#medpack thoughts

[raccoonfallsharder]

Presumably Rocket has never used a medpak before Vol 3 which could be seen as a plothole but I think the better answer is that he never needed to, he's never been that close to death before, that's how badass he is

look I’ve put a LOT of thought into medpacks with no clear outcomes lol. thanks for sending this ask so i can finally sit down and process through all my too-many ideas about them lol (seriously! this was a great ask and a lot of fun to think about thaaank you)

short answer: i agree. my guy is a fuckin genius at evasion and survival. but... i also don’t know what our rate of comparison for medpack-usage is? i’m fairly certain we don’t see many (any?) medpacks before vol 3. for all we know, they get used pretty rarely in general. maybe almost none of the guardians have had to use one before, because they’re all survivors - the luckiest of the unlucky, or vice versa.

i say this because i suspect medpacks are intended to heal major, life-threatening, emergency trauma - not cuts and contusions, not things that aren't emergencies - and we actually haven’t seen the guardians in those situations tbh. until v3, they’ve come out of every fight with scrapes, or (relatively) minor injuries that can heal in time. plus, access to medpacks (especially while actively cavorting around the galaxy) may be limited, and if you have three medpacks on a ship with a five-person crew and won't be able to restock for at least another six missions, nobody wants to be the asshole who uses a medpack for bruised ribs when, two cycles later, you end up with three teammates who are bleeding out.

(as an aside: i think the only reason mantis uses the medpack in v3 on herself is because in this particular scenario, a busted-up noodle-arm is an emergency. they are in the middle of an unexpected attack on their home turf and they don’t know why, rocket’s almost dead, and mantis needs to be able to perform at her best to protect herself, her friends, and the people of knowhere. i suspect a painful case of the noodle-arm gets in the way of peak performance.)

this all leads me to add that i think crewmates want to avoid using medpacks for more delicate injuries even if they are readily-accessible. like, if drax cuts his hand off while trying to juggle his daggers, the medpack would heal his stump - but doc glirgoth on the next planet over might be able to reattach it with 98% return on strength and sensation within two cycles, as long as the guardians can get drax to him in the next rotation or so.

now. i also think rocket has probably sustained some emergency life-threatening injuries before, especially when he was newly-escaped from halfworld. however, i think he learned how to do almost all his own first aid thanks to his years alone and his brilliant mind, even if a lot of his efforts are clumsier than a trained healer might be able to provide. like, you know at some point, this guy got sliced up or shot at pretty bad, and he probably could have used a medpack but didn’t have access to one. rocket for sure has ended up passing out while stitching himself up, at least once. even when he does have access to healers, he's not gonna use 'em - not only because he refuses to set foot in medical centers (ttttrauma), but also because he has so many unique things going on in his body that he’s had to figure most of it out on his own. like. there isn’t a single medical holotext in the galaxy that can comprehensively cover his physiology. a healer would need at least a grasp of basic mammal biology and medicine (even this can be hyper-complicated) and probably a few different types of engineering as well. so no to the healers and med-centers: not only does rocket not trust strangers with his body, but they also couldn’t possibly be expected to know what they were doing.

finally, i also think it’s possible that he has used a medpack before in emergency situations for non-vital, non-synthetic, non-trademarked organs. i kind of think a medpack on his crushed, biologically-given femur wouldn’t trigger his killswitch the same way a medpack on his heart, lungs, or brain would. i haven’t studied up on medpacks enough to REALLY know how they interact with rocket (if there's anything definitive out there), but i doubt all organs and structures are linked to the killswitch and if they haven't been tampered with too badly, the medpack may still work on them.

i mean, fundamentally, you’re right. it’s unlikely rocket has used a medpack before because he is that good, but they’re also complicated tech we don’t fully understand and i think that allows them to be less of a “plot hole” than others might think. or at least, they are plot holes so artistically constructed that i can justify them lol ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ♡♡♡

[vespertine-legacy]

Things I’m learning to do really well on Firebrand and Stormcaller:

Kiting the lightning spikes while everyone else is on the tanks. I am golden at positioning the spikes so that if we’ve got a Juggernaut dps, they can reflect that shit

Cleansing the missile off of myself in a timely manner and a good spot (the only time I died to the missile tonight, I’m honestly not sure if that’s what killed me, because both tanks were dead and I took Double Destruction to the face and a missile strike, so)

Helping the dps find the Trandoshan with the bomb (debuff hunting!) and helping kill Trandoshans while also panic-healing the tank that’s not under a shield as he flies by

Things I will apparently never learn to do on Firebrand and Stormcaller:

Not goddamn res anybody while I’m kiting lightning spikes, only to have them immediately get obliterated by the lightning spike I just res’d them into (and since I’m almost always muted, me screaming “NO DONT TAKE IT DONT TAKE IT DONT TAKE IT WAAAAAAAAAAAAIT” is useless)

[eveenstar]

heii!! ^^, can you make another hoodie x reader one-shot? i've come to love ALL of your scenarios ,, left me wanting more :D

if you don't want to do this... well! thats fine, i'd understand! ^^

maybe... hoodie's hurt? and reader cares for him?

hurt, as in, wounded! like, knife stab or something!

thank you,

take care

One injured Hoodie coming through! This was interesting to write. Hope you enjoy! Sorry it's short. Take care! ♡

your blood in my hands (and I wouldn't have it any other way) | Brian Thomas/Hoodie

tw: reader's gender isn't specified. Obvious blood mentions, nothing too gory.

Beneath your hands, Brian lays as still as a rock. He doesn't flinch from your touch, not after the last three reprimands you muttered under your breath. It was odd enough that he let you tend to his wound, even more that he actually listened to you! Then again, there was a bullet wound on his body. Thankfully, it hadn't punctured any organs. Still, you were surprised someone had managed to survive long enough to shoot him.

Ah, well, Brian wasn't a young man anymore. He was closer to his mid forties than his mid twenties.

And with the number of Americans now possessing guns as if it were candy? Tsk. That was bad for business. Brian's business, that is.

"That's enough." Brian uttered, pulling himself up to his feet - and almost sliding back down onto the blood-stained chair with a frustrated hiss. "Fuck.."

"You lost too much blood." You sat back, rummaging through the old medpack. Living with a stalker-killer "employed" by an eldritch being, far away from any civilization, had forced you to take on skills such as cleaning wounds (of any kind), sewing and cooking with the bare least you had.

You sighed. "I thought... Why did you take on such a mission alone? Why not take a lesser one with you?"

"It is what He asked of me."

The words fell off painted in tones of melancholy and numbness. There was no trace of emotion behind them, like a corpse. If it wasn't for his beating heart or the living blood that stained your hands, you would've thought Brian was as much of a dead man as those that fell to his hands.

Resigned, you closed the medpack. "Then you should tell him that you are not allowed to go on any missions that aren't scavenging for information."

For the first time that morning, a hint of emotion reflected on his eyes. Raising an eyebrow, a wheeze of laughter escaped his lips. "Allowed?"

"Yes," You mimicked his expression. "You care for me, I care for you. That was our deal."

"Our deal," Brian leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees. He bared his teeth at you in a low hiss, "did not include you bossing me around."

Still mimicking him, you too leaned closer until the tips of your noses were grazing each other. "Consider our deal emended."

For the briefest of moments, you thought Brian would lash out, pull you away as he always did. When his eyes narrowed, you prepared yourself for the worst. Your gazes met, and you hoped to see the man behind the walls Brian built around himself. You had his blood in your hands, but you didn't have his heart. No, his heart already belonged to something far above you.

Far darker.

The flicker of his gaze to your lips did not go unnoticed. You were close enough to smell the iron-blood in his skin and feel his breath mixing with yours. You believed Brian would kiss you right then and there.

Instead, he stood to his feet with unprompted strength. With a low rumble, he said, "Your skill with the needle has improved."

You assumed that was his way of thanking you and acknowledging your efforts. One, for removing the bullet. Two, for cleaning the wound. Three, for stitching it. You huffed lightly; Brian should be thankful you didn't take advantage of his altered state, stumbling bloody upon the kitchen at early sunrise and take him out of his misery right then and there.

Then again, you doubted you could take a man of his size and strength even when injured. A deep but low voice whispered in the back of your mind that that was not the only reason; you were in this with Brian. There was no turning back. Surely, no one sane enough would happily remain in your position.

Maybe you two weren't so different after all.

[thatonefanficwriternooneknows]

Corrie Week Day 3: “You shouldn’t be here”

Started writing this yesterday cause I’m spending most of today driving to get to our art class and then art class 😂

And there’s a lot of free time between Halloween shows ;)

As requested by @somestorythoughts ;) thanks for the brain worm!

“Really Commander? What in the kriff did you get into this time? Why is blood pouring from the seams of your kute?”

Hex rushed into Fox’s office, already swinging his medpack off his back and opening it for easy access. He slid it across the floor to the bunk Fox thought he didn’t know about.

“Hex? You…you’re not supposed to be here.” Fox wheezed out, chest hitching with each gasp of breath he took. Clearly a broken rib or two.

But Hex was more concerned about wherever that much blood was coming from.

“I’m the kriffing CMO and you’re injured. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” Hex scoffed as he pushed Fox towards the bunk, carefully starting to de-shell his patient as he did.

Fox tried to stop him, but his arms were so weak Hex could push them away easily as he carefully placed the bloody armor out of the way. (A clear sign something was really really wrong. Even through all the haran that Coruscant has put them through, the ration cuts, the natborns, the GAR’s hatred, Fox remained the toughest shabuir the Corries had. The fact that Hex could easily push him way was a bad kriffing sign.)

“Let, let me rephrase then,” Fox gasped out, groaning as Hex pulled a little too hard on his kute when removing it from the gaping kriffing wound in his chest, “you shouldn’t be here.”

Hex growled at the stubborn di’kut and dug in his med pack one handed to get out the pre-portioned hypo, priming it as he brought the needle to Fox’s neck.

Of course the absolute besom knocked it out of Hex’s hands because he’s a self sacrifice kriffing moron.

“Fox, I swear to every holy and unholy deity I’ve ever heard of, including you, that if you do not let me give you this pain reliever I will tie you down and make you take it.”

Fox weakly glared at Hex, but bared his neck a few moments later, obviously realizing he wasn’t going to win against Hex.

“Good vod.”

Hex was then allowed the rare view of the Marshall Commander of the Coruscant Guard flushing a fetching scarlet.

“Kinky…” Fox’s voice slurred a little as the pain relief kicked in and Hex let his tense muscles relax slightly as Fox started to slowly blink at him.

“It is quite similar to the last time we were together, isn’t it? Could do without the blood and clearly life threatening injury.” Hex snarked, trying not to get distracted by Fox’s bare tits when there was a gaping kriffing wound right below them.

(He was a simple vod, and Fox was stunning even when beat to haran and bloody as kriff.)

“Wish it was more like that…”

“Oh? Want to let me order you around again, commander? Let you turn off your scheming brain for an hour or two?” Hex talked slowly while getting out the surgical thread and needle.

“Mmmm. My favorite…part of the month, Hex.” Fox breathed slowly as Hex started stitching the gash closed.

His commander was a kriffing awful patient, but he knew how to breath the right way when Hex had to stitch a wound on his abdomen up.

“I thought that was when Quinlan surfaces from the lower levels and kidnaps you for a day or two.” Hex laughed under his breath at the stank face Fox made at him.

“Why the kriff-”

“You can’t fool me, Fox, that trash tooka lights up your life.” Hex tied the surgical thread tightly, snapping it carefully and putting the excess away.

“Just like…Prost and…Hetic do…to yours.”

Hex scowled.

(The downside to knowing Fox for so kriffing long was that the bastard knew just as much about Hex and he knew about Fox.

It was a very equal relationship.)

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” When in doubt, deny it out.

Fox laughed lightly before coughing some bloody spittle onto his chin.

Of course there was internal bleeding.

“I need to give you a bacta injection, Fox.” Hex was already reaching for the scarce necessity, keeping an eye on Fox so the madvod didn’t try and knock it out of his hands again.

“No.”

“It’s cute that you think I’m giving you a choice. You have internal bleeding, you besom.”

Fox, of course,

[ruinedbylanadelrey]

Just imagine Reader taking care of Din’s injuries after he was in a big fight and got lots of cuts and bruises on his chest and back. Of course it starts to turn intimate and Din wants some, but Reader reminds him he’s hurt. It would be steamy, sweet, and funny all at once.

Like You Do | Din Djarin x f!Reader

"You're the one I can't lose, no one loves me like you do" - Joji, Like You Do

summary: Din comes back to the crest hurt and her heart just breaks at the sight of her strong Mandalorian crumbling to his knees. warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, descriptions of blood, cuts, and needles, his name is din not djarin (i'm sorry he is 4ever din<3), razor crest lives forever, mando'a use, no grogu, reader is so in love with, din is a simp, mando's helmet comes off (i'm sorry), sexual tension, touching, groping, kissing, din begging to be fucked AN: I have had this request in my drafts forever because i kept re writing it so here is the final product. I want to clarify that Din Djarin is my #1 man, i know it's shocking because I write about Joel mostly. But Din is my soulmate and I'm a little embarrassed to share my thoughts about Din. Like my room color scheme is grey, silver, and black I re did my room back when The Mandalorian came out. That's my little secret<3 anyways enjoy my little fantasy<3333 masterlist

translations: cyar’ika- darling, beloved, sweetheart Udesii- "take it easy" Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum- "I love you/I know you forver"

Din could feel the sliced skin stretch with each step he took, all he could smell is blood, blaster smoke, and sweat. His breathing was uneven and his body trembling when he made it to the crest, falling to his knees as he heard your sweet honey voice calling out to him.

"Din! Maker! I don't know where you're bleeding from!" You slide to your knees taking the large Mandalorian into your arms, laying him against your chest, your hands working quickly removing his armor except for his helmet. His flight suit was torn on his left side at the waist, his flesh gashed, red bleeding into the meat of his skin. He needs bacta but the hard stuff. 

Din said he will only use it if you were the one hurt; your mind replayed that whole argument when you guys finally gave in and fell through the thin wire of tension cutting it when he thrust himself into your hot core.

You asked him, 'Why can't we use it on you if it ever comes down to it?'

'I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive...you're the one I can't lose.'

You scoffed at him and just spat 'So I can lose you and feel the exact same pain you would feel for me'

'You're so much stronger than me in every single way, cyar’ika' Din chokes up and it broke your heart seeing be so emotional. He was a cold-hearted person until you came along as another recuse he collected. You brought your sunshine and melted away the winter in his heart. 

The movie in your head clears when you grabbed the needle of bacta and pinched his skin near the gash and pushed the medicine into his muscles. Din's screams were so visceral and his hands grip your thighs, bruising them to a deep purple. "Udesii! Udesii!" You cry out as you throw the empty syringe across the hull.

His body jolts while the bacta runs through his body, you composed yourself and grab the medpack pulling out the field cauterizer. You laid him on his right side while you fused his skin back together. Burning flesh filled the air making your bile come up your throat burning it and leaving a sour taste in your mouth, your hands slick from sweating and his blood. 

Din going limp and taking shallows breaths submitting to you saving him. You wiped your hands on your pants and laying him on his back, you sobbed as you cupped the cheek of his helmet with your hands.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum" Din strangles to say holding your wrist in his hand, pressing your hand closer to the beskar. You collapsed on top of him, your body jerking from the hiccups and sobs leaving your mouth. Din wraps his arms around holding you like a child holding his favorite toy close so it won't leave his sight. 

"You're so dramatic, little girl" Din takes a deep breath and laughs it out. You craned your neck to him without his helmet. You quickly turned away, you panic and guilt slamming into your heart. "I want you to see me, cyar’ika" Din grabs your chin and tilts your head where your eyes are burning into his brown eyes.

You swallow as your eyes dance around his face, taking his eyes, the scruff on his face, patchy in a few spots, his mustache bringing attention to his plump lips, so pink and kissable. 

"You were crafted by the maker, din" You trace his nose with your fingertip, taking in how his skin feels on yours. "Kiss me, little girl, please" He whimpers while you thumb over his bottom lip. The need in his voice made you ache between your thighs. You carefully straddle his waist and bring your lips to his, Din sits up groaning while he licked in your mouth, his hands exploring up and down your back, his hands grabbing your ass and squeezing so hard. 

You gasp and moan "Din...you're h-" he cuts you off and bites your lip. He grabs your hand and places it on top of the outline of his hard cock. "C'mon baby, let's fuck," his words entice you as you tighten your grip around his clothed length, and he winces and whimpers and you remembered you're the stronger one and need to stop this so he could rest.

"Din, no you need to rest," he kisses your neck and bites at the thin skin. "Little girl, let's have fun..." That damn name made you want to say screw it. "Let's sleep, I'm tired and you have to be too," You helped Din to the steel slab that he calls a bed and lays down holding out his arms for you to be his human-weighted blanket. 

"We will talk about the bacta when we wake up" Din mumbles as sleep takes over him and relaxes with you on top of him. 

[millersdjarin]

I Only See Daylight

Chapter Four

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter warnings/tags: slow burn, dad!din, bonding, injuries (not in detail), negative self-talk, mentions of past trauma/abuse

Chapter Length: 4.2k

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist & Info

notes: im sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the others! if it's any consolation, a few of the chapters in this fic are 10k, so there's that. :) i've set a posting schedule of mondays and thursdays, but this week i'm posting on sunday because i'm going to be travelling on monday and i have to stay off tumblr to avoid tlou spoilers until the evening. so, surprise :)

i don't wanna look at anything else now that i saw you

“How do you feel?” Is the first thing you hear when you wake, rolling over on your makeshift bed to find Mando standing at the cave entrance again. He’s leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his hip cocked out, one leg bent casually. 

Kriffing hells, how is he so attractive when all you can see of him is his posture and his impossibly shiny armour? 

You force the thought from your mind, blaming it on your half-asleep state. 

“I don’t know yet,” you answer with a grimace. It’s been two days since your fall. The pain is better, though the rest of your body feels stiff now, muscle soreness finally catching up with you after the tumble. There hasn’t been another storm, at least, so Mando has managed to hunt for every meal so far. He goes out to get water every morning, filling canteens to the brim. He makes you drink so much that sometimes it feels like you’re swimming in it. “Hydration helps with healing,” he says every time, even though you already know; he says it just to counter your playful glaring at him every time he hands you the flask. 

“Sun rose not that long ago,” he cranes his neck to gaze up at the sky, “if you’re feeling up to it, we can probably travel today.” 

You manage to sit up, but the minute you do, pain shoots down from the wound on your calf and into your ankle. It circles there around the joint and throbs. “Have we got any more ice packs?” 

“One more,” Mando answers as he heads right over to his medpack and gets it out. 

“We should ration it,” you hold out your hand to stop him activating it. “For when we’re travelling. I’ll probably need it.” 

He looks down at the pack, hesitates. Then nods and puts it away. “Do you think you’ll be okay to travel today? If so, we should move soon, make the most of the daylight.”

Shifting a little, you try to get a gage on your body, how it feels. A grimace makes its way onto your face without your consent. Everything hurts. Literally everything. Muscles you didn’t even know you had are strained and stiff. 

But you’ve been here for two days. He’s been stranded here for four. 

“If the answer is anything but yes,” his voice cuts through your rapidly declining thoughts, “then my answer is no.” 

Relieved, you smile. But you protest, “Mando, you’ve stayed with me so long now. I can make my own way back.” 

“No,” he says definitively. “We move when you’re ready.” 

You relax, settling back against the wall. You’re too sore to argue. 

“The kid’s enjoying the vacation, anyway,” Mando says, the lilt of a smile in his voice. 

As if summoned, Grogu steps forward from his little bed at the back of the cave. He yawns, his tiny mouth opening as wide as it can go, his eyes screwing shut. 

Oh, Maker, he is adorable. 

“You take time off a lot?” You ask with a wry smile as Mando scoops the kid up into his arms. 

The huff of a laugh comes through his helmet. “Not really.” 

“Why am I not surprised?”

Mando tickles Grogu’s cheek, earning a little giggle. 

You watch them. There’s that warmth again, creeping its way between your ribs, around your heart. 

You have to look away. 

All three of you are starting to get a little stir crazy by the time the night comes around. 

You’re feeling better, though. Mando’s hydration obsession is working to help loosen out your stiff muscles. It doesn’t help, though, that you have to keep getting up every hour to pee. Especially because you have to tell Mando every time nature calls, which is, admittedly, rather humiliating—it shouldn’t be, it’s fucking natural, but he’s Mando and he’s been making you feel a certain way, and you don’t want to have to admit to this terrifying yet comforting man that you have to piss. It’s even worse that he has to help you hobble outside, then walk away while you do your business, and come back and pretend to not notice the puddle sinking into the ground. 

It’s demoralising. Your cheeks are tired from flushing red all the time. 

But he insists on you drinking enough, even when you protest. 

“I don’t mind doing this, you know,” he says as the sun sets, an arm around you as you hobble to the designated Nature Area. 

“Yes, you do,” you grumble, kind of just wanting the ground to open up and swallow you whole. 

“I don’t,” he insists. “It’s fine. Besides, it’s good to move a little.” 

“A little? Mando, it’s every hour, on the hour, at this point.” 

The unfamiliar sound of a soft laugh comes through his helmet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it sounded fond. But you’ve never heard a laugh like that. So. “It’s good. Just call me back when you’re ready.” 

He never comes back until you call, no matter how long it takes you.

It isn’t lost on you, either, that you never would have been able to do this on your own. You’d have had to piss where you sat. Which seems like a worse concept than just ruining your leg, and subsequent mobility, forever by forcing yourself to walk home. 

As darkness approaches, Mando takes his flashlight—yours is long dead by now—and puts it in the far end of the cave. He stays over there, rustling in his pack for something. Curious, you watch, wondering what he’s doing; he angles the light strangely, propping it up with a few stray rocks on the ground, and then fishes out a small piece of canvas, pulled from what remained of your tent. He puts it over the flashlight, folds it once. 

Then, the light is softer. Diffused around the cave. 

Grogu, who is sitting against the wall playing with a little silver ball, looks up at the newly-lit cave walls and laughs in glee. 

“You like it, kid?” Mando asks him. 

The kid claps his hands together, gazing around. Mando laughs softly and sits back down beside the kid, watching him. 

You’re watching Mando. It’s impossible not to, with the soft light reflecting from his armour in a new way, casting new highlights and shadows across every curve and edge. You wonder what places he’s been, how he’d look in all kinds of light. Harsh, bright, sunshine of a bright summer’s day, the dark ashy colour beneath rain clouds. 

“Mando?” You find yourself saying. 

He looks up at you, one hand holding the kid. 

“Tell me about somewhere else you’ve been,” you request. “Please?” 

“Where do you want to hear about?” 

“Anywhere. First place that comes to mind.” 

For a second, he’s quiet, just looking at you. Considering. When he speaks, he doesn’t say what you expected him to, and his voice is softer than it should be. “You really want to travel, don’t you?” 

And, okay. 

That hits a nerve. 

You look away, blinking. It’s clear that you’ve tensed, that something has made you uncomfortable; and you expect him to backtrack, to apologise, but he just waits. So patient, like he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t say anything, or even if you just told him to fuck right off. You wish you could see his face, decipher his expression. Match it to the soft curiosity of his lovely voice. 

“Yeah,” you manage on a shaky breath, imagining yourself up there, in the vastness of space, free to explore the Galaxy. “Yeah, I do.” 

Quiet again. He’s giving you space. 

You take it, let it sink in. 

Then, his voice is there again, “So why don’t you?”

And if that isn’t a question and a half. “It’s, uh,” you clear your throat. You’re about to say it’s complicated. But that doesn’t even cover the half of it. Instead, feeling a cold, familiar dread slowly creeping through your veins, you say, “I like it here.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you still, some kind of unexplainable patience coming from his dark visor. 

It’s unclear if he can hear the omission of the truth.

You don’t want to lie to him. 

You’re sitting here, in a cave that he so beautifully lit as best he can, on top of a bed that he made just for you to be comfortable, after he’s helped you pee about twelve times a day for the last two days. He’s been nothing but kind. 

And it’s not that you feel like you owe him answers because of that. Nor, in fact, that you think he feels you owe him answers. His quiet, unassuming patience in the dim intimacy of this cave is proof enough of that. 

No, it’s not that. 

It’s that you’ve been alone for so long. You’ve never said this to anyone.

And after all this, once you’re back at your hut and you’ve fixed his ship together, he’s going to leave. And you’re never going to see him again, anyway. 

So. 

“Truthfully,” you say, “as much as I like it here, it’s not where I’d choose to be. If I had another choice.” 

Instead of staying still and silent, he starts to nod. His gaze is unwavering, solid and stable, weaving its way into the tension and uncertainty beneath your skin, soothing it.

Grogu gets up and waddles over to you. He climbs clumsily into your lap.

Then, with a quick look to Grogu, Mando says, “I understand.”

And that, those simple words, make something release in your chest.

The weight of your confession doesn’t feel as heavy as you’d expected. In fact, it feels like something has lifted in the air between the three of you. Like even the kid understands. 

Well.

This is new. 

-

As the third morning in the cave rolls around, you wake up feeling much better. 

Once you’ve relieved your always-full bladder, you tell Mando as much, staggering back into the cave and to your bed. “You can stop over-watering me now,” you tease as he lets you back against the wall, gentle. Your hands are on the backs of his arms, and slide all the way down them as he moves away. You wish you could linger there, and the way he moves so slowly, his visor gazing down into your sleepy eyes, makes you think that he wishes that, too. 

As your palms brush against his wrists, he seems to catch himself. He pulls away quickly and turns to distract himself with the kid.

“So, you’re ready to travel?” He asks. 

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply, staring at him from behind. He has a nice behind. (And you need to stop. Immediately.)

“You can lean on me. We’ll take it slow, I promise.” 

Kriff, say that again… “I’ll be alright. You’ve got enough to carry.” 

He looks at you again. “I’m leaving the parts here,” he says, like that should be obvious. 

“What?” You frown. “But your ship…” 

“Once we find our way back, and you’re safe, I’ll come back for them.” 

“Mando, I can manage. Seriously, we should take the parts. You’ve been here long enough.” 

The helmet tilts. “You trying to get rid of me?” It would concern you, if the teasing in his tone wasn’t arousingly obvious.

You just about manage to recover from the stirring in your belly, and you laugh, “Totally. Sick of you already.” 

The kid, standing beside him, looks at you and makes a sad noise. His ears turn down towards the ground. 

Kriff. “Hey, I’m just kidding,” you assure him with a smile. As a peace offering, you reach your hands out to him, and he relaxes in an instant, immediately plodding over to you and climbing into your lap. You hold him, give him a quick hug, then just let him sit there. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually gonna miss you,” you whisper into his ear. He coos happily, tugging at a loose thread on your coat.

When you look up, Mando is, of course, staring at you. This time, you know for sure that it’s at both you and the kid.

“What?” You ask. 

“Nothing,” he answers after a moment of hesitation. “I’m going to pack up. Then we can move. You okay to sit with the kid?” 

“You know I am,” you smile, and watch as Mando nods and heads outside.

That pang in your chest is back. Well, you’re not sure when it turned from a slow warmth into a pang. 

But it’s there. Too obvious to ignore. 

For a few miles, you manage pretty well. It took some convincing, but you got Mando to agree to taking the parts along with him in the end. You do lean on him, but only when moving over particularly rough terrain, fallen logs, or exposed tree roots. 

“How we doing?” Mando asks at around noon. 

“Fine,” you say, feeling a little breathless. 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure. We can stop soon for a break.” 

Another hour passes, your ankle is starting to throb, and you’re really fucking glad that you saved that ice pack for this exact moment. 

Mando sits you down on a fallen log, keeping his arm around you until you’re properly seated, lingering just a little too long for you to tame the way it makes your heart beat wildly. To feel the heat of him through his flight suit, your hands and arms pressed to parts of him not covered by armour, just the soft parts; it’s a lot. When you first saw him, this wall of metal, you never thought you’d see any further than that. Kriff, you never even thought he’d get closer to your hut than he was when you had your blaster pointed at him. 

Maybe that would have been best. Because if he’d just left, if there was another way for him to get the help he needed, you wouldn’t be thinking about him the way you are right now. 

The softness of the crook of his elbow, the curve of his waist and hip. The warmth of his skin that you have yet to see an inch of. All of the weapons strapped to him, so close to you, close enough that if it were anyone else, you’d be scared. 

But it’s Mando. 

This might be the least scared you’ve been in a lifetime. 

He cracks the ice pack to activate it, then kneels down in front of you. Reaching out to grab a smaller log, he places it under your ankle, elevates your leg slightly. Then his gloved fingers tug at the hem of your trousers. “Can I?” He asks. 

Kriff. You nod, unable to form words. 

The rough-yet-smoothness of the gloves is all you feel at first, brushing delicately against your skin as he lifts your trousers, then unlaces your boots, gently pulling them off, followed by your socks. Your ankle is more swollen than it had been this morning, but you’d expected that. 

And, besides, that is not what you’re thinking about right now. 

Instead your mind can only focus on the softness of his hold under your foot, the gentle way he places the ice pack on top of it. The heat of his hand starts to come through. You wish it was his bare skin. Wish you knew what his skin is like. Is it calloused, or soft from always protecting them? Does he have scars? Is the hair on his arms dark, light, a thin covering or thicker, perfect to run your fingers through—

His hands are gone before you realise it. It takes your glitching mind a second to catch up.

You chase him with your eyes, silently wishing for him to come back. 

But then. 

Then. 

As he turns away, he reaches for the flask in his satchel. You watch his hands lift to his helmet, take a gentle hold of the base of it. At first you panic, thinking he’s about to remove his helmet, no you don’t have to do that it’s okay—

But he just lifts it the tiniest bit, such a small movement that you only know it has been lifted because he puts the rim of his flask to his lips and takes a sip. 

You can’t see his skin, not a hint of it. But you can hear him drinking, hear the water against his lips, the gentle gulps as he swallows. 

And the way it entrances you, takes you away from the forest and the pain of your ankle and the fact that this is so not appropriate for you to be thinking—yeah, it’s probably for the best that he can’t ever show his face to you.

You look away before he even lowers the helmet again. 

-

Maybe the worst part about all this is that you’re starting to dread Mando and the kid leaving. 

That’s not how this was supposed to go, not how any of this was supposed to play out. You helped him because it was the right thing to do, because it’s exactly what They would tell you not to do, because your life has been the same every single fucking day since you got here. 

But that’s been fine. It’s been safe. 

“Pass me that wrench?” Mando asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. 

You pass him it, noting the tilt of his helmet in a wordless ‘thanks’ before he turns back to his job. He’s up on a ladder, leaning against the ship’s exterior wall with one of the panels fully off, fixing something to do with the foundation for the body. 

His ship is bigger than you’d expected. He tells you that it’s bigger than his old ship, the Razor Crest, but only by a little. “It’s a similar shape,” he’d said, “but it has two bunks and more space. For the kid.” He has a star fighter too, apparently, docked at some other base off-world with a friend of his. It’s funny to imagine him with friends, though you’re not sure why. Especially because, since getting to know him the last few days, you know how generous he is. How kind, helpful. Gentle, despite everything. 

Why wouldn’t he have friends?

Beneath him, you sit on a crate and lean against the ship, waiting for him to give you more instructions. The engine has been mostly fixed now, as much as it’s ever going to be out here in the middle of nowhere using scrounged-up parts. He’s just getting the last of the body work done, enough to make sure it’s aerodynamically sound. 

It’s interesting, watching him work. You ask a lot of questions, and every time you do, you expect a frustrated sigh or an exasperated response. But he answers every question thoroughly, and it doesn’t even distract him from his work. 

The sun is warm against your face. The afternoon of Mando’s fifth day on this planet is drawing to a close, fading into the evening. As the sky turns to duller shades of blue, tinted with oranges and pinks, you can’t help but admire the way he looks beneath the light. His armour is always the same, always so distinctive, yet it reflects different lights in different ways. Sometimes it makes the beskar appear darker, like a gun metal grey. Other times it’s a bright silver. Then there are times like this, when it goes with the colour of the sky, reflects the beauty of everything surrounding him. 

You think back to the light in the cave, how that looked different still. The urge to see the Galaxy comes over you again, though this time it’s not staring at his ship and dreaming about taking off in it that does it; this time, it’s wondering what he looks like in even more places, more environments. Does the metal get hot in the sunshine? Or is it always as cool as it’s been when you’ve had the chance to feel it before? 

The kid is sitting on the ground in front of you. There’s a beetle scuttling around in the mud, and Grogu is toying with it, blocking it off when it runs one way, then doing the same when it runs the other. You wonder if he’s going to eat it, or if he’s just having fun by being cruel to the little six-legged creature. 

“Don’t play with your food,” Mando says to him, answering your silent question. 

Grogu looks up at him. His ears turn downwards, sulking. Mando ignores his obvious pleas to change his mind, turning back to his work. When Grogu looks back at the beetle, he only just catches it before it runs off, and instead of toying with it anymore, he just shoves it in his mouth with a loud crunch. 

You find yourself smiling at him. He smiles back, ears lifting again. 

“Alright,” Mando starts to step down from the ladder. You reach out and hold one of the ladder’s legs, knowing he probably doesn’t need you to, but still not wanting to risk it. Ladders make you nervous. “Think that’s the best we’re going to get.” 

You look up to the ship. He’s fixed the panel back on again. Now all that remains is the burnt metal from his “interesting landing”, with some bends in it, exposing little sections of the framework beneath. It’s definitely a patchwork job. But it looks better than it did when you got here this morning. So.

“How’s your leg?” He asks as he folds up the ladder. 

“Good,” you answer. It’s stretched out in front of you, propped on another crate. “Ship looks good.” 

With a resigned sigh, he puts his hand on his hips, and tilts his helmet to look up at his handiwork. “No, she doesn’t. But she’ll do.” Then he looks back to you, “I couldn’t have fixed it without your help. Thank you.” 

You shift under his gaze, unable to help it. Every time he looks at you it feels like his eyes can see right through you, and the part that makes you uncomfortable is that it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. Self-conscious and disgustingly aware of your own inappropriate, lustful thoughts? Yes. Uncomfortable? No. You don’t think it ever could. 

“Of course,” you say eventually. “And, hey, I’ve got a scar to remember our little adventure by, huh?” 

He laughs softly. You see the shake of his chest as the chuckle comes through his modulator. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” 

“Hm, no. But there’s no gift shop around here. So.” 

He shakes his head, and you imagine, hope, that he’s smiling under all that beskar. He certainly looks casual, a hand on one hip, one leg relaxed while his weight rests on the other. 

“Do you always stare so much?” You find yourself asking with a teasing, daring quirk of your brow. 

“Yes.”

“At everyone, or just me?”

He pauses. Your heart rate spikes briefly as you wait for his response to your terrible excuse for flirting. “At everyone,” he answers eventually, and disappointment starts to set in before he says, “But it’s harder to look away from you.” 

Oh. 

The disappointment quickly shifts to nervousness, heart beating fast again as you clench your hands in your lap. He just stands there, staring despite the awkward and loaded silence between you, and stares. As if he’s making his point by offering an example. 

You look away. Suddenly, your cheeks are hot. “You hungry?” You find yourself asking. 

He pauses again, then nods. “Yes.” 

“I’ll make us some dinner. You just come back to the hut whenever you’re ready.” It’s only as you stand to hobble back home that you realise he might not want that. You swivel back around to face him, backtrack, “I mean, unless you want to eat out here. Your ship’s fixed now, I guess you can—you can stay in that? You don’t have to come back with me. I’ll be okay.” 

Again, getting more and more infuriating with each silence he lets stretch out, he just stares. Kriffing hells, does he ever stop!? 

“Would you let me cook for you?” He asks, finally.

You weren’t expecting that. 

Shifting weight to your good leg, you raise your eyebrows. “You want to cook me dinner?” 

He nods once. “Yes. To thank you for all your help. And as a farewell.” 

You’ve been trying your hardest not to think about that part. It sits in your stomach, cold and dreadful and confusing, too far down for you to swallow it. “Alright,” you agree with a soft smile. “I can’t promise I’ve got any decent ingredients, though. You might have to perform a miracle.” 

“I’m up to the challenge,” he says, hooking his thumb over the belt around his hips. You’re distracted by it, finding your eyes sliding down to his middle before you catch yourself and look back up. The tilt of his helmet suggests he might have seen your gaze shift. “I’ll walk back with you. Just give me a minute.” 

You can’t find a reason to refuse. 

♡ updates posted Mondays and Thursdays ♡

notes: thank you for reading! all interactions are appreciated as always, but comments and reblogs especially fuel my need for validation ❤️ as always, the title and lyrics at the start are from taylor swift's "daylight"

taglist: @toobsessedsstuff @granillx @keepingitlokiii @shoe1412 @kiruoris @quentinor @yourunstablegf @moonknight-s-cumdump @senassn @samanthacookieone @local-fanfic-addict @your-slutty-gf @brilliantopposite187 @iwantjoelmillertoultraviolenceme

if you wanna be on the taglist, let me know! (pls specify if just the taglist for this fic, or the list for all my future fics ❤️)

[omegafett99]

Whumptober day twenty

Whumptober 2024 - day 20 - Prompt: “it’s not your fault”

“Hunter!”

Hunter woke up with a start, Omega!

“Hunter! Wake up! We’re here!” He heard Wrecker call from the cockpit right.

It had been 5 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days since Omega had been captured, and they were going to every place they thought Hemlock might be, they were now going to Florrum, he knew it was unlikely, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Hunter swallowed back a sob as he thought about his lost Daughter, Wrecker must have seen him because he started to say

“You know, this is ’Gonna be the one!” always optimistic, Hunter sighed, this planet had as much of a chance as the last 99, He couldn't bear the thought that Omega was going through everything he promised wasn't going to happen.

He thought about everything that had happened since Plan 99, and anger bubbled up, and, in a blind fit of rage, he yelled in anger and punched the hard durasteel interior of the marauder.

Hunter gasped in pain and swore under his breath, cradling his hand

“Sarge!” Wrecker exclaimed and rushed over to look at his quickly bruised hand, grabbing the medpack on his way, he made him sit down on the nearby bunk and cut a piece of gauze.

Hunter winced as Wrecker tightly wrapped his hand in the white bandage

“Sorry,” Wrecker muttered.

“Don’t be, you didn’t make me punch the wall” Hunter assured him

“Yeah bu-“Wrecker.” Hunter interrupted “It’s not your fault” and Wrecker knew that he wasn’t talking about his hand

“I’m supposed to be the strong one” Wrecker whispered 

“I’m supposed to protect you, I was supposed to protect THEM” Wrecker looked away, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Let’s just scout the area and see what we find” Wrecker stood up and briskly walked away and Hunter sighed, he knew that Wrecker blamed himself even more than him, and he was determined to not let his Brother drown in his grief.

@kybercrystals94 @heidnspeak @dreamsight73

[freesia-writes]

Chapter 5: Insight

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance.

COVER ART BY @zaana!! And this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D

Master List of Chapters

Another mission, another risky departure. This time, the hyperdrive wasn't working, and as a last resort, Tech asked Vel for help. Once again, she came through, in another impossible situation. The team was amazed at her mechanical knowledge. As soon as they had a break between missions, though, they had their orders to drop her off. But she had so much knowledge. All mechanical, delivered dryly and peppered with laments about her now-useless status to both the Bounty Hunter's Guild and the Jedi Order. After much deliberation, the team asked her to stay, as a ship mechanic, until she decided where she wanted to go.

At this point, it had been long enough that she agreed, having grown accustomed to the ship's little nuances and quirks. But it came with one stipulation: she wasn't to be a prisoner anymore. She had no reason to turn against them and she was grateful for their help, though still hopelessly jaded about her future and resentful about her past.

She fashioned some makeshift quarters in the hold, still dark but better than bars and a stark cell. She had no personal items except a pouch with some credits, a basic medpack, and the multi-use weapon that Crosshair had relieved her of upon her capture, which wasn't returned to her just yet. The ship was under constant need of repair or maintenance, so she worked frequently alongside Tech, as well as the others, depending on what was needed. She was quiet and efficient, grateful for the lack of conversation when she assisted Hunter or Crosshair and chagrined at the constant questions and thoughts that accompanied any project with Wrecker.

Tech, however, was hard to discern. He spoke factually -- only when needed and immediately applicable. He did sometimes tend to explain a single topic in far too much detail, but she found it preferable to any questions or conversation directed at her, so she didn't make any effort to stop it. She found her interests piqued at his different approaches to certain processes, and they both shared an endless curiosity for the various intricacies of the galaxy.

They spoke of past missions, of their childhoods and experiences. Vel divulged bits and pieces here and there, and Tech began constructing a mental map of her story. Born on a lush forest planet, she was taken to the Jedi temple as a youngling when her Force abilities had surfaced, but throughout the Padawan training, it became painfully apparent that she was insufficient.

"Diplomatically dismissed," Vel said, rolling her eyes and waving the spanner in front of her, "Although I'd just call it what it is -- I wasn't good enough."

Tech remained silent, considering the ramifications. He was lying flat underneath a control panel, welding some rough edges while she rerouted the wires to avoid damaging them. "I went back to my dad, but he had moved to Corellia," she continued. "He tried to hide his disappointment, but it was apparent. So he thought he could make me the best mechanic in the shipyard instead. He hired me out as an apprentice to every specialist he could find. I worked during the day and studied in the evenings." "It sounds quite intensive," Tech responded, momentarily pausing from the flying sparks in front of him. "He was trying to do whatever he could to make me useful," Vel answered, her voice tight to conceal the deep pain. Tech remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself, partially due to the emotional precision required and partially due to the discomfort of the situation. He lifted the face shield to rest atop his head, patiently awaiting any further revelation.

"Anyway," Vel continued, clearing her throat and regaining an air of carelessness, "It was never enough. I made him so much money, got him known throughout the system for ship modifications, but I made one small mistake on a Techno Union transport, and he kicked me out."

She shared the story factually, as if it meant nothing to her, but the constriction in her throat was unmistakable. "His own daughter -- imagine that," she said, returning to her work with a clenched jaw. 

Tech felt deeply unsettled, not having much training on this sort of situation. He racked his brain, searching through the literature and studies he had consumed regarding human interaction and family dynamics before settling on his best attempt at encouragement: "The hardcell-class interstellar transport was a notoriously unique model, especially since it did not use conventional repulsorlifts for flight but opted for--"

"--rocket propulsion for atmospheric and stellar travel," Vel interrupted, "I know... Now."

"Ah," was his only response. He regarded her for a moment, and considered returning to his welding, but felt a compulsion to try again. He considered what she had shared, noting her body language, and decided on a different approach. 

"I am sorry that your father failed to exhibit the loyalty one would traditionally expect from a birth parent," Tech said. "I would posit that it had more to do with his own ethical shortcomings than your perceived incompetence. If I had been born in the traditional human method, I would likely feel similarly disenfranchised by a lack of a secure attachment."

Vel didn't expect to laugh at this, but a chuckle burst out nonetheless. First of all, she had never expected to be sharing her aches and pains with a random clone engineer, and second of all, she had never guessed she would be comforted by a factual analysis of her developmental psychology.

She looked at him, staring solemnly right back at her without a trace of sarcasm or judgment, and couldn't help but smile. "I don't even know what to say to that," she said.

"No response needed," Tech responded matter-of-factly, pulling his face shield back down and returning to his work. Sparks began to fly again, and not just in the literal way this time, yaknowwhaddimean? ;) 





Tag List: @merkitty49 @vimse @arctrooper69 @dystopicjumpsuit @starrylothcat @ghostperson69 @dreamie411 @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff (If you're on my regular tag list, let me know if you want to be tagged in this; I didn't want to spam ya!)

Click here to join or leave the tag list. <3

[chicknstripz]

omg what about “Can you play with my hair?” with Hunter 🥺

∘₊✧ [[ Chronic ]] ✧₊∘

Synopsis|| Hunter helps the reader deal with both her pain and her internalised guilt. Word Count || 1073 Tags || Chronic Pain, Dealing with pain, Guilt, Acts of Service, Fluff, Feels, Fem!Reader, References to reader's hair length

Sometimes, just sometimes, you wished you were normal.

The low ache that greeted you as you woke was familiar, expected even, the hours of sleeping on a hard mattress having ravaged your poor body. The low pillow was no better, the twinge of pain as you turned to one side making you inhale a breath. You knew that if you stayed like this it’d get worse, the ‘bed rest’ further stiffening your form until the smallest movement became impossible, but moving? Well that seemed an insurmountable peak on mornings like this, the incessant throb making you slam your eyes shut.

“Another pain flare cyar’ika?”

There was no hiding your pain from the man who shared your bed. Not only was he a soldier, familiar with the lingering pain that could follow an injury, but he was familiar with you - his months of experience telling him you were having a bad morning. Stars. You hated that Hunter to deal with this, hated that he was stuck with someone like you! You knew it was stupid to think such things, that he loved you for all that you were - including your health struggles, but the guilt was so strong sometimes you couldn’t help but feel like a burden.

“Yes”

He placed his palm between your shoulder blades, the barely there contact making your heart skip a beat. Stars! When did he learn the exact level of pressure you could tolerate? It felt like he’d known forever, the slow sweep of his palm spreading warmth across your aching back.

“I’ll get the medpack.”

You tried your best to make a grab for him, the dull ache elevating to a sharp stabbing sensation as you pulled at tense muscles.

“Please don’t.”

“But you’re in pain”

“We’re low on supplies as it is, please don’t waste any on me.”

You could cut the silence with a knife, his pained expression just about killing you as you turned your head toward him.

“What’s this really about Mesh’la?”

The endearment melts your heart, cracks the guilt just enough that you can whisper your worries to the morning air.

“I --- don’t want to be a burden.”

His hand drifts upward, tracing the line of your spine. He applies just enough pressure to ease the ache in your muscles, the radiant heat of pain replaced by the soothing heat of his touch.

“Your needs will never be a burden my love, no matter how complex they become.”

You scoff despite yourself, the sickly feeling of despondency settling low in your gut.

“You deserve better then to care --”

“Isn’t that for me to decide?”

He trails off, the sting of his voice soothed by the palm of his hand. He’s not angry. Can never be angry. He knows everyone deals with pain differently, has seen how hard it can hit Echo despite his best efforts to remind his vod that he’s a highly capable soldier. He also knows it’s hard to watch people who don’t live with pain go about their lives, to watch the other couples as they dance from place to place with barely a care in the world. But it isn’t what he wants! He wants this! For better, worse, and everything in between, his exhale slows as he curls his thumb into the hollow beneath your ear.

“I don’t mean to be harsh with you, but I hate watching you beat yourself up over something you can’t control. You’re everything I ever wanted. Strong, capable, beautiful, caring -- the mere thought that you might end our relationship because society labels you as less able? It terrifies me --”

He swallows hard, the sound audible despite the low hum of the engines.

“--you’re the only thing that keeps me going sometimes.”

The confession hits hard, the ache in your shoulders replaced by the hollow ache in your heart. You’d been so caught up in how you felt about your pain, your guilt, that you hadn’t thought about how it might affect others. It takes all your effort to turn, the mere action of lifting yourself on one arm taking more than usual, but it’s worth it to look him in the eye - the rich depths of his brown eyes warming you from the inside out.

“Oh Hunter, why didn’t you tell me.”

“Seems you’re not the only one who has trouble articulating your feelings.”

You laugh, grateful for the support of his muscular arm as he laces it beneath you.

“Big words for this time of the morning.” 

He gives you one of his famous looks of displeasure, the light that danced across his eyes, the only thing that gives away his hidden amusement. Dry humor had become the backbone of your relationship, the teasing back and forth allowing you to explore your feelings for one another. It was, perhaps, your favorite thing about this relationship, followed closely by his deep need to keep the smile on your face.

“Then perhaps I should show you how I feel instead”

The kiss is slow and lazy, a heady sealing of your lips that takes your breath away. You imagine that he can hear the frantic beat of your heart as he gathers you to his chest, and can feel the warm buzz that coats your frayed nerves with soothing heat. The way his fingers tremble against the back of your neck only adds to the sensation, his touch-starved nature slipping through as he peppers revenant kisses from the corner of your lips to the shell of your ear.

“Now, Is there anything else I can do to make you feel good ner karta?”

“Can you play with my hair?”

“Your wish is my command.”

Time slows as he cards his fingers into your hair, the sensation of his fingernails trailing along your scalp drawing a pleased moan from your lips. This was, perhaps, your most treasured of intimacies. The quiet sound of his breath in your ears, the thrum of his heart against your chest, and the rhythmic flow of his fingers allowed you to relax - to be you again - to pack the pain into a box so that you can go about your day in relative peace.

“Hunter?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you.”

He chuckles, the sound echoing in his chest as he presses a kiss to your neck.

“You don’t need to thank me, just feel good.”

And you do, you do, your morning so much better now your sweet partner has chased your fears away.

[raccoonfallsharder]

fistful of sunlight a fluffy lil domestic oneshot

short story masterlist | main masterlist

domestic fluff | no use of y/n | oc!reader | oneshot | word count: 3,832. for @starriidreams, based on their original character, jazper. check em outttt ♡

after a surprising day of work at the knowhere clinic, princess jazper returns to their home with rocket, only to find that the captain of knowhere has been working on a little surprise of his own.

WARNINGS: brief description of surgical procedure in sceond paragraph only. rocket says damn/dammit a lot; reader is referred to as princess 2x (because reader is literally a princess). some limited physical description of reader (most notably, having gold palms/fingerpads/facial markings and an adorable lil toothgap). i've never written for someone else's oc like this before so i hope i do them justice ๐·°(⋟﹏⋞)°·๐

Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb.

You’re not even been quite sure how, but Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb. It hadn’t been a job for a medpack — those are generally reserved for life-threatening injuries involving major trauma, and a medpack would have only healed up the stump anyway. No, Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb and had shown up sobbing at the Knowhere clinic door, and it had been your job to soothe him and reseal every vein and artery, to string the nerves and tendons back together like loose threads on a sweater, and finally to laser stitch the skin in place, bandage it up, and brace it with one of the adjustable vibranium-and-vinyl splints that Rocket had made — per your request — for situations just like this one.

It had sent a stinging ache in your heart to see Mister Kraglin so upset. The former Ravager is more vulnerable in his pain than young Mister Adam or even any of the Star Children — at least while he’s safely at home on Knowhere — and you’ve gathered that this behavior might be due to the hollowing lack of any kind of person-to-person comfort he’d ever received as a child. You yourself are all too familiar with some of that feeling — emotional self-sufficiency and a wrenching desire for affection, bordering on need — in spite of the privilege inherent in being adopted into the Relvoith royal family. 

Or perhaps because of it.

And so, you had soothed him with the softest words you could dream up, worried they might’ve sounded stilted in the formality of the Relvoith tongue. But the universal translator must have worked well, or perhaps the overly-decorous language hadn’t mattered in the end, because Mister Kraglin had sniffled and dried his tears with the back of his uninjured hand. Then he’d given you a wobbly and tremulous half-smile, thanking you so fervently that an observer might have thought you’d saved his life.

Unfortunately, the result is that you are exhausted — feet aching and eyes tired, a dull headache starting to form behind your golden eyes by the time you reach the open casement leading to the door of the apartment rooms you share with Rocket. One of the raccoon kits — the smallest of the litter rescued from the Arête — is waiting on the threshold, grooming itself. It’s only the tiniest bit larger today than it had been on the day you’d inadvertently adopted it, and it lifts its head as soon as it breathes in your scent, ears and nose twitching. Its tail flips from one side to the other when it sees you, and it immediately begins to generate the fast-paced hollow clicking noise that you’ve come to understand means that it’s purring.

“Hello, littlest one,” you say, crouching, and it immediately launches itself onto one of your soft thighs, and then into your chest. You cuddle it against you as you stand, pressing your mouth to the crown of its head, and open the apartment door.

The apartment is a little tattered, but it’s home: the place you and Rocket have made for yourselves, carved out of a little patch of Knowhere. There’s a broad series of patchwork-windows made of frosted and colored glass, and they shine like jewels when the artificial lights outside slant into a manufactured sunset. In certain hours, they cast a glowing, muted rainbow glow onto the rest of the main room. One wall is lined with Rocket’s inventions and tools, and the ceiling is edged in strings of tiny gold plasma-orbs that he’d pinned to the wall while perched on your shoulders. The doors on the kitchenette cupboards had been falling off when the two of you had moved in, so you’d replaced them with miniature curtains made of patterned fabrics and gauzy muslin and a treasured panel of Spartoi lace you’d found in Sanna Orix’s shop. The sofa is a soft corduroy, the color and texture of a purple night-sky, velvety and only a little frayed at all the seams. It had been one of Rocket’s discoveries. He’d made Mister Drax carry it from the Bowie all the way to your little apartment, just because he’d thought you might enjoy it. One arm of the sofa is draped with the rumpled softness of an old quilt — a gift from the citizens of Knowhere to their new Captain and his princess. It’s patched with squares offered up from each of the Guardians, and others, too: red flannel and a dove-gray fabric from Star-Lord’s childhood shirts, a scrap of leather from Mister Nebula’s uniform. Another square had been thieved from an armored vest left behind by Miss Gamora, after she’d been stolen away and sacrificed by Thanos. A couple of rectangles of fabric, cut from the plush baby-blanket that Groot had kept in his pot when he was still small, and little pieces from a strained button-down shirt that Mister Drax had decided to wear for a cycle just so he could have something to contribute to the quilt. There’s a patch from Cosmo’s suit, and another from young Mister Adam’s singed Sovereign cast-off, and silver-threaded stars embroidered in sloppily by young Miss Phyla and each of her siblings. A few splashes of delicate floral prints from Miss Ssssaralami and worn yellow canvas from Mister Blueliver and even an intentional splash of cosmic-green gin from Mister Howard.

At least, you assume it was intentional. Mister Howard claims it was intentional, and you’ve never been particularly adept at spotting lies.

In short, there’s not an inch of your little apartment that isn’t brimming with the soft shadows and glowing warmth of memories that you and Rocket have made together.

Unfortunately, you don’t have long to enjoy the peace of the small space. You can already hear Rocket cursing and muttering inside the next room, and it makes your own ears twitch with concern.

“Shoulda just paid Ssssaralami to do it. No, no, I wanna do it myself. Moron. Like you forgot you were a mechanic, not a frickin’ artist. Frickin’ paint in my damn fur. Better come out—”

“Rocks?” you call softly, snuggling the raccoon kit in against your chest again. The raccoon’s purring never stops, and its coat is a plush and velvety spray against the underside of your chin. “Are you well?”

Rocket’s head pops around the side of the bedroom door: fur mussed and flattened on one cheek, a splotch of purple dripping into the fur between the base of one soft ear and the crown of his head. There’s a smudge of luminous yellow-gold on his nose, glittering and so vibrant and warm that it almost looks like a wedge of amber over a candleflame. His eyes, bright as red stars and sunsets — all the holiest things in the universe — narrow on you immediately.

“You weren’t s’posed to be home for another three hours,” he growls accusingly.

The raccoon kit pats the golden swirl on your cheek with one flat paw, then headbutts you under the chin for more cuddles. Its purring grows louder.

“Mister Kraglin cut off his thumb,” you tell Rocket, wide-eyed as you take in the violet and sunshine smeared into his fur. Most of him is hidden behind the doorframe, but one hand grips the edge, and you can see gold and purple crusted around his claws. “It was the most excitement the clinic has seen in a while,” you admit, “and we have closed early as a result.” You feel your head tilt. “Are you… painting something?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment — eyes dropping to take in your white-and-red uniform — before he sighs: utterly beleaguered. “Trying to,” he mutters, and rolls his eyes. “Was supposed to be a frickin’ surprise.” He wheels back from the door, gesturing with that dark-clawed, paint-spattered hand. “C’mon in, Starlight.”

You carefully set the littlest raccoon on the sofa, and make your way deeper into the apartment.  

Your breath trips out of your lungs when you cross the threshold into the bedroom. It’s been utterly transformed in your few hours away.

It is, you think in wonderment, like walking into the heart of an amethyst. 

Layers of paint — from the ashen lilac of the sky just after the sun goes down, all the way to the richest midnight-purple — fold over each other in veils of haphazard brushwork, scraped across each other as if the painter were trying to create something deep and glimmering. It’s true that there are some splashes of color on the cracked bone-tiles of the floor, and little ripples where the purple had dribbled too thickly down the walls — but he’s covered the bed with a canvas that you recognize as borrowed or stolen from Miss Ssssaralami, and the plasma-orb lamps are similarly protected. A shabby box sits in one corner, full of wires and frosted glass, but you’re too entranced by the purple walls: the illusion of velvety, luminous depth — the sense of swimming in an endless night sky, or diving into the rift at the end of the universe. 

And against the purple — all misshapen and erratic, in clusters and lopsided sprays, different sizes and spaces between each one — shine a hundred golden stars. They’re gleaming and metallic, shimmering with the same crushed glitter-dust smudged across Rocket’s nose, sparkling and brilliant and warm.

You touch one lightly with the golden pad of your fingertip, awestruck.

“You are an artist,” you say solemnly, awestruck as your eyes travel around the room.

Rocket scowls and shuffles the fur of his forearm against the end of his nose — then looks down to realize he’s smeared more gold paint on himself. A strangled roar of outrage climbs in his throat and hisses between his teeth, gravelly and shrill, and you blink down at him over one soft shoulder.

He looks like he’s ready to pull out fistfuls of his own fur, panting.

“I’d call you a liar if I didn’t know how frickin’ bad you are at it,” he seethes, glaring around the room as if the walls have personally insulted him. “It’s a damn mess.”

You tilt your head. You don’t generally find his aggravation humorous, but it is often endearing — and you know him well enough now to understand that sometimes, a little gentle mockery will make him feel safer.

“Small One,” you tease lightly, letting a smile curve your full lips, flashing your white teeth and the slight gap between them at your beautiful Captain, “the imperfections are what make it so lovely.”

His eyes narrow at you again, distant crimson suns, and for a moment he continues to fume: fists clenched, sharp teeth gritted. He is flawless nonetheless: his casual Knowhere-clothes spattered with bright sparkling yellow, now, and streaked with purple. One whole whisker gleams gold in the artificial Knowhere light that streams through the circular window, open over the head of the bed. 

He sighs suddenly, his jaw and shoulders and hands all loosening, and you can see now that his palms are streaked with gold paint, too. 

You’re always soft for Rocket, but everything inside you suddenly feels even softer: more pliable, more tender. You let your smile shift from playfulness to pure, gentle wonder as you gaze around the room again: jewel-toned, sequined and filigreed with suns and stars made even more sacred by the fact that they’ve come from his own hands. He’s even included some lopsided versions of the holy constellations you grew up studying in the Ositamet sky, which you hadn’t even realized he might remember from your stories. That same place in your heart that had ached over Mister Kraglin’s tears suddenly trembles and heats, overflowing with sunlight. You think it might pour out of your skin. In fact, you can feel it: the warmth in your cheeks, the tip of your ears and nose.

“You’re blushing,” Rocket notes drily, and your brow creases.

“Relvoith do not blush,” you say sternly. Which is true, after all — it’s not as if you can lie, even if you’d wanted to.

Rocket only rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re — gold-dusting, then. Sunbursting.”

You touch the warm swirls in your cheeks, knowing they’re bright as the stars he’s painted onto the walls. 

“I am overwhelmed,” you admit to him softly. You can feel your eyes sting with tears as you turn slowly, taking everything in. Your voice is hushed. “I think perhaps this is the kindest, most generous thing that anyone has ever done for me, Rocks.”

Even though your eyes are on the skewed stars, you can feel the tension leave the little room when he sighs again. 

“Yeah, yeah, princess,” he gruffs out. “Just — got sick of hearing you talk about wanting to redecorate.”

Now you do look at him, tilting your head. “I think that is a lie.”

He scowls, but there’s nothing hard in it at all. His sun-ruby eyes have turned into something soft and melting. “Just a little one.”

You cast another smile at him before turning your attention again to the starscape painted all around you.

“Why did you choose purple for the sky?” you muse after a moment. “I like it very much, but I would not have expected that choice from you—”

“Reminded me of you,” he mumbles, and when you glance at him again, he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking away, scrubbing at his gold-dipped whiskers with the back of his wrist in the way you’ve come to recognize means he’s embarrassed. “Your uniform-thing, the first time we met. It was, uh, purple and white.” He clears his throat, and your smile turns into a delighted grin.

“You were feeling quite sentimental, then,” you tease.

“Whatever,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away to begin peeling the canvas drape off the bed, revealing the fleecy turquoise comforter underneath, rippled with velveteen stripes. It’s a bit faded and ragged, and the mattress dips in the middle, but it’s a far cry from the piece of scrapmetal Rocket had been sleeping on when he had still been staying in his own apartment, just off the Guardians’ main office down the street. “You’re such a pain,” he adds, tossing the crumpled canvas into the corner and picking up the box of wire and glass you’d only vaguely noticed when you’d walked in. He sets the dilapidated box on the bed. “Wanna help me hang these? They’re not frickin’... authentic or whatever. Too expensive to get the real ones, all the way from Ositamet. Consider ‘em… off-brand, or whatever.” 

He clears his throat again: a tell you’ve come to recognize; an indicator that he’s nervous. You lean over, peering into the box, and your heart catches in your throat again: full of sunlight, overflowing. 

“You’re gold-dusting again,” he points out drily.

“How did you get these, if not from home?” you ask softly, lifting up one handful of bright-copper wire. He shuffles in tightly against your thigh, leaning one cheek into the soft plushness of your hip. 

“Sketched ‘em up,” he admits. “Wove the wire and made the little plasma-orbs on my own. Had Steemie save the glass from that old building they tore down in Exitar. Cut it an’ soldered it myself.” He swallows. “Wasn’t that hard,” he adds, trying to downplay the time and effort you suddenly know he must have put into planning every inch of this creation. “With the ships, I musta had to patch glass at least a hundred times before.”

But these handcrafted string-lights are not just patched glass. They’re perfect star-shaped lanterns, far more precise than the celestial bodies spangling the walls. And though not every pane of glass matches in color or texture, they’re worth more to you than any import from the palaces and streets of Ositamet. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Let us hang them.”

Rocket doesn’t wait: he leaps nimbly onto the mattress and then springs to your shoulders. He’s heavy with screws and solder, bolts and plates, but his weight’s  still nothing for your strength. You gather the strings of lights in your hands and they clink merrily against each other as you travel the perimeter of the room. When you hand him the end of the twisted copper wire,  he holds the cord to the edge of the ceiling and fastens it into the bone-plaster with the soft, hollow thud of a bolt-gun. 

The two of you continue around the room, skirting the pan of purple-and-gold swirled paint still on the floor, full of sopping brushes. A manufactured Knowhere breeze filters in through the round window, along with the artificial sunlight; it brightens the still-drying stars, making the room glimmer all around the two of you. You soak in the lullaby made by the measured timpani of the bolt-gun and the pleasant chime of the star-lanterns in your hands, feeding them up to your beautiful captain. There’s the comforting feel of his strong thighs braced between your palms and shoulders: a warm, welcome weight. Your eyes are drawn to a spray of purple on the claws of his left foot, like nail lacquer — it curls the corner of your mouth in a whimsical smile but you don’t dare breathe a word of it right now.

By the time the stringed lights are garlanded all around the room, the artificial lights outside have already begun dimming, and the room is dusky and softly-shadowed. Rocket leaps off of your shoulders, fleet-footed, and taps the sensor on the wall. It’s normally synced to the plasma-orb lamps, but he must have programmed the star-lanterns in too, because they brighten into a quiet glow: every bit of illumination magnified by the glass, refracted into the occasional spray of rainbow-flaked light scattered across the starscape-walls, the velvety bed, the paint-spattered floor. With one foot, Rocket drags the soft, shaggy rug from where he’d shuffled it under the bed, and the room is almost back to normal.

Almost normal, but transformed into something divine.

You stand for a moment, and take in the coziness of the room, the glints of far-off skies and dreams, the shimmering warmth in your heart and the knowledge of how much you truly mean to the beautiful Captain of Knowhere.

He must be able to tell your thoughts are shifting into sentimentality, because he breaks the quiet with a dramatic sigh. 

“Now I gotta get all this damn paint outta my fur,” he laments, looking down at his purple-streaked feet and the shimmering yellow smeared across his forearm. When he turns his palms up, he groans, his whole head leaned back so he can curse the ceiling. The dark leather of both hands are glazed with sun-bright gold, as if he had fingerpainted the stars. 

“Dammit,” he curses, as his fists begin to curl all over again.

But you catch one narrow wrist, watching the way he shines. “Look,” you say with a sun-bright smile of your own, and his knotted fingers loosen in your gentle grasp. You open your own hand next to his. The pads of your fingers and creased palm are ashimmer just like his, like you’d both been caught with fistfuls of sunlight and stars. You turn your hand over top of his, and you lace your fingers into the soft spaces between his knuckles: gold pressed to gold, so bright that it’s a wonder that sunshine doesn’t fan out from between your clasped hands in glittering rays. 

Rocket swallows, whiskers and tail and ears all twitching, his glowing sunrise-eyes going soft in the dusky evening glow. “Starlight,” he says, and his voice is a husky rasp. “I wanted to tell you — but I ain’t good with words—”

Whatever he had been going to say is suddenly broken by the sound of a mechanical chime: the doorbell. You both look up, and it rings again.

“Dammit,” Rocket snaps for what must be the third time in just an hour or two. He tugs his hand from yours, stalking toward the door and flinging it open.

Miss Cosmo and young Miss Phyla are there, the former sitting on the step with a nervously-wagging tail. You can see Rocket’s shoulders ease, and you know it’s because he’s secretly soft for children and animals. Well, he seems to think it’s a secret, anyway. The sight makes you melt even more. 

“I’m so sorry, Jazper,” the Star Child says, apology written all over her childish face. “I know the Captain was planning a surprise for you tonight, but—”

“But Adam has broken the ocular cannon,” Cosmo pipes up, and her tail begins to move twice as fast. 

“The — what?” Rocket repeats, and you can hear the tension rising again in his voice. “What was he even doing with it?”

Miss Cosmo tilts her head as young Miss Phyla winces.

“Messing around,” the cosmonaut says, and her mechanical voice lilts in such a way that it sounds like a quote.

You move to lean by the door, and Rocket pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Can’t get a frickin’ minute a’ peace—”

“It is okay,” you say with a wide smile. “I will be here when you come home.” 

Rocket glances up at you, and his expression is pained. “I don’t—”

“Uhm,” young Miss Phyla interrupts hesitantly, teeth bared in a sorrowful grimace, “I hate to tell you this, but your — your guest is making a mess?”

Both you and Rocket turn to find the littlest raccoon kit meandering through the apartment living space, then between the two of you, and right out the open door. In its wake, from the bedroom to the front door, trail a ribbon of paint-slick pawprints sinking into the bone-floor forever: shades of purple, smeared with starlight-gold.

Rocket stares after the littlest kit as it ambles away. His mouth wobbles in something torn between bone-deep exhaustion, and a desire to bare his teeth and commit murder.

The corners of your own mouth curl, and your shoulders shake with feathery laughter. “Go,” you tell your Captain, and lean toward him. Young Miss Phyla and Miss Cosmo have seen the two of you together often enough to know that everyone will be happier if they turn their backs and pretend not to know that you’re dropping a kiss on the crown of Rocket’s paint-spattered head. “I will see you later tonight.”

You’re rising back upward when his gold-dipped fingers curl into the collar of the clinic uniform you’re still wearing. “Wait,” he mutters, tugging you back down and levying a quick, fleeting flick of his tongue to the fullness of your upper lip. “‘Fore I go.”

It’s a ritual, at this point: the soft kiss, the tug at your collar, the brief lick or nip at your mouth. And then the question, rumbling up from the bottom of his lungs, low and warm:

“Who’s yer favorite Guardian?”

You smile, your lips just a breath away from his nose — the answer the same now as it’s always been. 

After all, you cannot lie.

“You are.”

thank you for giving me the chance to write this! it was such a fun idea and it was so interesting to work with someone else’s oc in this context, and try to integrate the formality of jazper’s language into the writing without making it sound unnatural (i hope i accomplished it!). i’ve never written for someone else’s character like this so i hope i did jaz justice ♡ thank you for trusting me with them. it was truly a privilege and i hope it was everything you were looking for ♡♡♡

short story masterlist | main masterlist

[silverwings22]

Caught in the Crosshairs: Chapter 71: Hush Little Baby- Ashley Ryan

Series warnings: Smut, mind control, canon typical violence, childhood trauma, language, chronic illness Chapter warnings: major injury, medical procedures, canon divergence, tears because this is three years of watching and writing this fic and it's over. Final chapter.

Previous chapter:

“Take care of the troopers.” Miria gave her new friend dryax a pat on the nose and pointed it in the direction she spotted Imperial soldiers moving. It roared and took off, buying her time to get back to her squad and taking out a few more enemies they could save plasma on. She found them crouching against a fallen log, Hunter administering a medpack to Wrecker while Crosshair looked through a set of binocs. 

“Did you really think wrestling that creature was a good idea?” Crosshair muttered, trying to see through the shake in his hand. 

“At the time, yes.” Wrecker grumbled. 

Miria hopped over the log and landed next to her husband, all of the clones reaching for their weapons until they realized it was her.. “He’s sorry about that, by the way.” 

“You talked to it?” Crosshair looked at her, letting her bring his trembling hand back down and hold it between hers. 

“Yes. Remember when I told you I was a little unbalanced in the Force? I think I’ve fixed it.” She looked up at the base in the distance.

“It’s five klicks away, and we’ll still need to find a way in.” Hunter sighed, helping Wrecker to his feet. 

Miria glanced back at Wrecker, her jaw tightening under her helmet. He was hurt, she could see his bloody injury through the rent in his armor. The dryax’s strength was no joke. “Wrecker…”

“I’m fine, Miri. Don’t look at me like that.” He waved her concerned voice off, and started trudging after Hunter. Miria and Crosshair exchanged looks, but followed quietly. 

“They captured Rampart.” She said softly. 

“Good. They can keep him.” Crosshair muttered. “They know we’re here, and that we’re coming for Omega. He can’t tell them anything they don’t already know.”

“He was… extraordinary unpleasant.” She agreed. 

“Your kindness is wasted on that bastard.” He sighed. “... you know how dangerous this facility is.”

“I was trapped here too, love.” She nodded. She could feel his thoughts racing, and she had to settle her own and hope he didn’t decide he needed to do something stupid. He was guilt-ridden, had been since she’d gotten him back, and she’d have to keep an eye on him when they ended up in danger. Because they definitely would.

The five klicks between them and the base they both were dreading going back into went faster than any approach she could remember, and they all stopped to check the area. Wrecker was flagging behind, and Miria winced slightly as Crosshair looked him over. “He’s going to need another medpack.”

“That was our last one.” Hunter sighed. 

“I’m fine.” Wrecker argued. 

“No you’re not. Change of plans.” Crosshair straightened up. “You two fall back and comm Rex for assistance. I’ll go in on my own.”

“Not happening.” Hunter snapped immediately. “We don’t operate like that.”

“Open your eyes. Clone Force 99 died with Tech. We’re not that squad anymore. Wrecker’s in no condition to do this. I know this base, I know what we’re up against. If we all go in, not all of us are coming out!” Crosshair’s voice was sharp, right fist clenched into a fist at his side. “It has to be-”

“Stop.” Miria, just a pace behind Crosshair, took her helmet off. “Look at me, Crosshair.”

The sniper turned around, prepared to argue with her beskar but not her lavender eyes. “Miria…”

“If you call Plan 99, then I will take it. I will go in, and you will stay here and comm for help if Hunter and Wrecker have to drag you to a safe perimeter. Unless you can look me in the eyes and tell me you’re okay with me sacrificing myself, don’t you dare ask me to be okay with you doing it.” Her breath was a little too fast, eyes glassy at the thought of Plan 99. Just saying the words made her feel sick. “I didn’t survive a war, Order 66, and this hell just to end up a widow.”

“Omega needs them. Mayrin needs you… and I deserve this, Miria.” He tried not to look at her face, but she just stepped closer so he had nowhere to look but at her. 

“If you do, so do I. I’m the leader, every failure was mine. And I didn’t catch Tech on Eriadu. Now answer the question, darling. Am I calling Plan 99 in your place?” 

He pulled his helmet off, and his eyes were misty despite the stoic hold of his jaw. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t ever ask me to watch you do it again.” She put her hand on his chest plate. “If we go down, we go down together. We don’t leave our own behind.”

Hunter nodded, almost wanting to clap at how well Miria could handle Crosshair. She always had been able to see right through him, and anticipate what he needed to hear. 

Before Crosshair could say anything else, or even try to apologize, the base hangar door they were facing exploded outward. He and Miria shoved their helmets back on, and Miria started laughing darkly. “It’s the Zillo from that shuttle crash! It’s escaped!”

Crosshair stared at the giant creature that he was almost entirely sure had been killed on Coruscant during the war. “... Echo’s handiwork, or Omegas?”

“Omega.” Wrecker, Hunter, and Miria all said at once.

The giant reddish, angry creature was decimating units of Imperials, and Hunter nudged Miria. “She gave us an entrance.” 

“Yes she did.” Miria nodded. “That’s our girl.” 

The group moved in for the hangar, moving slowly with their blasters out. Miria froze, an icy feeling moving up her back. “Guys. Something’s off… like Teth.”

“Get low.” Hunter muttered. “If we haven’t been spotted, we might need you hidden. We’ll keep moving in.”

Miria nodded, carefully moving behind cover and approaching along the wall of the hanger instead of the center as the clones did. She felt her skin prickling, but settled into the curve of a broken shuttle chassis the Zillo had destroyed. Once they were inside, they’d signal her and she’d come in after. 

To her horror, a pair of legs walked past her hiding space. She had to stifle a noise as she recognized them. 

On her stomach, bleeding into the sand. The inside of her helmet smelled like blood as he walked away, her screaming daughter in his arms. Her little pink stuffie was on the ground, Mayrin’s chubby hands reaching back for her. 

Mayrin. Mayrin. Omega. He’s got my girls. 

She swallowed hard and talked herself through a mental kata. No, she couldn’t fall apart, but she had to pay attention. She had to complete the mission and find the girls. She knew the risks. So did the guys, and they’d agreed to do this together.

In silent horror, she watched more of the assassins stepping out. Their armor were all subtly different, making recognizing the one who’d stolen her daughter and Omega easy. And they were brutally effective. One with an electrostaff had Wrecker pinned, Hunter knocked out with an explosive and trapped under debris. Her stomach clenched, fingers moving towards her lightsaber. There were too many, could she even hope to-

Stay put, Miria. Crosshair’s voice through their bond ordered. They’re not going to kill us. Not right away, anyway. You can’t get captured too. You’re our only chance.

Crosshair was on the ground, and her stomach dropped when the one she recognized, the one who took Mayrin, pinned his wrist with a foot and held out a hand to another assassin with yellow electroblades. The sword, an dishonored version of a lightsaber, was placed into the same hand that had put a knife between Miria’s ribs. “You should be more careful with your shooting hand.��� He said, deadpan, and lifted the blade.

Crosshair!

Miria shoved her hand into her helmet and shoved her hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek as Crosshair screamed. Her right wrist burned in agony, a ring of red and inflamed skin popping up almost instantly as some of the injury was shared through the Force Bond. She sucked air through her nose as the three clones, now all unconscious, were thrown onto hover gurneys and the assassins walked out. 

She took a slow breath, putting herself back together. Crosshair was right. She was the only shot now, so she very carefully crept into the base. There were holes in the walls, ripped open by the Zillo beast’s furious escape, so she took a leap and slithered into the air vents. She had to move carefully, peeking through each exit vent in search of the girls. She could get them onto a shuttle, Omega was a good pilot who could get them to Pabu, and go back for the men. She’d never leave them behind. They didn’t leave their own behind. That was the one rule, the one that mattered more than life itself-

The humming of a wet lab, not dissimilar to the one she’d found Mayrin in, caught her attention. A moment after, she heard a familiar wail. A cry any mother knew, their own baby’s inconsolable sobbing. She scuttled to a vent, peering down in search of her daughter. 

A white-coated lab technician was holding down a struggling infant, trying to get a blood draw from her little foot while the baby screamed. The woman was too rough, talking sharply to the tiny victim. “Stop all this squirming, X99-01.”

Hearing her baby referred to as a number sent Miria’s blood boiling, and she held out her hand. The technician coughed, setting the syringe down and trying to clear her throat. As soon as the needle was out of her hand and she’d stepped back from Mayrin, Miria snatched her by the neck with the force into the wall as hard as she could. The woman crumpled, unconscious, and Miria drew her saber to cut the vent cover off. She dropped into the room, putting her saber back on her hip and taking her helmet off to scoop up her daughter. “Shh, shh. You’re alright, May. Mama’s here.” She breathed, letting the baby see her face. “Shh.” 

Mayrin’s sniffling stopped and she reached for Miria’s cheeks, the Jedi bringing her up to her shoulder to cradle her. Once she stopped crying, Miria reached for her helmet. “Let’s get out of here, starshine. I can find Omega, and we’ll-”

Mayrin yanked a handful of Miria’s hair before she could put it on and made an indignant noise. Miria frowned, turning her head to a closed door between this lab and an adjacent one. She glanced at her baby and frowned. Through the Force, she felt the tiny insistence that she open that door. “Are you sure, May? We’re already in quite a bit of trouble here…”

Mayrin yanked her hair again, and she sighed. “Alright, starshine. But we need to hurry. I’ve got to find your father and uncles.” She tucked the baby into the sling she’d been wearing on her back since she’d lost her on Pabu and picked up her helmet with one hand, lightsaber out in the other, and cut a hole in the locked door.

It was creepy in here, dimly lit, and she held up her saber to see. Inside was a single bacta tank, with more screens and readouts than she’d ever seen. Miria took a few steps closer and pushed her saber closer, to get a look at the man inside’s face.

Sharp, angular features marred with a few deep scars were quiet inside. He was missing an arm at the mid-forearm, and one leg below the knee. His narrow chest was also studded with deep scarring, and it was clear he had been in the tank a while just to be as stable as the readouts showed. Miria leaned in a little closer, looking back up to examine his face. His hair was a little reddish, as far as she could tell inside the bacta, but he looked eerily familiar. He was built so much like Crosshair, taller and slimmer than most clones. Just like…

“Tech.” She whispered with a sudden realization. 

Tech was alive. Minus two limbs, but alive. Hemlock had lied.

Miria glanced over her shoulder at Mayrin. “Good work, starshine. Let’s see what else they have in here.” She went tearing the lab apart, ripping everything out of every drawer and cabinet, until she found two sealed prosthetics sitting in sterile casings stacked in the back next to a black uniform eerily similar to the one the assassins wore. She quickly checked the diagnostics, finding multiple notes about CT-9902. “So that’s what you were planning. Turn Tech into one of those hollow killers and let them train my daughter.” She turned around and started typing at the bacta tank until it started draining. Her too-long missing friend settled on the bottom and she leaned over as the door opened. “Tech? Ner vod, can you hear me?”

He grimaced as he came back awake, mumbling to himself. “... Plan 99. There’s no time… sever the connection hinge…” She could almost hear Echo muttering the same way when they found him in Skako Minor.

“Tech.” She reached into the tank, catching his face gently. “Open your eyes.”

The clone shivered, skin wet with bacta and cooling rapidly, and opened his eyes slowly. “G-general?” 

She smiled, eyes a little watery, and took his good hand. “Oh, I’m so mad at you. Let’s get you out of here.”

He nodded, letting her help him upright and get the prosthetics on. “Did you… commission these for me?”

“If you want to be technical, I stole them.” She adjusted them for him carefully. “How’s that? Can you move?”

He nodded. “General… why do you have an infant?”

“This is your niece. My daughter, will Crosshair, who we did find. We’re in an Imperial base, and we’re getting out. I can’t give you a full brief, because Crosshair, Hunter, and Wrecker have been captured. Put his uniform on, and here’s some boots.” 

He nodded, squinting. “Do you know where my goggles are?” 

“Broken, in the Archium on Pabu. We’ll get them fixed, I promise.” She helped him to his feet once he was dressed. “Now, we’re going to need to climb through the vents. Think you can make it?”

He nodded again, rubbing his face and frowning as he traced the depth of the scars. “...How long have I been here?”

Miria looked at her daughter, doing mental math. “Ten months?” 

“.... shit.”

“Yes. Now here, let me boost you. Go left and I’ll direct you from behind.” 

She gave him a leg up and he followed instructions, Miria following behind with Mayrin on her back and carefully guiding him to the broken entry she’d used in the hangar. As they came back out, she spotted a white-armored trooper and a familiar head of auburn hair. She flipped her blaster up. “Doctor Karr.”

Emerie turned around, hands up. “Master Halcyon-”

“Easy, Miri.” The trooper said, lifting a hand. 

Miria paused. “Echo?”

“Yeah. Had to change clothes on the descent.”

She sighed, holstering the blaster and walking over. Omega was standing with four other children, one of which was a toddler, and started to grin until she saw who was walking behind the Jedi. “T-tech?!”

“Hello, Omega.” He oof-ed when she tackled into him. “It is good to see you as well…” 

“I thought you were dead.” She whispered, overcome.

“Based on the injuries I believe I have, I think I might have briefly been.” He patted her hair gently with his new metal hand, then glanced at Echo. “We seem to lose an extraordinary amount of limbs on this squad.”

“You have no idea.” Miria placed Mayrin in Tech’s arms. “You need to go. I have to go back for the others. We’ll meet you.”

Echo handed Emerie a set of coordinates. “This is where you need to take them. We’ll catch up.”

Omega looked between Miria and Emerie, then stepped back with her and Echo. Emerie frowned. “Omega?”

“I have to do this.”

Emerie nodded and handed her a datapad. “This will give you access to the whole facility.”

The other kids threw their arms around Omega tightly, as if they’d planned it, and she hugged them and sent them on their way. Miria patted Tech’s arm. “I’ll see you soon, vod. Look after my little one.”

“Of course, General.” He followed Emerie into the shuttle they’d indicated, and she ran off with Omega and Echo.

Omega bolstered her resolve with a grin. “Let’s complete the mission.” Miria was so proud of her, of who she’d become and who she would grow into.

 They made their way straight for the detention block Omega had busted them out of, clones crowded at the bars of their cells with wide eyes when they saw them.

“What’s going on?” One asked. 

“We’re busting out.” Omega plopped the datapad into a dock and unlocked every cell door. Miria turned around, watching weak kneed but determined looking soldiers step out and come around. Along with Rampart, who she was less than thrilled to see but still willing to honor her deal to get him out safely. Nala Se as well, and she quickly went to check on Omega. Miria had to appreciate the Kaminoan woman, who’d both saved Omega by warning her and made sure Miria found Mayrin.

Echo turned around, passing out guns left and right. “I know you’ve all been through hell, but we’re going to need help. Will anyone fight with us?”

One bearded clone took a deep breath. “I will. I’ve got one more fight left in me.”

“Me too.” Another responded. 

Echo grinned and looked at Miria, who held up her lightsaber. “I want my riduur back, and I want Hemlock’s head on a platter. The only way the girls will ever be safe is if he’s dead.”

“Sounds good to me.” He looked at the datapad. “The pneumatic tube system runs through here. It’s the method Omega took through the walls. Omega, can you get us eyes in there?”

Omega nodded, Miria nodding to her and handing her a comm. “Don’t engage until we give the signal, okay? You’re as reckless as I am.”

“I take after my sister.” Omega smiled, slipping into the wall. 

Miria tapped her foot, rubbing the hilt of her lightsaber and taking slow breaths to maintain her clear head. She had to stay calm, keep her balance, and fight. She had to face the fear of the clone assassins. 

This time she was not going to be caught off guard. 

“Miri, Echo, I’ve found Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair. There’s guards, but I think I can get them loose if you give me a decent distraction.”

Miria smiled darkly. “You’ve got it, dear.” She looked at Echo, and the gathered clones who would join them. “Ready, gentlemen?” She cooed, pulling out her lightsaber and twirling it. She saw some of the clones light up and throw salutes at her. 

“Yes, General.”

She led the way to the training room, where Hemlock had tormented Crosshair and countless clones before him. Where he would have tormented Tech, if Miria hadn’t found him. She’d had enough of this place and that man, and cut the door off its hinges. “Give them hell, boys.”

The room was dark and had moving obstacles, which were immediately put to use against her and her band of rescued clones. The assassins hunted them in the chaos, while Omega worked hurriedly above to get Wrecker free first. 

When Miria heard the crackle of an electroblade, she turned and put her own saber through his chest. “You’re not the one I’m looking for.” She muttered, dropping him and taking off up the side of the platform with the Force. Echo had the other clones, and Echo always pulled through. He’d never let her down. He never would.

When she made it up to the level where her team was restrained, Hemlock had already put his hands on Omega, cuffing her wrist to his. “I’ve got you.”

“You forgot I’ve got them.” Omega smirked, and Wrecker ripped one hand loose and cannon-balled his way out of the torture seat. Miria grinned, immensely proud, and moved to cut Hunter out when a blaster shot narrowly missed her head. She spun, facing the assassin who’d taken her baby as Hemlock ripped the control patch off his arm and ordered him to cover his own escape.

“He left you for dead.” Miria said dangerously.

“I left you for dead on that beach.” He responded, still deadpan and uninflected. 

“And I should have killed you on Teth. I won’t make the same mistake twice..” She lunged, deflecting shots as he took them. Wrecker got Hunter and Crosshair free, the sniper barely on his feet and Hunter picking up the electrostaff that another assassin had dropped in the shuffle. 

“You should have stayed down.

“You should have kept your hand off my husband.” She went low, sliding to her knees and coming up behind him. She thrust her blade backwards as Hunter aimed for the chest, and the two of them skewered him in two directions. Just behind them, Wrecker put the other one’s head through a wall before he had to sit down and clutch his chest.

“He went that way, with Omega.” Miria pointed.

“I’ll go, make for the shuttle.” Hunter wheezed, picking up a pistol.

“Like hell you will.” Crosshair muttered. 

Miria nodded. “Together. Echo, get Wrecker and the others to the shuttle.” 

“Yes, General.” 

The three parents walked out onto the rain, the clones missing their helmets and Miria swapping her saber for a blaster. 

Hemlock was cornered and he knew it, holding a blaster to Omega’s head. “No closer! Stop right there!” It was the first time she’d ever heard panic in his voice. He was usually so disgustingly calm and wickedly composed. He was scared. 

Good.

“We all know you won’t hurt her.” Miria called out. “You need her, Hemlock. Like you needed me, and my daughter. And failed to keep us, so just hand Omega over.”

“The Emperor would kill me for failure.”

“Killing you is the least I can do.” Miria assured him. 

Hunter sank down to one knee and Crosshair lined up a shot with his left hand, the sniper spotting something shiny in Omega’s sleeve. “Miri, keep his eyes on you. Cross, aim for the cuffs.”

“It’s too close. I can’t risk Omega.” Crosshair breathed.

“She knows what to do. And I know you can do it.” Hunter had absolute faith in his brother, and so did Miria. Crosshair just had to believe in himself. 

Miria held her saber up again, keeping Hemlock’s focus firmly on her. “You’re afraid of him. And Vader, have you met him yet? Do you want to know the real, terrible truth? I’m worse than either of them, if I need to be. I raised Darth Vader.”

Hemlock shuddered, and that was the opening Omega needed to yank a metal instrument from her sleeve and stab him in the leg. He doubled over and she threw her arms up, giving Crosshair his shot. He pulled the trigger, and hit the cuffs. They came open, and Omega hit the deck. Miria and Hunter opened fire, slamming shot after shot into Hemlocks chest and throat, until he toppled over the edge of the bridge and vanished into the rain. 

The blaster fire petered out, and Miria crouched next to Crosshair as Omega came running as fast as she could. When she got close enough to see clearly, she froze. Rain and tears streamed down her face as she looked at them, eyes fixing on Crosshair’s missing hand. 

Before Crosshair could blink, she had thrown her arms around his neck and was sobbing into the hug. His eyes widened, then softened and closed as he leaned in, and Omega looped another arm around Hunter to pull him into her embrace too. Miria was dragged in by a little brown hand smacking into her helmet wetly, and put her head against Crosshair’s shoulder. 

It didn’t matter that it was pouring, or that lightning was flaring all around them and lighting up the miserable base. What mattered was Omega was safe, in their arms, and their family was together again.

Crosshair lifted his head slowly and looked at Miria, who had her hand on his vambrace that lead to the missing hand. “Mayrin? Did you find her too?”

Miria nodded, taking off her helmet so he could see her smile. The rain even felt kind of nice, cleansing after the fog of the fight. “I put her on a transport with the other children they were holding… and Tech.”

Hunter and Crosshair did a double take. “Tech?”

Her grin brightened. “What was that you were saying about the squad being dead, my darling? Because I think I’ve disproven that.”

“He’s alive?” Crosshair whispered. 

“He should beat us to Pabu. I went ahead and sent him home.” Miria put her head down on the water-slick expanse of her husband’s shoulder. “After all, we don’t leave our own behind.” 

It felt utterly bizarre to step back onto Pabu after the stark horror of Tantiss. Miria led the way out, turning back to watch Crosshair turn his face up towards the sun, like he’d never really appreciated it before now. Maybe he hadn’t, still swallowed up in his own guilt. Now he was softer-eyed, a small smile playing across his lips. She stepped to the side and let Hunter and Echo help Wrecker down the ramp, holding out a hand to her husband. “How do you feel, darling?” She smiled when his left hand slipped into hers. 

“Better than I have in a long time.” He admitted. “It’s good to be home… to have a home.”

She nodded, bringing him down to stand beside her. They looked around, spotting the three clone cadets Hunter had rescued offering ice cones to the children Omega had set free of Tantiss. Tech was standing nearby, squinting as Phee handed him his broken goggles from the Archium. Crosshair swallowed hard, looking at his twin until Miria gently squeezed his fingers. “Go on, love.” She whispered.

Crosshair slowly pulled his hand away from hers and started towards the genius. His strides started slow and measured, but the longer he walked the more speed he built up until he was all out running. Tech turned just in time to catch him, arms wrapping tight around his twin and pressing his forehead against Crosshair’s. “You’re alive.” Crosshair whispered.

“I am.” Tech smiled. “And the General found you. I knew she would.” 

“You’re still an asshole for that Plan 99 banthashit.” Crosshair’s voice cracked.

“I could say the same thing to you.” Miria caught up, smiling at Phee when the pirate raised an eyebrow. “He tried to tell me he was going to infiltrate Tantiss by himself.”

“Where is your hand?!” Tech blinked, finally getting a visual on Crosshair’s right wrist.

“You’re missing one too.” Crosshair huffed. “So is Echo.”

“I am also missing a leg, but I fell off a rail car from a great height. What did you do?”

“The bastard who kidnapped our daughter and stabbed me in the ribs.” Miria patted Crosshair’s back.

“It is fortunate you found me, then. I can make a prosthetic.” Tech nodded. “And upgrade my own.” 

“That can wait. Where’s my kid?” Crosshair frowned.

“I gave her to Lady Annalise. I did not realize she was on Pabu, General.”

Miria turned around, spotting her parents standing near the edge of the Archium looking for her in the crowd of newly freed clones. Mayrin was on her grandmother’s hip, and Miria reached into her pocket and pulled out Rosie. “We should probably take this back to her.” 

Tech glanced at the doll, then at Crosshair. “You made another doll?”

“I knew you knew.” Crosshair chuckled faintly. “Yeah, I did.” 

Tech’s smile a genuine, if a little squinty still. “All this time I believed you were severe and unyielding, but you seem to have changed despite my conviction you could not.”

Miria smiled. “There is no force more destructive to a strong man than a daughter.” 

Tech nodded. Crosshair left his arm slung over his twins shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to her properly.” 

They walked off to see her parents, and Miria looked over at Phee. “He seem like himself?” 

Phee nodded. “Clueless as ever… but I did finally kiss him. I think he gets the picture now.” She headed over to stand with Tech again, reluctant to let him out of her sight now.

Miria smiled. “Oh good…” She looked around again, eyes wide. Civilians were giving aid to the clone refugees, Pabu’s people capable of the same endless kindness Miria admired so much in Omega. Crosshair had Mayrin in his arms, ignoring his missing hand in favor of introducing his daughter to Tech. The genius was smiling, brightening when Phee wrapped her fingers into his again.  Wrecker was sitting down to rest, Shep and Lyana checking on him while AZI inspected his chest. Hunter and Omega were up under the large tree, the darling girl with her head on his arm as they talked. Echo and Emerie were talking, and she could feel the acceptance building between them. 

The war would go on outside Pabu. The Empire would rage a little longer, and eventually she knew she’d be called back into the fight. It was almost inevitable, when the Empire was led by a Sith and so few Jedi remained to stand against him. But for now… there was a little peace.

She turned and walked over to Crosshair and her parents, giving Mayrin her stuffie once Annalise had freed her from a tight hug. “I thought you were going back to Naboo, Mother.”

“We decided to stay.” Jet shook his head. “We knew you’d come back here, once you found the girls.” 

“No doubt we’d find them?” Crosshair raised an eyebrow. 

“Never.” Annalise patted his arm. 

Miria smiled and gently tugged Crosshair’s chest plate until he came down to her level, kissing him firmly. “Ni kartayli gar darasuum, my darling.”

“Darasuum, cyare.”

Ten years later

“Where do you think you’re going?”

 The little girl froze mid-footstep, halfway down the steps from Upper Pabu to Lower, with a bindle full of snacks and a stolen blaster in her hands. She turned slowly, silver ponytail bouncing, until her lavender eyes were reflected in the flashlight held in her direction. “... how’d you hear me?”

“You’re not as quiet as you think, May.” Crosshair raised an eyebrow, facing his daughter with his flashlight in his prosthetic hand and the other one on his hip. Ten years on Pabu had changed him some, though he was still the smartass he’d always been. He’d grown a scruffy beard and let his hair grow back, and was far more comfortable in civilian clothes than he thought he’d be when he retired. “Besides, your mom just knows stuff.”

“I do.” 

Mayrin squeaked and turned around, finding her mother two steps below her with her arms crossed. Miria’s hair had grown longer and the beginnings of gray were starting to creep into her temples, but Crosshair still thought she looked just as perfect as she had the day she’d met him on a Coruscanti hangar bay and asked him his name instead of CT number. 

“Auntie Mega snuck out! She’s going to the Rebellion!” Mayrin frowned. “I want to go too.”

“You’re a kid, Mayrin.” Crosshair shook his head. “Now give me back my blaster.”

“How come she gets to go?” Mayrin huffed as he eased the weapon out of her grasp. “She’s a good pilot but I’m a better shot than she is!”

“Because she’s twenty-three, and you are ten.” Miria put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “It’s her decision as an adult. You, however, are still our responsibility until you’re grown. When you are, you can make your choice about where you go. And if you choose to fight, we’ll support you.”

Crosshair chuckled. “Hell, we’ll go with you.” 

Mayrin frowned, looking up at both of them as Miria guided her back up the stairs. “You will?”

Crosshair nodded. “I think I’ve got one more fight in me. What about you, cyare?” 

Miria nodded with a laugh. “It wouldn’t be our first fight.” 

“You’re a preschool teacher, Mom. What kind of fighting have you done?” Mayrin squinted at her. 

“Your mom was a Jedi, and a general.” Crosshair shook his head and looked up as a ship launched from the lower caves. Hunter must have gotten to say his goodbyes before Omega snuck off… they’d known she was going to go eventually. She talked too much like Echo, about doing more and saving more lives. They’d raised her well, and she’d make them all proud on the battlefield. 

“I was the leader of the best black ops squad in the Clone Wars, with your father and uncles. We never failed a mission… your father was the best sniper in the Republic.” Miria chuckled, glancing up with the same proud expression he had. Omega was, as she’d always hoped, not just as good as them. She was better. 

“Dad’s only got one hand!”

“You wanna hear how I lost it, kid?” Crosshair smirked. 

“You’ve told me fifteen different versions. Last week I was helping Ba’vodu Tech with an engine block and you said ‘watch out, that’s how I lost my hand.’” Mayrin wrinkled her nose. 

“Well, let me tell you the truth. The whole story.” Miria steered her daughter back towards the house. “Before your grandmother notices we’re outside and comes at me with a shoe.”

“Fine. But I wanna know the whole story, from the beginning!” Mayrin said firmly. 

“We’re gonna be up all night. I’ll start a pot of caf.” Crosshair chuckled again. “And tea for you, cyare.” 

Miria smiled. “Alright then. If you want to go back to the very beginning, it started when I was six years old. I was on Illum-”

[ghostofskywalker]

Could I request for echo with how he deals with the chaos of his brothers when he needs a quiet moment? Also I hope the rest of your break and day goes well! - Curious-curios

echo my most beloved 🥺🥺 @curious-curios i'm sorry this is ages late but i hope you enjoy it!!

words: 1,476

summary: as the newest medic assigned to the 501st, you often can't help but get sucked into the craziness of this particular battalion. one day you run into echo when you're both looking for a little peace and quiet, and you can't help but bond with the kind arc trooper.

clone troopers masterlist

Stolen Moments of Peace and Quiet

Working with the 501st attack battalion was interesting, to say the least. Ever since you had been assigned to the medbay in General Skywalker’s flagship, it felt like you hadn’t ever gotten a chance to sit down, thanks to a certain group of wild (and often stubborn) clones.

“Tup, stop bothering Dogma, he needs sleep to heal!”

“Jesse, don’t you dare touch your bandages, I applied them perfectly!”

“Hardcase, I have no idea if Rex dyes his hair, and what you doing with that blue stuff?”

“Fives if you even think about touching Kix’s medpack I will personally lock you in a closet until we get back to Coruscant.”

Now don’t take things the wrong way, you loved the entire battalion, and they had immediately adopted you as their sibling, but that didn’t mean you weren’t incredibly tired due to all the things they managed to get themselves caught up in. Half the time it wasn’t even front line injuries either, but rather bumps and bruises from brotherly teasing or games of bolo-ball that got a little too competitive. The Resolute was currently on its way back to Coruscant for a week of leave, and you were more than excited to take some time to yourself. You knew that you would probably spend some of your time in the Senate’s medcenter, but you had worked there before your reassignment, and you knew for a fact that the clones of the Coruscant Guard were less reckless than the 501st (not by much, but it was noticeable).

It was a rare day in the medbay, when all the beds were empty and you and Kix had spent most of the morning playing sabacc (which you won every time, thank you very much). Now you were both taking inventory, making note of which supplies you didn’t have a lot of, so you knew what to restock when you got back to Coruscant. But even that went quicker than you both thought it would, and eventually Kix just turned to you. “Why don’t you just head back to your barracks now? I can handle everything here.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, looking around at the (empty) medbay.

“Of course,” Kix smiled. “I know for a fact you’ve been running yourself ragged ever since you were assigned to us, so why don’t you just take some time to yourself?”

It sounded like his offer was too good to be true, but you weren’t going to stick around and wait for him to rescind it. After thanking him profusely and promising him that you would buy him a drink in thanks when you were back on Coruscant, you left the medbay, making a beeline for the area of the ship that housed your room.

However, you should have expected that something would interrupt your break, because you turned down one hallway to see Jesse shoot Tup with some kind of disc gun. The ammunition didn’t seem to be anything harmful, as the two clones only laughed as it made contact with Tup’s chestplate with a quiet clunk.

You thought you might be able to get by them, but then Hardcase and Fives appeared at the other end of the hall, shooting discs from their blasters that ricocheted all over the walls, and you immediately turned around and left before they noticed you (and inevitably tried to rope you into either playing or supervising, neither of which you were really interested in doing right now).

There were a empty rooms scattered throughout the ship, usually used if you had other officers on board or to store various types of cargo, and you headed in the direction of the nearest one, an extra officer’s quarters that was rarely ever used. The door slid open to reveal a peaceful (and most importantly, empty) room.

Or at least you thought it was empty.

When you noticed Echo sitting on the couch with his eyes closed, your eyes widened and you immediately made to turn around before he realized you had walked in, but you weren’t that successful. As you took one step back towards the door, you heard him say your name, and you stopped in your tracks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” you said quickly, turning back around to look at him. “I was just looking for some peace and quiet from the chaos out there.”

“Then we were looking for the same thing,” he said, a smile on his face. “And you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

“Are you sure?” You tried to make sure your voice didn’t have too much of a hopeful inflection, because if you were being honest, you were harboring a little bit of a crush on him (and in no way did you want to seem desperate).

“Unless you secretly have one of those disc guns hidden away in your pocket, I don’t see why not.”

You laughed, holding your hands up in mock surrender. “I’m definitely unarmed,” you said. “And I see that the happenings in the hallway affected you too.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Echo grumbled. “Fives tried to get me to play, but Rex and I were up late last night sketching out battle plans for the next campaign, and I wasn’t feeling it today.”

“Yeah, I could see how being tired would make you less inclined to play,” you said, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down next to him.

“That, and I wasn’t too keen on the inevitable medbay trip that would come out of the game.”

You nodded. “That is a very good point.”

After you both shared another laugh, Echo’s face shifted to one of slight confusion. “Speaking of the medbay, I thought you were still on shift right now.”

“Technically I am, but the medbay is completely empty right now and Kix told me to take some time to myself,” you said. You couldn’t help the little flutter of your heart as you realized he knew your schedule. Out of all the troopers of the 501st, you liked Echo the best, and it wasn’t just because you thought he was the most handsome. It was also due to the fact that he ended up in the medbay the least often because of stupid things (that didn’t mean he didn’t participate in stupid decisions with his brothers, but just that he was usually lucky enough to avoid injury for it).

“That was a good call,” Echo responded with a nod. “You’ve been working yourself too hard lately, and I’m sure we weren’t helping.”

You stifled a laugh. “I would say no to that, but it would be a bold faced lie.”

“Yeah, Kix is going to have his hands full later.”

Conversation shifted soon after, and the two of you spent ages talking about everything from what you were going to do during leave to which planet you thought would be the nicest to live on when the war ended. And with every minute you spent talking, you couldn’t help the way you fell more in love with him.

You might have even plucked up the courage to tell him how you felt, if you hadn’t been interrupted by your comm buzzing. “Could you get back to the medbay?” Kix asked tiredly, and you immediately had a sneaking suspicion that you knew exactly what happened. “I’ll explain the situation when you get here.”

You sighed, and Echo laughed quietly at your face. “It seems I’m needed,” you said. “You wanna bet on who you think got injured the worst?”

“I’ll put ten credits on Fives,” he said, laughing louder this time. “What about you?”

“I was going to guess Hardcase, and I’ll take your bet,” you said, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’ll let you know who won as soon as I get there.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Echo said with a smile.

You turned to leave, but the sound of your name once again stopped you in your tracks. “What?” you asked, turning to look at him.

“After you get that sorted out, and when we get back to Coruscant, would you want to go to dinner with me one night?” His voice was quieter than it had been, his expression was nothing less than adorable.

“I’d love that,” you said, fighting back the urge to grin like an idiot. Your comm buzzed again before he could respond, and you were once again reminded that you had to get back to work.

But not even the bleeding gash on Jesse’s head (you both lost the bet, heartbreaking!) could put a drain on your bright and happy mood. And if Kix noticed any kind of difference in your disposition between now and the last time he saw you, thankfully he didn’t say a word about it.

-the end-

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

[therealgchu]

To The Shore Chapter 4 - The Mantis

chapter 4 is up! i also finally figured out how to put up a proper summary (thanks, @eridanidreams!), so that's up now, too.

a couple notes: this was a really hard chapter to write. TW: suicidal ideation, mention of injury, and medical gore.

Excerpt:

“SONOFABITCH!” Sam shouted as a bullet impacted his shoulder. His rifle dropped from his hands as he was driven backwards. This just wasn’t his day! In the split second between seeing the Spacer take aim and the bullet hitting him, he thought about Hwa offering to upgrade his armor this morning and how he said he was fine, and not to worry.

Hwa whipped her head around at the sound of his exclamation to see him stumble backwards. “Sam! SAM!!” Hwa shouted, and saw him drop to his knees. She jumped down from her perch and raced over to where he was sitting, hand over his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. “OHMYGODSAMSAMOHMYSAMOHMYGOD!” she shouted incoherently. “WHATHAVEITOLDYOUABOUTTAKINGCOVERGODDAMMIT!” She dragged him behind shipping containers out of the line of fire. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” she mumbled as she patted her pockets and pack for a medpack.

“Maybe I will take that armor now,” he said weakly, then groaned.

“Shut up,” she ordered and injected him with a medpack. She ripped his shirt at the shoulder and inspected the wound. It looked like it entered the shoulder in an upward trajectory, and exited high through the back. A lucky shot, clean exit wound, no bone hit or fragmentation. She then ripped open a couple zipper bandages and applied them to both sides. The zipper bandages immediately sutured the wound and administered antiseptics and pain killers.

He gave her a weak smile, then groaned again. “Spacers aren’t usually such good shots,” he said.

A bullet pinged above their heads, taking a chip out of the shipping container. Suddenly, Hwa had an expression he hoped he was never on the receiving end. “Stay here, stay down,” she growled.

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving. The floor here is pretty nice. Good, solid floor.”

He watched her race out from behind cover, but instead of the sniper rifle, she brought the shotgun to bear. She raced out in the open across the warehouse floor at top speed. Maybe he was going into shock, but he swore he heard her shouting, “Oh no you don’t! Not my Sam, you motherfuckers!” and unloaded on the closest Spacer at point blank rage. He was pretty certain he heard the Spacers start screaming, “Oh shit, it’s the MANTIS!” as Hwa bore down on them with the shotgun. While not nearly with as much finesse as the sniper rifle, he did see she was still pretty damn deadly, and a whole lot scarier in her rage. He made a mental note to never piss her off so much that she ever made that face at him. She’d scare a terrormorph with that expression.

[dangraccoon]

Jari'eyc - Chapter 11

Read on AO3

Word Count: 1973

Warnings: fugue state kinda?, war and fight flashbacks, injuries, homocide (justified), Wrecker is dyslexic, misunderstanding feelings, intense pain from injury, medical procedures (administering pain stim), implied spiciness

« Previous Chapter Next Chapter »

“Jaine.”

The ground was a very uncomfortable place to be, Jaine discovered. Her head was spinning. 

“Jaine?” a voice called, just ahead of her. “Jaine, you have to get up!”

“I- I’m up,” she mumbled as she pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Waves of ache rolled through her body.

“We have to move,” the voice hissed. She knew that voice, didn’t she?

Vaguely, she could feel someone pulling her up by her arm. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.

“What-”

“We’re getting out of this shithole,” he spat, eyes shifting around the landscape. Slowly, she could hear the sound of blaster fire and explosions in the distance. 

“My side,” she whimpered, pressing her hand to it. 

“That one’s just a graze,” he confirmed, slinging her arm over his shoulders, effortlessly supporting her weight despite his own limp. “Your real trouble is in your leg.”

“We have to- to get out of here.”

He nodded. “We’re about a klick from the rendezvous point. The rest of Ghost Company is waiting for us just over that ridge.”

“C-Cody,” she said. 

“Don’t even think about it, Jaine,” he grunted as he pulled her along. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Cody-”

“No.”

“Jaine.”

“Commander!”

“What?” she muttered, the feeling of her old friend at her side flickering like a holo with a spotty signal. 

“Commander, are you alright?” 

Jaine blinked and she was on the ground again. She wasn’t on that stars-forsaken desert moon she couldn’t remember the name of. Cody wasn’t the clone kneeling in front of her.

“Sig, get the medpack,” Fluke called. He pushed her gently back into a sitting position as she attempted to get up. “Easy, Commander. Need you to stay put. It didn’t knick anything too important, but I can’t have you passing out on my watch.”

“Fluke, I-I’m alright,” she lied. The pain in her side was growing stronger. Oh right, she thought. That insurgent with the knife.

Fluke scoffed. “Sure, Commander, and I’m the Queen of Naboo.”

Sig arrived with the medpack and Fluke set to work, irrigating the wound. It stung like hell. 

“I can patch you up here, Commander, but you’re gonna need stitches.”

“Fluke, I thought I told you to just call me Jaine,” she huffed out.

“You did, Commander,” he retorted with a smirk.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wake up, Jaine.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her power suppressing cuffs.

“Commander Jaine Vale, you have been tried for the murder of an Imperial officer and found guilty. ” the Admiral stated, his voice even.

Jaine could feel her blood boiling and bile rising in her throat. “He deserved worse,” she spat.

“Sir, the subject is unresponsive.”

Jaine kept her head down as she was repeatedly ordered.

“Commander?” a voice said next to her as she boarded the prison transport. She recognized his mess of curls and the scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks, as well as the buzzed red hair of the clone next to him.

She hazarded a glance. “Fluke? Sig? Why are you here?”

“Guess the higher ups don’t take too kindly to those trying to wake up their vode,” Fluke chuckled.

“Quiet, clone,” hissed one of the stormtroopers as he jabbed Fluke with the end of his rifle.

The three prisoners shared a look of annoyance, all finding comfort in being together.

“Did she die again?” Hemlock asked, his voice seeming disinterested.

Karr shook her head, turning her datapad for him to see. “No, sir. Her vitals and brain activity are normal.”

“Have her eyes been open the whole time?”

“No, that began about two minutes ago.”

Hemlock shone a bright light in her eyes. “Her pupils are reacting normally. Heart rate?” 

“Normal,” Karr answered.

“Perhaps Miss Vale is simply ignoring us,” Hemlock concluded. “Start the droid again, don’t stop until she begins responding.”

“Doctor Hemlock, the subject has repeatedly stated she does not know who Clone Force 99 is,” Karr said. “I’m not sure if-”

“I would not recommend taking the word of prisoners.”

–

Crosshair woke with a start, nearly smacking his head against the ceiling.

“You alright?” Wrecker asked from his bunk.

“Fine,” Crosshair mumbled as he swung his legs over the side. He could practically feel Wrecker’s hesitation. “What?”

“Was it a nightmare? Or did you see-”

“Jaine, yeah.” He rubbed at the back of his head, absentmindedly noting how often the spot of Jaine’s scar bothered him as well. 

“Is she okay?” Wrecker asked anxiously.

Crosshair felt his stomach twist into knots. “Wrecker, she’s in a prison where she is tortured all day by some sadistic fuck.”

His words were harsh and hit Wrecker like a tsunami, but his tone was hollow and haunted. 

“I’m sorry,” Crosshair started. “The dreams are getting… less vivid. It’s like- it’s like I’m out of range to pick up the comm chatter.”

“And you’re worried about her,” Wrecker finished. Crosshair nodded, running his hands over his eyes. “Do you-” He fidgeted a little. “Do you still like her?”

Crosshair eyed his brother, who seemed to be looking anywhere but directly at him. “Yeah.”

“Even after everything she did?”

Crosshair sighed. “Yes, I still love her.”

He watched the bigger man shifting uncomfortably in his bunk.

“Cross?”

“Yeah?”

“I gotta tell you something,” he practically whispered as he sat up in the bunk.

Crosshair nodded as the man’s leg started to bounce. He only did that when he was really nervous. 

“Cross, I… I really like Jainey,” he breathed, his shoulders dropping like a weight was pulled from them. “I really like her. Even after all this time and everything she said and did.”

Crosshair simply nodded. He didn’t want to discourage this- he couldn’t.

“And I know that you and her were– are-” he chuckled nervously. “A-a-and I don’t want to get in the way of that, but I don’t like holding it in; doesn’t feel right.”

“I know, Wreck,” Crosshair said.

Wrecker’s eyes shot up to his younger brother. “You do?”

“I saw the way all of you looked at her,” he shrugged, taking her datapad in his hands. “I can’t blame you; I look at her the same way.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

Crosshair scoffed as he jumped down from his bunk. “Wreck, I’d be more surprised if you weren’t in love with her.” He offered the datapad in his hands. “She wrote me a letter in her language. Tech translated it. I think it might be good for you to read it, too.”

Wrecker’s eyes searched his brother’s face for even the tiniest hint of a joke. Finding nothing he just nodded, taking the datapad in his hands. He watched his little brother stretch, the action vaguely reminding him of a loth cat, and walk away to another part of the ship, leaving him alone on his bunk.

Wrecker’s hands were shaking a little. He hadn’t been so nervous to read since he was a cadet. He shuddered at the unpleasant memories of the Kaminoans’ “tests”.

Take a deep breath, he heard Movri's voice in his head. This is just a moment. For better or worse, it will be gone soon.

He could feel his pulse quicken at the thought of the kind togruta man. He pushed it away- his burgeoning feelings for his new friend weren’t important now; finding and rescuing Jainey was his current mission.

As he looked down at the screen, the words and letters seemed to bond together into an impenetrable wall. He shifted the screen back and forth, growling a little as he tried to decipher the translated text.

With a groan, he gave up on the first paragraph, opting instead to try and search through until he found his own name.

Wrecker has been more touchy lately. He picks me up and holds me close. He is so sweet and kind, it almost makes my heart ache. I play along like I want him to put me down, but that is far from the truth. I see how he steals glances at you when I am in his arms. I know he is nervous, but I would be glad to let him hold me as long as he sees fit.

Wrecker sighed once he got through the paragraph, relief washing over him as the headache he’d quickly started to develop waned. He’d been worried that she didn’t like the physicality of his affection. But this put it to rest: she didn’t mind it and they were friends.

We have to find her.

Realization struck through his chest like a spear. She doesn’t remember you, some cruel voice echoed through his brain. 

“Wrecker?”

His head snapped up to meet Omega’s concerned look.

“Oh, hey, ‘Mega,” he tried to smile.

“Crosshair gave you the letter, didn’t he?”

Wrecker heaved a sigh and nodded. “I-I know she…did a lot of really bad stuff, but-”

“You miss her,” Omega finished for him. “It wasn’t her fault. It’s the chip.”

“I know,” he frowned. 

Omega placed a gentle hand in his. “We’re going to get her back.”

-

“Tech, are you alright?” Runi called, knocking lightly on the fresher door.

“I am fine,” came the muffled response. Even through the door she could hear the strain in his voice. “Your medical assistance is not necessary.

Runi scowled. “You ran in there pretty fast,” she argued.

“Your concern is-” his voice wavered. “Is unwarranted.”

“Tech-”

“What’s wrong with him?” Echo asked, sidling up to press a kiss to her temple. She smiled at the soft touch.

“Don’t know,” she sighed. “He just ran in there.”

“Give him a few minutes,” he advised, his hand cupping her cheek. “He’ll let someone know what’s wrong when he’s ready.”

Runi raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure,” she snarked.

“Runi!”

Both of their heads snapped towards the medbay and they ran.

“What’s going on?” Runi asked as she took in the scene before her.

Sinya was curled in on herself, cradling her left hand against her chest, pained whimpers falling from her lips.

“She was fine but then she started-” Hunter explained, shirtless Runi noted in the back of her brain. “It’s- it’s the burn.”

She spoke soothingly to Sinya, gently coaxing her to release the clutch on her hand as she stuck a monitor patch to her chest. “Can I look at your hand?”

“I-I can’t,” she sobbed. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Runi shushed. “I’m going to give you a pain-stim to help you relax a little, then we’re gonna look at your hand, alright?”

Sinya nodded tearfully and Runi looked over her shoulder.

“Echo, grab the-”

“Here,” he interrupted, the stim already in the autoinjector he was handing to her.

“Alright, Sinya, deep breaths, hun,” she whispered, pressing the injector against the twi'lek’s forearm, who whimpered a little at the sharp poke.

Runi looked at the med scanner, watching as Sinya’s heart rate began to ease back down to a normal pace. 

“S-sorry,” the woman whispered between pants. Runi looked up to answer, but found that her patient’s eyes were on the man sitting next to her. His eyes were filled with concern, but his lips were pulled up in a gentle smile.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sarad,” he assured her, taking her uninjured hand in his. “We’ll have time.”

Runi fought to suppress a smile, exchanging an amused look with Echo as she unwrapped Sinya’s hand.

Once she pulled the bandage away, she nearly gasped. The burn had gotten worse. The center had expanded, faint red wisps still emanating from the ruined skin.

“That bad?” Sinya quipped.

“Honestly?” Runi hummed, releasing Sinya’s wrist. “I don’t know if it’s bad, and I don’t know how to treat it.”

Sinya nodded. If she were honest with herself, she probably expected that. “Do you think it’ll spread?” 

Runi scowled. “I hope not.”

« Previous Chapter Next Chapter »

Thanks for reading! - River

Jari'eyc Masterlist DangRaccoon Masterlist Taglist Form Read on AO3

Tags: @lokigirlszendaya @serenityselene @nomercyforthewarrior @ravenclawbitch426 @luna-the-lone-red-wolf @techs-goggles9902

[bonefall]

Do you have any thoughts for the sisters yet? I’ve been going backwards and fleshing out the cultures and I had the sisters be a split off version of the cats who went to become the tribe, so when Half Moon had the casting of stones they tied and the group split. I really like them and how they can be taken as a singing, traveling, spiritually connected group of fluffy beasts of cats. And being matriarchal. Kinda sucks their demonized a bit in the narrative.

The Sisters are a breakoff group of the Tribe in Better Bones! You can really see it when you learn about Tribe Medics.

The Tribe has MANY medics, and anyone is allowed to become interested in it. You can be a hunter and a medic at the same time, or you could even start to be known as a medic as you display a lot of talent in your hobby. The really good ones will travel between the three "wards," often in little packs.

The Sisters are simply one of those MedPacks, which ended up becoming so powerful and unique that they felt called away on a grand journey.

All Tribe medics communicate with their ancestors via all sorts of personal rituals and omen interpreting, but the Sisters speak with ALL spirits. They travel the land, documenting the stories of ghosts and questing to give peace to souls who are trapped on Earth so they can finally fade.

They believe that we all belong to the sky, like how rain belongs to clouds. We fall and rise and fall over and over again in a cycle. They don't believe in a "heaven" like the Tribe of Endless Hunting, or a "hell" like Clan cats... or, well, they do know they exist, but find them to be grotesque corruptions of the natural order.

Male Sisters have a very important role; they are expected to become more and more distant from the main group, before finding a place to break off and set up some sort of 'homestead.' This can be an individual territory, a group, or even a human dwelling.

When the main group returns after traveling, they rely on the hospitality of Male Sisters to help them, giving information, showing them where to find herbs, and soothing any hostile groups in the area.

When a male sister leaves, the group prepares him for his new life with a celebration called the Departing. During this, a special object of some sort is made which allows them to physically see ghosts without the need for the whole group's channeling, because it bothers me immensely that they did a weird 'the male's powers are genetic and also superior to the female's' thing for some reason.

less inherent blood superiority in my rewrite. no thanks. dont like that.

Tree gave his charm to his son Rootspring. He didn't want it and it never really worked for him, anyway.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 1 Part 5

Touch-Starved – Crosshair - Fed up with Crosshair's dismissal of her help after a nearly disastrous escape, Doc finally snaps.

Warnings: Maybe light arachnophobia? Cursing, yelling, brief mention of injection

WC: 2,622

If not for the delicate sensors flashing across the overlay of my visor, I would have lost the others miles back, legs burning as I sprinted through the dense underbrush of the ancient forest. Fun. Yeah. I swear, next time a commanding officer called a mission either ‘fun’ or ‘simple’ or ‘easy’ I was going to strap the 70Ib medpack to their shoulders and let them see for themselves how fun it was to go racing through overgrown foliage so thick you could only hope it wasn’t concealing the massive trunk of one of those towering trees while being chased by dozens of ten-legged, very hostile carnivorous insects taller than Wrecker.

‘Scout the area for future outpost locations.’ ‘No known Separatist forces in that area, so should be an easy hike for you guys… have fun.’ That pompous old man better hope I didn’t stumble across him in a deserted hallway…

“Doc, eyes up!” Hunter’s voice barked over the com. I didn’t hesitate, body instantly responding by jerking both pistols toward the dark canopy. Those massive beasts blended in perfectly with the mess of bark and leaves, but my visor emphasized their movement and synced with sensors in the armor stretching down my arms and hands to guide my aim. From this distance, however, the handful of bolts that struck it from my rapid barrage of shots was only just enough to dissuade it from charging, sending the thing retreating to whatever web or hollow hid beyond that impenetrable layer of plant life to lick it’s wounds.  

Hunter and Wrecker were holding back the brunt of the assault behind us while Tech had raced ahead to ready the ship. Echo was somewhere near me, the ceaseless sound of his pistol the only thing granting me any certainty that I hadn’t strayed, and Crosshair laid in perfect stillness somewhere up ahead, blue bolts appearing like magic the instant one of those creatures got too close.

“There appears to be another wave incoming from the north. I suggest you hurry.” I briefly muted my com to release a violent string of curses on painfully quick, panted gasps even as I strained to force myself to move faster, hands training from one creature to the next at the relentless alerts chiming from my targeting system. In barely the span of a single heartbeat, I noted the glint of metal beneath one of those alerts, and my chest seized.

“Crosshair! Five o’clock!” The words tore from me in a panic. He was well beyond the range of my pistols; too far for any of us to do more than watch as he rolled hazardously over the branch he’d perched atop in an instinctual rush to avoid the sudden charge of the spider-like beast. The ancient tree shuddered beneath the assault, the terrible creaking of its moss-covered limb screaming over even the chaos of battle raging all around me.

“Crosshair!” Hunter’s voice boomed over the intercom just as the wood shattered. Even as he began to fall, Crosshair leveled the elegant barrel of his rifle at the creature and, with a single flash of light, sent it tumbling limp to the forest floor below. The instant he pulled the trigger, his hand darted out behind him, and I could only guess toward the desperation with which his fingers clawed into the sleek, moss-covered bark for any whisper of purchase. “There’s a vine twenty feet below you!”

The sniper barely glanced down before angling that lithe body against the massive trunk for whatever traction it might offer, rifle clasped carefully in one hand. The renewed frenzy driving me forward numbed the fire burning through abused muscle, diverting without a second thought from the path to the Marauder to sprint toward Crosshair, eyes locked on his rapid descent. I barely noticed the thin vine until his free hand snatch it midair, lower body arching forward like a pendulum for the half-second it held his weight. His mic just picked up the tiny hitch of his breath, and the rest of the forest went suddenly mute beneath it, beneath the fear in that flutter of air breaking over clenched teeth. Hand still locked around that traitorous vine, he began to fall.

Barely a dozen strides separated me from the base of the tree when his body suddenly snapped to a halt arm jerking above his head. I’d only just made out the loop of green caught around his wrist before his hand slipped free he crashed the final handful of meters to the ground.

Pistols already thrown into my holsters, I snatched the scanner from the side of my pack and slammed to my knees beside him. Before even coming to a full stop, my fingers darted out and slipped under his bucket to find the rapid dance of his pulse hammering just beneath his jaw as my other hand began the scan. Ignoring the listless flail of his arm trying to push me away, I maintained that position for just a few fleeting seconds, monitoring the rhythm while reading over the flashing text scrolling over my screen, trusting the others to cover us.

“‘M fine – get the kriff off me!” He snapped, movements gaining more strength as he finally wrenched my hand away. Beyond a sprained wrist and some bruising that would bring all manner of unsettling colors to his back, his armor seemed to save him from the worst of it. Ignoring the sharp words, I forced my arm beneath his shoulders and, with a surge of power fueled more by adrenaline than strength, hauled him up against me. He staggered beside me for barely a single stride before pushing away and racing forward on his own.

He said nothing as we ran, but I noted with painful clarity the way his right hand tucked slightly against his chest. Even if the damage was relatively minor, the pain was clearly severe enough to still even an attempt to use it. Cringing at the fresh hurt that surely tore through the limb with each stride, I tried to force my attention back to the encroaching wildlife, but the wave of fire from the others was finally beginning to allow us some breathing room.

“I want everyone strapped in now! Tech: we’re thirty seconds out.” Hunter ordered barely seconds before the top fin of the Marauder came into view. Nearly the instant my feet touched that ramp, we began to hover, and I had just enough time to throw myself into a crash seat, followed almost immediately by the others, before we were rocketing through the trees.

The quiet beneath five sets of heavy breathing offered frightfully little comfort, attention already turning to Crosshair. He glared blindly through the flooring beneath his feet, hand carefully limp inches above his thigh, jaw tensing beneath absent attempts to shift his fingers. As soon as the worst of the turbulence eased, I quickly freed myself from the mesh harness and trotted toward him.

“Try not to move it. Let me-” I started, already reaching for the swelling limb, but he quickly pulled away from me.

“I didn’t ask for your help!” He snarled, “You want to get all touchy-feely with the others, fine! But stay the kriff away from me!” For a brief moment, I was too shocked to reply, barely noting the grimace weighing heavily over Wrecker’s face, nor the annoyance in Echo’s glare as the man stalked quickly from the cabin.

“I’ll talk to him.” Hunter offered wearily, but that only fueled my rage.

“Don’t you dare.” The quiet threat in my words instantly drew his attention. Eyes shifting between me and the retreating form of his brother, his brow slowly raised in something between sympathy and skepticism. I merely narrowed my eyes before throwing my pack down and starting quickly after the sharp-tongued sniper. As soon as Crosshair saw me storm into the bunk room after him, that glare hardened into something dangerous, lips twisting into a snarl.

“No! You’re going to shut that karking mouth and listen to me!” I barked in the split second before he could unleash whatever retort boiled over his tongue.

“Or what? You’ll make me?” He challenged, shoulders rolling back as his head tipped forward, looking at me with those sharp eyes.

“Oh, grow up!” I spat, stalking forward until barely an inch lay between us. “You want to act all better-off-alone? Fine! You want to insult me and push me away? Kriffing go for it! But you have exactly three options right now!” Despite the fleeting space, I brought a hand up to count off, “Keep up this damn tough-guy osik, and I put you on med-leave until that wrist heals on its own.” I held up a second finger, “You walk into medbay and take a very painful bacta injection between your scaphoid and trapezium carpal bones.” My voice lowered only slightly into a growl as I raised the third, “Or sit your shebs on that karking cot, and let me do my job.”

He offered no retort to that, fury burning in those brilliant eyes as he stared me down, but I didn’t move, unflinching beneath the intensity of his rage. How long did he stand there, mind working for some alternative; any excuse to ignore me, to prove me wrong, before, finally, his teeth clicked from the way his jaw ground, gaze sliding reluctantly to the wall just behind me. Shoulders painfully taut, he sat heavily on the bed beside us. I’d apologize to Hunter later, but his was the easiest to access at that moment.

I didn’t try to catch his gaze as I kneeled before him, once more reaching for his hand. I just caught the way his lips pulled into a slight grimace at that first contact, muscles tensing beneath the instinctual drive to pull away; to flee, but he forced himself still. Without a word, I pulled the vambrace from his forearm before carefully beginning to ease the glove free. I could feel the slight twitch steal through his arm, but, again, he fought it.

Already, the joint looked painfully inflamed. I didn’t bother requesting he focus on his breathing or offer quiet conversation to distract him as my thumbs swept lightly in tandem along his palm both to trail over each bone in search of any hidden soreness as well as to begin pushing the swelling out of the angry tissue. I could feel his gaze carefully trained on me, eyes following my every movement with a violent distrust that robbed me of my earlier rage.

Pointedly ignoring the heat burring into me from his glare, I merely focused on my own movements, softly testing the sensitivity of the apex of the sprain and surrounding tissue to map out what I had to work with. Touch dragging back to the tips of those long fingers, I carded my fingers around each digit in turn. With a meticulous calm, I dragged the heel of my palm up his, swept the pad of my thumbs along the lines of tendons and over the ridges of bone until some whisper of that tension began to ease.

I was careful not to risk looking at him fully, but managed to catch a brief glimpse of him as my touch roamed delicately over his wrist before working into the lean muscles of his forearm. That rage was beginning to fall away, something so near to fascination just touching those eyes that left me holding my breath. This wouldn’t fix the sprain; not really, but the simple act of pushing the swelling from the injured tissue would greatly help with the pain and quicken its healing. In conjunction with the bacta patches stashed in one of the pouches lashed to my waist, I was hopeful that he would be nearly back to normal before reaching Kamino.

As I began dragging long, leisurely movements from the tips of fingers carefully supported against mine, up his palm, touch growing delicate over the swelling mound around his wrist, before firmly sweeping up the length of his forearm, he finally began to lose himself, eyes drooping as his head gradually sank lower toward his chest with each laxed breath.

I felt my movements slowing, reluctant to let him go for fear of never being allowed this moment of stillness with him again. Selfishly, I found myself returning to already blissfully limp muscles, working over each joint just once more, granting myself endless excuses to warrant a half dozen final adjustments before, with a slow, reluctant breath, reaching for the kit at my waist.

Only a whisper of that tension returned to him, eyes following me almost lazily before quieting upon seeing the basic madpack, and I tried to justify that quiet in the gentleness of my movements as I carefully secured the bactapatch against his wrist with meticulously applied bandages. I didn’t pull away from him once I’d finished, hesitating a moment before finally letting my eyes find his. That stillness lingered for a long while as he passively took in the gratitude burning through me, the silent plea screaming beneath my certainty that, the instant either of us moved or spoke or simply remembered the existence of a reality beyond this room, this moment of trust would vanish.

My arm seemed to move on its own, carefully resting his bandaged hand atop his thigh before just beginning to reach for his other one, palm held open in a quiet invitation as I let just the faintest glimmer of hope touch my gaze. He glanced briefly to my open hand, mind slowly returning to some level of awareness, and I felt that cold flush of defeat wash through me as his eyes shifted pointedly away, brows just tensing before his jaw clicked shut.

Without a word, he quickly pushed himself to his feet and stalked passed me. My hands sank back to my thighs, body deflating beneath the blanket rejection as the unapologetic hiss of the door closed behind him, leaving me too aware of the isolation that left me in. Fighting back the threat of guilt and regret at the harshness of my earlier words, I resigned myself to continued dismissal from the final member of this squad I was still trying to embrace as mine and thoughtlessly reached for the discarded wrappers around me from the used medkit.

Just as I’d begun calling some bit of motion back into my limbs, ready to finally force myself to my feet, the door opened once more. Expecting a kind word of sympathy from Echo or quiet reassurance from Hunter, I didn’t bother turning to look, unwilling to let them see the lingering hint of sadness I hadn’t yet managed to force back. The shock that tore through me when Crosshair dropped heavily back onto the cot, pinched glare turned pointedly to the far end of the room as he nearly thrust his other hand toward me left me staggering, lips just parted in a tiny gasp.

If he heard the way my breath caught as I let out a long, barely controlled sigh before reaching almost reverently for the offered limb, he made no show of it. I couldn’t begin to force back the smile, the lightness that burst through me as I gently eased the gear from his arm, overcome in that flood of relief. I knew this didn’t mean he truly trusted me, nor even that he more than tolerated my presence, but it was a start, and, as the smooth motion of my hands working over his gradually lulled him back into that blissed calm, I let myself finally begin to feel some hope that, just maybe, I could find my place here.

Continue Reading

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @ct-0113