruta @my-flights-of-fantasy @darkangel4121 @zoeyserpentluck @theproblemwithstardust @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life  @ladysongmaster @yellowflicker09 @mmmdixie @needlefrost @queencousland101 @imrowanartist @bloom-domino-akrum @evergreen-lyricist ​​ @molly-mcgiftens @korribanarchive ​​  @victoryandlife​ @negative-ghostrider @screamingmadvoid @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom @zaya @darknight-brightstars @trickstermoose67 @arkred @theredshirtsarecoming @mis-mcgifstenn @elismor @coline7373 @nekotaetae @dangraccoon @mandogab @jediava @thatgreyjedi @ladykatakuri @droids-you-are-looking-for @saphirlefanz @u-got-lokid @zaya-mo @yellowflicker09 @jonathananubian @AhsokaTanoFan25 @razor0-0 @thatgreyjedi @the-bad-batch-baroness @nerd-ika @quinchronicles @trixie2023 @sunshinesdaydream @passionat3 @mmmdixie @chaicilatte @ardent-crow @aknightreaderr @orangez3st @ladylucksrogue

.

Chuck your name in here if you want to be tagged!

[cobaltbeam]

Gree and Barriss for @anstarwar !! Commissioned by @imrowanartist <3 <3

[allenvooreef]

When I’m in a rut, I can always count on pose reference artists to get me drawing again. 😌 Saw this fun one by @adorkastock and immediately knew it had to be Annori!

Maybe I’ll see if I can draw the whole gang with some downtime activities.

Annori was created by @imrowanartist

Follow our D&D campaign over on @anywaymurder

[shyravenns]

Gift art of Gaz and his daughter Rosie for @imrowanartist and @narcissosbythepool 's fic!!!

[badbatchposts]

More commissioned Crosshair x Dara art!!

I’m so happy with it. Look at his little smirk and how mad she is!!

Thanks @imrowanartist for your incredible work!

Tag list: @stardusthuntress @skellymom @megmegalodondon @somewhere-on-kamino @morerandombullshit @zahmaddog @flaming-dumpster

[narcissosbythepool]

More Rosie AU!

Nikolai meets baby Rosie for the first time, meanwhile Price and Gaz have a mushy post-mission reunion. Companion fic to @imrowanartist's art, which you can find here!

Tags: established pricegaz, fluff, humor

//

“How long, Nik?”

“Sit still, old friend,” Nikolai says with a tight smile, “or I will toss you out of the helicopter. Understood?”

John grumbles something rude under his breath. Lucky for him, the engine’s noise is too loud for Nikolai to hear his words. Ghost’s snarky laughter filters through either way.

They’re almost at Credenhill, so close in fact, that Nik can see the tarmac in the distance, but he’s not going to tell this tidbit of information to John yet.

It’s been a long mission.

Once he begins landing, Nikolai notices something.

“Captain,” he laughs, “you have a guest.”

“Is that so?” John sounds pleased.

“Yes— oh, two guests.”

In the distance, Nikolai can barely make out Gaz and the little bundle in his arms that must be a baby. Nikolai hopes Gaz brought some hearing protectors, and looking again, it does seem like Rosie is sporting familiar yellow earmuffs. 

The second they land, John strips out of his gear, divesting himself of his helmet and the tac vest as fast as possible so that he’s just in his fatigues. He basically rips the door open, ducking to avoid the blades as he exits the vehicle in a rushed jog. Nikolai hears Ghost mutter something he can’t quite care to make out, but it makes Soap laugh.

Nikolai glances at the tarmac just to see that John’s light jog has turned into a run and Gaz bursts into laughter as well – so that’s what gets you running, Nik thinks and chuckles at the sight. Baby Rosanna looks slightly lopsided in Gaz’s arms, perhaps still asleep – an impressive feat considering how loud the tarmac is and how hard Gaz is laughing at her Da. When John finally slows down to a walk so he doesn’t barrel into his partner and child and knock them over, Nikolai stops paying attention. He lets the engine cool down before disengaging the clutch, the rotors slowly winding down before he finally shuts down the engine. He does the last checks, checks the instrument panel, and when everything seems to be in order he joins the rest of the team on the tarmac. Ghost and Soap have already reached John and Gaz, Soap saying hello to Rosie, who’s now blinking herself awake as Gaz transfers her for John to hold. Ghost ruffles Kyle’s hair as he passes, dodging a revenge swat at his hand. 

Soap finally leaves with a comment that Nikolai cannot hear but which makes John roll his eyes, and then he gets the front row seat to the nauseating display of John reuniting with his family. Rosie blinks at her Da and John speaks to her softly, raising her in his arms to press a kiss on her forehead. The baby goes cross-eyed staring at him and Gaz laughs at her confused expression as John swipes his daughter’s nose with the tip of his finger, looking every bit the part of a devoted father. Then he turns his attention to his beau and they stare at each other with matching giddy grins. Gaz’s arm lands on John’s, and then John dips in and they fall into a deep but gentle kiss.

Nikolai shakes his head. John was whiny the entire mission, staring at his phone and sighing like a forlorn maiden, and it was only through the last dredges of goodwill and empathy that Nikolai didn’t just leave him behind. But, he has to admit, it is cute to finally see them like this, as a happy little family – all out in the open this time. John was so miserable, before. Years he pined away without realising, and when he finally did realise his feelings for the Sergeant, he punished himself for it like a repentant monk. Even after they got together, it seemed like John operated under the notion that they were constantly on borrowed time and it could run out at any time.

Nikolai doesn’t blame him. Time does run out sometimes, and they are both familiar with the kind of loss and heartbreak that comes with fate deciding that time is up, going home empty-handed. Nikolai had watched heartbreak and grief etch itself into John’s features, afraid that the stain of betrayal would forever be imprinted on his bruised heart. It was an ugly thing, cultivated through good intentions and the staunch belief that it was somehow deserved, that it was atonement for whatever crime John had committed. But even then, fate was not done with him.

Sometimes, solar material hovering in the sun's atmosphere erupts into space – a whip-like lash of magnetic energy, travelling at frightening speeds in the cold of space. To Earth, it shows up as colourful flashes of aurora borealis. 

Gaz came into their lives like one such cosmic event. 

Nikolai remembers how he used to watch the two, their heads pressed together over plans and shared stories. How the waning light would colour Gaz’ brown skin golden. Nikolai gets it – if he was blessed by the presence of such a sun god in his life, he would certainly fall too. Who could blame anyone for wanting a closer glimpse, even if it burned? And John had looked at Gaz like he was spun from that golden hour. 

It was very embarrassing to watch, at the time.

Not much less embarrassing than it is now.

“Make way,” Nikolai announces himself and the two startle, separating like teenagers caught making out. “The reason your baby exists is here and I demand to see her.”

Gaz chokes on a laugh, wiping his mouth, but he makes way for Nikolai and John turns so that Rosie is better visible for him.

She is a cute one, Nikolai will admit. She’s a couple of months old now, Nikolai can’t really tell the exact age with babies this small, and she’s blinking up at him with her huge, brown eyes. He can see the resemblance to her parents immediately, as if there was ever any doubt, and he takes a moment to be privately satisfied with himself. John may not admit it (and they’ve argued over this), but Nikolai is the reason this little miracle is here. Had he not talked to John, they might still be stupid and miserable about this whole thing. 

“Can I?” he asks, and ignores how his throat feels a little thick. John gives him an amused look but is wise and keeps his damn mouth shut, then hands Rosanna over to Nikolai. He takes her in his arms, supporting her head before John can even say a word, and then a smile breaks on his face, unbridled.

“Hello, Rosichka,” he tells her in Russian. He vaguely notes John glancing at Gaz, who just grins. “You’re lucky you got your looks from Gaz.”

The grin drops a smidge.

“That was my name.”

“It was,” Nikolai refuses to translate. Rosie simply blinks at him. 

Yeah, damn cute. Nikolai can excuse the running.

“Are you going to give her back?” John asks. Rosie slowly stretches her hand out and grabs the edge of Nikolai’s flight suit, squeezing the zipper for dear life.

“No,” Nikolai says. “You can be disgusting with Gaz now, I’ve got her.”

“Disgusting—” John sputters. Gaz laughs again, cupping John’s cheeks and pulling him into another kiss, this time noisy and theatrical. Nikolai manoeuvres past them with Rosie in his arms and walks towards the base where Soap and Ghost disappeared ages ago.

It’s about time he finally gets to know little Rosichka.

END

[frostbitebakery]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

I got tagged by the wonderful @imrowanartist and @cacodaemonia 💜

Watch Obi-Wan go through the seven stages over his skincare routine. Don’t worry, Obes, that alive looking gentleman in the background has had weirder crushes he won’t admit to. You still have a chance. 🫶

STILL NIGHT 1, FOLKS

In Cody’s humble opinion, he spends too much time staring at the ceiling of his apartment.

There’s a louder than usual-for-the-past-two-hours thump coming from his office/guest bedroom/storage.

The living room ceiling could use a new coat of paint.

“Arm?” Wolffe yells from Cody’s bedroom.

He should do some dusting first.

Gurgling.

He definitely should dust first. He can’t even remember the last time he dusted the tops of his bookcases.

“Leg,” comes the guttural reply eventually.

He really should take a day off and deep clean, Cody thinks, fingers clenching in the blanket he keeps on the couch for when he needs to hide from the world for just a minute.

“…h…elp?”

“Coming!” Wolffe sounds far too gleeful. All the highly unprofessional comments about his patient looking— “So gross!”

That.

“Cody, get your ass in here and hold the leg in place.”

Wolffe genuinely cares about people’s wellbeing, Cody can attest to that. But somehow his brain to mouth filter got turned off while growing up. Maybe Cody had dropped him one too many times. They’re not that many years apart in age. Cody had been a kid as well when he accepted the role their father inadvertently pushed him into.

“Lower your goddamn voice,” he yells back, “before I get complaints from the neighbors.” He throws the blanket off himself and rolls to his feet to help caring for the zombie in his guest bedroom.

——

No pressure tagging: @adiduck @elwenyere @meebles @merlyn-bane @bluemaskedkarma @cacodaemonia (if I may request some linework when you have some? My soul needs soothing)

[anstarwar]

WIP Tag game

I was tagged by @bladelei (thank you!)

Rules: In a new post, list the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

+++++

Pacific Rim stuff:

- Jaeger Pilot Au

- Wake Up

- 5+1 Stacker and Tendo

The Clone Wars stuff:

- Of Greaves and Grieving

- Wildlife - rare pair bingo Gree/Appo

+++

No pressure tags: @imrowanartist @marbled-polecat @frostbitebakery @eclec-tech

[redhairedmuses]

in which a captain is finally captured by a siren...

I recently commissioned my dear friend, @imrowanartist to create a wonderful piece to really capture this moment in my Pirate/COD AU. Rowan did *such* a wonderful job I was completely awestruck by the final image. Absolutely breathtaking and beautiful.

So, without further adieu, here is an excerpt from my upcoming long-fic, Half a Creature from the Sea.

Stormy blue eyes find brown with flecks of gold and Price is not sure if it is desire or desperation fueling his veins. His heart is already threatening to burst out of his chest. He can feel the hard pounding of it against his ribs. It aches and burns in such a way he's half-tempted to cut it from his chest and present it at Kyle's feet as a sacrifice. 

Perhaps that would satisfy him long enough where these feelings, these desires, would finally leave him. 

How one man, a siren, managed to seduce him in just a few short weeks baffles him. He’s not entirely sure when it changed. When the lines blurred and he found himself wanting Kyle in a way he doesn’t deserve. But now, even as his eyes search for answers in Kyle’s golden eyes, he finds none. In fact, there are no answers to his question. He supposes that it just happened. 

His arm starts to give way, and he no longer has the strength to maintain his composure. He’s lost this battle.

The siren has him. Kyle has him. 

And like a shark smelling blood in the water, Kyle strikes, surging forward and crashing their lips together in a messy tangle of teeth and tongues, and John finds himself sinking under the waves and into the abyss.

He responds to the aggressive nature of the kiss with a quick nip of teeth on Kyle’s bottom lip. Kyle’s answering gasp adds more fuel to the growing fire between them. The air is already thick with tension and now it threatens to crack. He licks into Kyle’s mouth, tasting every inch he’s allowed until his lungs object. He ends the first of many kisses and drops his mouth to Kyle’s exposed collarbone, panting and aching for air. 

"Christ, Kyle," he rasps. He noses at Kyle's collarbone, inhaling the young man's scent again, committing it to memory. "I’m not going to be gentle with you." 

His hands, wrought with so much sin, grip Kyle’s hips, tight like a vice. He presses closer, unable to let the other man go. A hand rests at the back of his neck, steadying, grounding. It squeezes once and he almost sinks to his knees. He takes a breath to right himself. "I’m not–" He hesitates again. Words fail him. He forces himself to look at Kyle despite the gnawing feeling of guilt that curls inside his stomach. 

"I’m not a good man, Kyle," is what he manages to choke out. 

Kyle nods, so easily and accepting. He shouldn't want him, not with all the red in his ledger. "I know." 

"I’m a killer too."

"I’ve seen you in action, Captain. Quite attractive." 

John licks his lips in an effort to hide the smile that threatens to spread. "You deserve a better man than me." 

Kyle’s long fingers drift to grasp him by the chin and holds him steady, forcing him to really look at him. "Let me be the judge of that, John." 

For a moment, John is unsure if he heard Kyle correctly. In just a few simple words, Kyle has laid his heart out. Baring his intentions, his desires. He is unfazed by the killer standing in his boots. 

He knows what he is. He has always known. 

Ferocious. Ruthless. Dangerous. 

He should be soft with Kyle. Gentle. Kind. Kyle deserves that and more. He deserves a better man, but it is clear that the man wants none of that. He’s not afraid of sharp claws and teeth. John briefly forgets that Kyle is a siren too. A creature of legend, and one with a reputation just as deadly as his own. 

A thought looms in the darkest parts of his mind as he draws his eyes to Kyle’s unblemished neck where the faint lines of his gills grace his skin. The marks he is going to leave on this man will be a symbol of his prize. His victory. They will not become a bad memory. He refuses to let that happen. 

John surges forward, capturing Kyle’s lips again, mirroring their first kiss. He crowds the younger man into the door, pinning him there. Teeth clashing, tongues wrestling, and hands seeking out skin. One hand abandons Kyle’s hip, opting to grasp at the back of his neck while the other slides under his loose shirt, grazing against skin. His fingers dig into the meat of Kyle’s neck, just shy of that pressure point he knows will have the other man on his knees for him. Kyle’s hand slips from his chin to fumble at his neck. Those long fingers he’s fantasized about for far too long curl around his neck while the other is clutching his shirt sleeve. 

"Alright there, Gaz?" John asks against Kyle’s lips. He draws back to provide Kyle a reprieve and take in the bewildered and wild look in the siren’s gold eyes. 

Kyle nods, lips swollen from the kisses and bites. "Yeah. I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me, sir." 

John shakes his head briefly before leaning back in and kissing Kyle again, softer this time. "I think you can drop the ‘sir’, now." 

"And I-" Kyle punctuates with another kiss of his own. "Think you like it."

(tbc...)

[alamogirl80]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).

Thanks for the tag @cacodaemonia I have not been writing much mainly because I've been reading so much Call of Duty MW2 Soap/Ghost fic. (and I'm not sorry, there are some wickedly amazingly talented writers in that fandom, holy shit!)

Anyway... here is another line from upcoming chapters of my codywan "And I'll Follow the Light in You"

Fox and Obi-Wan meet: (Fox) “You’re older than I thought you’d be,” he remarks. Obi-Wan raises his chin a little, smirking. “Well, you’re rather gray for a 14 year old yourself, Commander.” Fox’s eyes narrow for a moment, then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I like him, Codes. He’ll do.”

Yes it's more than one line, no I don't care.

no pressure tags @trixree @imrowanartist @deadstarsrisingsblog @frostbitebakery

[catawampuscorner]

Rex never has to wait too long to get his ARCs back lmao

✨Patreon✨| Commissions | Bluesky

@ahsoka1 @all-hallows-evie @onwardsandsideways @pentowrite-wingstofly @pyromanicdaydreamer @dangerousstrawberrypie @clonecyare @youngcheesecaketale @techissweet @ladykatakuri @freerunner4427 @weridgreenaurora @burning-quesadilla @constellation-savvy @chromia7567 @ahsokatano-thetogruta @my-flights-of-fantasy @darkangel4121 @zoeyserpentluck @theproblemwithstardust @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life  @ladysongmaster @yellowflicker09 @mmmdixie @needlefrost @queencousland101 @imrowanartist @bloom-domino-akrum @evergreen-lyricist ​​ @molly-mcgiftens @korribanarchive ​​  @victoryandlife​ @negative-ghostrider @screamingmadvoid @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom @zaya @darknight-brightstars @trickstermoose67 @arkred @theredshirtsarecoming @mis-mcgifstenn @elismor @coline7373 @nekotaetae @dangraccoon @mandogab @jediava @thatgreyjedi @ladykatakuri @droids-you-are-looking-for @saphirlefanz @u-got-lokid @zaya-mo @yellowflicker09 @jonathananubian @AhsokaTanoFan25 @razor0-0 @thatgreyjedi @the-bad-batch-baroness @nerd-ika @quinchronicles @trixie2023 @sunshinesdaydream

.

Chuck your name in here if you want to be tagged!

[allenvooreef]

We cosplayed as (most of) Anyway Murder at Castlefest this year and I have many feels about it <3 Love these nerds and our silly D&D game!!

Annori @imrowanartist Kevin @koekjen Raiden (me)

Follow our campaign at @anywaymurder

[codywanweekspotlight]

Weekly Spotlight

✨Art

@gateway-artist // Art // purge trooper cody/emperor obi-wan // 2021

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@imrowanartist // Art // keldabe kiss // 2021

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@wrennette // Art // role-swap/reversal // 2020

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@treescantjump // Art // keldabe kiss // 2021

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@lilizh // Art // keldabe kiss // 2021

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@welcometothesewers // Art // farmer/farming/gardening // 2022

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@tyedyeboogers // Art // handholding // 2022

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@thebrainofoctavian // Art // sleeping // 2023

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@hero-thief // Art // whump // 2021

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@welcometothesewers // Art // first kiss/last kiss // 2022

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✨Fics

@reydjarinkenobi // Fic // fantasy // 2020

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@lbibliophile-sw // Fic // timeline shenanigans // 2023

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@hoodedmiho // Fic // soulmates // 2022

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@thatonetimetraveller // Fic // wings // 2022

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@buggstuff // Fic // modern au & tea, caf and flimsiwork // 2023

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@wrennette // Fic // hurt/comfort // 2020

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@shadowmaat // Fic // time travel // 2020

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@SallyPejr // Fic // only one bed // 2022

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✨Please give our creators a reblog and a comment!

[badbatchposts]

Not Dead Yet

Read on ao3

Author's Note: This fic covers the events of the first four chapters of my longfic, Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, from Dara's point of view. If you haven't read the fic, be aware that this contains spoilers for Dara's backstory, which otherwise remains a mystery until chapter 19. The longfic is NSFW/Explicit, but this fic is not and only contains a brief, non-explicit reference to sex.

Summary: Dara's mission is falling apart, and she thinks this might finally be the one she doesn't make it out of alive--until she's unexpectedly rescued by a mysterious sniper...

Commissiond art by @imrowanartist

Get up.

Dara groaned, her eyelids fluttering. Her brain was foggy, like the jungle in early morning as all the dew began to boil off into steam, and there was too much happening at the edges of her awareness. She wanted to keep her eyes closed, to settle back into her chair and sleep it all off.

Get up!

Everything was pain and alarms blaring, the smell of smoke and an angry voice inside her head. Something had gone wrong… What had she been doing? Whatever it was, it was pointless. Lost in all the fog.

Get the kriff up!!!!

Dara shot to awareness with a jolt, straining against the straps that held her bound to the pilot’s chair. Adrenaline kicked in as she frantically observed her surroundings. Gentle sunlight filtered in through the viewport of the cockpit, catching on a haze in the air. Everything was in disarray, anything that hadn’t been bolted down or strapped in thrown about by the impact. The electronics of the dash in front of her sparked and sputtered for a few more moments until they finally died altogether.

Assessment: the situation was less than optimal.

She was kriffed three ways to Taungsday.

Still, besides a few additional cuts and bruises and the throbbing in her head, she could thank the stars that she wasn’t much worse off than she’d been before the crash.

Unluckily, she was quickly reminded that she’d already been doing badly enough. The moment she released the straps and tried to haul herself to her feet, a burning pain shot up from her leg, nearly causing her to buckle back over. The simultaneous protesting from her ribs showed she wasn’t doing much better there, although she didn’t have the time to figure out if anything was broken.

You’re not dead yet, the voice in her head hissed.

She had to make a plan, figure out where she was and see if the ship was salvageable.

Dara managed to haul herself painfully out of the cockpit and toward the exit hatch of the Imperial shuttle, carefully dodging a few small fires and piles of debris. When she’d been in hyperspace, she’d—just barely—managed to calculate a few possible trajectories for where she’d end up as her systems started failing. Two were systems with no Imperial presence, at least according to her last intel. The third…

She emerged into a pleasant, shady forest and turned to view the utter wreckage of the Imperial shuttle with dismay, rage boiling at her terrible luck.

“Karking—!”

Dara swore, punched the cold durasteel of the hull, and immediately regretted adding bruised knuckles to her catalogue of injuries.

You’re not dead yet, her own voice reminded her again, cold and determined. Get it the kriff together.

Dara dragged herself back into the shuttle, moving as quickly as she could. This planet—why she couldn’t land on the one with no Empire and black-sand beaches, or even the swamp if she had to take it, only the Force knew—had a large enough Imperial presence that she could expect stormtroopers to be converging on her location within a matter of minutes. There would be no repairing the ship—she didn’t even have time to search it for medical supplies to treat her injuries. She grabbed her pack, retrieved her blaster, settled her poncho on her shoulders, and set out.

If only she could put enough distance between herself and the crash site, the Imps might miss her altogether. At the very least, she’d have plausible deniability and the chance at a cover story. But she could already tell she was limping too badly to make it far on her own two feet. Her best bet would be to find a good place to hide and hope that—

“Stop right there!”

Too late.

Dara smiled charmingly, slowly raising both her hands. “Oh, thank the Maker! I was out hiking when that ship just fell out of the sky! Do you think everyone is alright?”

She didn’t have to see behind the blank faceplates of their helmets to know the stormtroopers would never believe that act. As good a liar as she could be, there was no explaining away the soot smudged on her cheeks or the blood trickling down her forehead.

But all she needed was the opening as both troopers leaned back, releasing their grips on the handles of their speeder bikes—and their thumbs off the triggers—to switch to their hand blasters.

She’d practiced quick-drawing her concealed blaster from over her shoulder hundreds upon hundreds of times. She was nearly as deadly with her hands behind her head as with them at her side.

As the first trooper fell, Dara was already diving behind the closest tree. She hissed in a breath when the pain in her leg flared up hard again, her hand shaking a little as she tried to line up a shot that would take the remaining Imp down. It took precious minutes, but finally she sent the trooper flying off his bike with the force of the blast that struck his right shoulder.

Dara swallowed the pain. Just one final push, and she’d be on a speeder bike making her way far from here to find a safe place to hide out.

For the second time that day, her hopes vanished in a flash of blaster fire, screeching metal, and fire.

Not dead yet, the voice insisted again, but it was getting quieter as her hold-out blaster slipped through her fingers and she barely managed to throw herself clear of the explosion. Her body was reverting to the muscle memory of her training, her larger blaster in hand and cover already reobtained before she consciously willed it. Six hostiles, her foggy brain vaguely registered. Her trigger finger squeezed again and again in their direction, but her hands were shaking even worse now, and her leg burned as she tried to retreat further up the hillside behind her.

It happened in a second. Somewhere between looking for her way out and aiming for her next target, she extended too far from behind the tree that she was using as a shield. A blaster shot clipped her at the hip and she felt herself fly with the force of it, landing on her backside hard. She probably screamed—her throat felt hoarse, anyway—but all she could focus on was the soft soil beneath her fingers, her blaster thrown who knows where, and the white helmet of the trooper slowly advancing on her.

You’re going to die. The whisper at the edges of her mind was no longer hostile, no longer chastising or aggressive or ready to take on anything and everything. It didn’t sound like her anymore. It was a comfort, a longing, a reassurance that there was nothing she could do. It wrapped around her, quieting whatever last curses she could have spat at the stormtrooper who was aiming for her end.

The voice sounded strangely like Steela’s.

She closed her eyes, and heard the blast ring out.

Then another.

She was still here.

Not dead yet, her own voice roared back to life, triumphant and rageful, and she snatched her blaster up from where it had landed a few meters away. Two more far-off blasts rang out near simultaneously with the ones she sent at the two troopers closest to her as the Imps flailed wildly in all directions, trying to locate the sniper and find cover, never to realize it was already too late.

Dara panted and fell to her knees in the dirt, feeling like the adrenaline was draining out of her all at once. Her head pounded harder than ever, and the pain from where she was shot—both times—came back with a vengeance. Her body felt like one big bruise, and all she wanted to do was lay down right there and then.

Get up!

Her inner voice had a point. Kriff knows where that sniper came from, but she sure didn’t want to meet whatever lifeform managed four clean headshots in no more than eight seconds. Glancing over at the bodies where each helmet was pierced in near precisely the same place, she shuddered—it was incredible, she had to admit, but scary—and hauled herself to her feet again. She was still limping toward the speeder bikes when the tall, lean figure emerged from among the trees on silent feet, like some feline predator.

Dara absorbed the sight of him in a fraction of a second—the well-used, gray and red armor, the impressively long rifle showing he was packing serious firepower—and knew no good could come of this encounter.

She aimed her blaster at his heart, warning him, “Stay back.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even move to point his own weapon back at her. His voice, when it came, was a lazy, sarcastic drawl that instantly got her hackles up.

“Are you even sure you could ride one of those things by yourself right now?” he scoffed.

There was nothing Dara hated more than a smug man who dared to doubt her.

“Of course I can,” she snapped back.

She kept her blaster trained on him, calling on her final reserves of energy to keep herself steady, and grasped the handle of the closest speeder bike with the other hand. Staying focused on the sniper and alert for any sudden movements, she swung her leg and mounted the bike.

Starting in her leg then spreading through her hip, ribs, and head, every injury seemed to finally flare up at once, shrieking, burning, stabbing, throbbing, aching, and the inner voice was silent as everything went black.

Dara groaned, her mind limping toward the vague shape of consciousness for the second time that day. For a moment she couldn’t recall what had happened—too much to drink again, maybe, she had to be better about that. She felt vibrations below her and the wind against her face, a pleasant warmth at her back that made her want to sink back into darkness again.

Behind her, a masculine voice rasped out words she couldn’t quite internalize. Did she take someone home from the cantina last night? If so, she was going to have to find a way to get rid of him as quickly as possible so she could nurse her hangover in silence.

In fact, there was a lot she was going to be nursing, she realized as she became more aware of the aches plaguing every centimeter of her body. Too many aches for even the roughest sex, and—

Oh. Right. Mission, crash landing, certain death, mysterious sniper.

She was having trouble focusing through what was almost certainly a concussion. She needed—what did she need to do next?

Ship—get back to my ship.

“That shuttle’s not going anywhere anymore,” the voice drawled in reply to her accidentally murmured words. Dara felt the speeder bike come to a stop, the warmth behind her shifting and carefully helping her to stand.

The sniper—where was he taking her? Dara managed to flutter her eyes open, squinting through her blurry vision to find that they were approaching a sleek black-and-gray attack shuttle, its sharp, mynock-like wings folded up vertically. At the top of the open ramp was another helmeted individual in similar armor, though his was painted turquoise and orange.

She didn’t have much time to reflect on that before the sniper’s fingers grazed the blaster burn at her hip, sending a painful shock to her system and reminding her that she was at the mercy of at least two unknown, well-outfitted fighters.

Dara struggled, trying to push the sniper away. “Hands off,” she attempted to growl threateningly, though it came out more as a pained wheeze.

“Fine.” The sniper dropped her unexpectedly, and she landed in a heap on the ground as he strode away toward the ship. “Stay here, for all I care.”

He wasn’t—wasn’t he kidnapping her? She hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Of course, she was struggling enough to simply drag herself back upright, so it’s not like she could have fought him off. Dara heard the two men talking and tried to listen, but her head was still foggy, and she only managed to make out their tones, the sniper’s hoarse complaint being met with obvious frustration by his comrade.

Then she was suddenly lifted up into the arms of the biggest human she’d ever seen.

This man was helmet-less, the scarred half of his face and milky-white eye contrasting terrifyingly with a mad, exuberant grin. “Not to worry, lil’ lady,” he declared, carrying her on board the ship. “We’ll take good care of ya.”

Oh—maybe she was being kidnapped. Not that she could do anything more than weakly paw at the giant’s chest plate in protest.

Dara felt herself laid down with unexpected gentleness on a bench. Her surroundings were a blur as the whir of the engines started up, everything going dark and distant, only a few vague sensations managing to penetrate her daze. More male voices, familiar and new; the beeping of a scanner; the pricking of a hypo; rough, efficient hands against her hip.

Finally, with a groan, she managed to pry open her eyelids as the meds kicked in fully, taking the edge off the pain and quieting the ache in her skull to a dull roar.

She was surrounded by five men, all dressed in similar armor. Nearest to her was one with thinning, brown hair and a thick set of goggles, his hands occupied with medical supplies and a datapad propped up at his side. The giant hovered nearby, evidently in the middle of arranging a group of crates. A few meters away in the cockpit, bathed in the lights of hyperspace, was a pale, bald man with three cybernetic limbs, a headpiece, and—was his arm replaced with a scomp link? The one who first met them at the ship had removed his helmet to reveal long brown hair and a half-skull tattoo shading the left side of his face. He was examining her with a furrowed brow and crossed arms.

Finally, the lanky sniper lounged on the bench opposite her, a toothpick dangling between his lips. His face was severe, all sharp angles and an impressive scowl. A tattoo of a circle crossed by intersecting lines surrounded one of his golden eyes as they met her with an overwhelming intensity.

Nice eyes, Dara thought stupidly. Handsome face.

There was a strong resemblance between the men, and, more than that, they all looked strangely familiar.

All armored and outfitted with serious weaponry. An attack shuttle with even more firepower. Mercenaries, no doubt, though who knew what they wanted with her—or whether she was compromised.

Dara knew what to do. Try to maintain her cover. Come up with a good story. Act frightened and uncertain. Let them underestimate her.

If only her brain were currently capable of cooperating. Instead, she bared her teeth in a snarl, her fight instinct overcoming her still-limited ability for rational thought.

“Who the kriff are you?” she demanded.

Face-Tattoo approached her cautiously, crouching down with his hands spread. The body language was clear: he wasn’t going for his weapons, although Dara had no doubt that he could have the nasty-looking knife sheathed in his vambrace in hand before she could blink.

“Hey, hey. Easy now,” the man cajoled.

Behind him, the sniper rolled his eyes. “I hardly think she needs consoling. She did take out four troopers on her own,” he noted irritably.

What was this guy’s problem? She didn’t ask him to bring her here.

“That you know of,” Dara couldn’t help herself from muttering, thinking of the stormtroopers she’d had to plow through to steal the shuttle in the first place. Speaking of which, she dragged herself up to sitting, wincing against the ongoing ache in her ribs. “Where’s my gear?”

The data she’d stolen was concealed in a hidden pocket in her pack. If it had been left behind—or if these mercenaries managed to find it—she would have spent weeks undercover for nothing.

“Careful there. Hang on just a minute,” Face-Tattoo continued. “You’re hurt pretty bad. Just rest up, and we can help you out. What’s your name?”

“Who’s asking?” Dara replied warily. She glanced over the bunch again. If they had no idea who she was, and they had killed the Imperials, then there was no motivation for them to hold her. Was this all just a coincidence? A sniper—a miserable, obnoxious, shiveringly intense one by the way he was looking her over—who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to save her neck?

Face-Tattoo smiled a little, gentling his features despite the frightening visage. “I’m Hunter. That’s Tech, Echo, Wrecker, and Crosshair. We’re not going to hurt you. Crosshair said Imperials were after you, so he took you back to our ship.”

Crosshair, hmm? A little on-the-nose. All their names were, in fact. Call signs, maybe? Still, Dara let herself relax a little, more conscious of the role she had to play as the fog in her head continued to lift a bit further in response to the medicine.

The one with goggles sitting next to her—Tech—adjusted his eyewear thoughtfully. “How did you find yourself out there?” he inquired.

Dara squinted. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 “We weren’t the ones crash-landing in a stolen shuttle,” the cyborg, Echo, observed, and, well—he had a point.

Dara stayed quiet instinctively. Better not to say anything than to trip up on a lie later. They knew she was suspicious of them, and certainly for an understandable reason. She would keep observing until she was ready to spin a solid cover story. Already, at the back of her mind, she was weaving the threads she would need to convince them.

Sure enough, the leader, Hunter, chuckled. “Not too chatty, eh?”

Dara analyzed his face cautiously, trying to read his expression through the tattoo. He seemed concerned for her, but not overly, relaxed enough to take her sudden appearance in stride.

Still, she knew that sort of attitude could change in a blink with mercenaries. They did what they needed when credits were potentially involved, and many of them were the scum of the galaxy.

Case in point—

“I’m sure I could find a way to get her to talk,” the sniper leered. Dara kept herself from rolling her eyes as Hunter glared at Crosshair almost scoldingly.

“Ignore him,” he insisted gently. “Look, we get it. We’re not exactly friends of the Empire, either, and you never know who to trust. We’re on our way to Ord Mantell. It’s going to be a few hours, but there’s a spaceport there. Take some time to recover, and then you can be on your way.” With that, the leader set off for the cockpit.

An interesting development. Maybe the best thing to happen to her all day. Although she’d never been there before, Ord Mantell was one of the dozens of seedy planets where she knew how to access a subspace communications transceiver. With any luck, she’d be able to contact Saw, transmit the data, and find a way off-planet before the rotation was out.

Dara startled out of her planning suddenly when Tech tried to reach for her leg.

“Your recovery will be significantly longer if you do not receive treatment,” he observed in a polite, but matter-of-fact tone.

The men had saved her life; they were giving her a ride; and now they were continuing to give her medical treatment, without asking for anything in return. What kind of mercenaries were these?

Still—and as much as she avoided medics like the plague—Dara’s various aches hadn’t faded nearly enough with the hypo to turn down further help.

“Fine,” she allowed. Tech treated her leg briskly and efficiently, and without any scolding commentary. Dara made a mental note to remind Ryndi that such a thing was possible whenever she managed to make it back to base.

She was still savoring the cool, refreshing feeling of the bacta against her calf when Tech sat back.

“Please remove the clothing over your torso. I need to examine and wrap your ribs,” he instructed. Dara carefully shucked off her poncho, holsters, and shirt, her ribs still twinging terribly. She sucked in a cautious breath against the pain as Tech began palpating them gently and administering the medicine.

Over Tech’s shoulder, she caught Crosshair’s golden eyes tracing their way down her figure with open hunger. He was a little slack-jawed, the toothpick in his mouth drooping precariously.

When he finally realized she was watching him, the sniper only raised an amused eyebrow and smirked.

That kriffing asshole.

If she had been in her right mind and maintaining her cover, she might have flirted. Sure, she would have felt bile in her throat the whole time, but she knew better than to be openly hostile in a situation where she was trapped like this. Being agreeable was safe. It got people talking, let them overlook you.

Instead, she snapped, “What’s your problem?”

“Just enjoying the show,” Crosshair purred, that slimy little—

“Please do not antagonize her, Crosshair,” Tech scolded, securing the bandages carefully as he finished wrapping her ribs. He was bent over still, focusing on his task, and his blaster was right there in reach—

It was probably the concussion that made her do it, Dara thought idly even as she leveled the blaster at the sniper in challenge.

“Say that again,” she growled.

Crosshair only smirked wider, apparently beyond pleased with himself. Around her, she felt and heard the rest of the men unholster their own weapons within an instant, no doubt pointing them right at her, although she didn’t shift her gaze from the sniper’s smug, smarmy, stupid face.

Finally, she tossed the blaster to the floor with contempt, and the others all relaxed back into their activities without a word while Tech retrieved it. Strange, but maybe they were used to this sort of thing, if this was how Crosshair always behaved. She wouldn’t be surprised.

Sure enough, she swore she could almost detect the ghost of a knowing smile on Tech’s unusually impassive face. Apparently satisfied with his medical efforts, the man simply gave her a final once-over, adjusted his goggles, retrieved his blaster, and got to his feet.

“Crosshair, she has a concussion. Keep her awake,” he instructed as he joined the others in the cockpit, nose already buried in his datapad.

The sniper was still smirking. “Oh, goody,” he drawled sarcastically, and Dara had the troubling suspicion that his ideas for doing so were going to be irksome.

The ache in her head was already coming back. She rubbed her forehead and ran her fingers through her dirty, sweat-matted hair, begging the Force to give her patience.

“Can I at least have my pack?” she pleaded wearily. A cup of jha-ay would help clear her head so she could focus on getting through the rest of the ride through hyperspace.

Crosshair examined her with idle suspicion, worrying his toothpick, as he pulled her pack from the shelf behind him. Dara carefully schooled her expression to keep from betraying her relief that the data was safe.

“Anything… dangerous… in here I should know about?” the sniper murmured.

Dara could have laughed at the irony. He didn’t know the half of it. Surely he was worried about any weapons, and the most dangerous thing she had was the tiny datachip hidden in the lining—if she excluded herself.

“Dangerous?” she questioned innocently. “Not me. I avoid danger. Just trying to make a life in a nice, quiet corner of the galaxy.”

And, well, at one time she had been.

“I’m sure the hijacked Imperial shuttle was all a misunderstanding, then,” he countered smoothly, rummaging through her pack and taking her utility knives before handing it over. Not that she cared as she threw herself into the familiar routine of preparing the tea, finally feeling some of the tension in her body loosen when she sat back and took a long, hot, comforting sip from the metal straw.

Crosshair was watching her.

“Habit I picked up on Endor,” she tossed out by way of explanation, which was true. Her easiest cover to pick up was the one nearest to her real identity: a former linguist, familiar with roughing it on mostly wild planets from her years of fieldwork, now a quiet nomad living out of her ship and going wherever the seasons and her whims took her.

Close enough to who she really had been—if you didn’t count the time spent helping liberate her home planet from Separatists. Or that she’d been back helping foment a galactic rebellion for nearly a year.

“There is no civilization on Endor,” Tech responded almost curiously from the cockpit. “It is inhabited only by hostile primitives.”

An unfair but, unfortunately, all-too-common perception of the Ewoks, who, Dara knew from experience, were strong warriors, clever engineers, and a deeply spiritual people. She would trade Endor for Coruscant any day.

“I’ve seen how civilization is defined in the Galactic Empire. I prefer to spend my time with the primitives,” Dara replied, a bit haughtily.

“Is that little… ideological disagreement… how you ended up shot?” Crosshair interrupted.

Dank farrik, Dara knew now that he was looking to trip her up in any way that he could. The sniper seemed to be naturally suspicious, and certainly her early mistakes under the concussion—not to mention what he must have seen during the firefight—had gotten her off to the wrong start with flying under his radar.

She sipped her jha-ay, savoring the bitter, grassy flavor, and held his gaze steadily. Dara had undergone far worse interrogation before, and she certainly wasn’t about to let this bastard get the best of her.

After a moment holding her under his intense scrutiny, Crosshair finally seemed to relent, turning his attention toward his rifle. Dara observed him through lidded eyes as he produced a rag from seemingly nowhere and set about cleaning it attentively.

She was drawn almost hypnotically to the careful, rhythmic motion of his long fingers even as she idly noted the make and model. 773 Firepuncher…it rang a distant bell in her memory, dredging up recollections of long, hot days in the jungle, Steela lecturing on the relative merits of the different options as she modified her own high-powered weapon…

Dara could almost feel herself drifting off on a long-gone, hazy afternoon, but pulled herself carefully back to the present. Crosshair was still focused elsewhere, and her time was better used to examine her surroundings more thoroughly.

There was something about these mercenaries that kept nagging at her. Familiar faces and voices, a familiar weapon, the impression that she’d seen them before, already knew them somehow…

It was a glimpse of a Republic cog on an old, tucked-away crate that finally made the pieces fall into place, striking her like lightning from a blue sky.

Clones. They were Republic clones.

Dara had no idea how she hadn’t realized it the moment she’d seen them. Well, admittedly, this bunch was a much larger variation on the standard than she’d ever come across, but now that she’d realized, it couldn’t be more obvious in that strong, broad nose, those deep, brown eyes.

She couldn’t believe what had landed in her lap. Her wounds, her concussion, the shit day she’d had—it was all forgotten as she schooled her face, solidified her cover story, and made her plans.

Anti-Imperial clones. Deserters.

They were exactly what she’d been looking for.

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