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m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s · 3 years

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this is probably my favorite piece to date, the emotions, the way i wrote it-

i cannot explain to you how proud of myself i am :)

i know we all just fell in love with Captain Howzer, but Ner Ram’ser still has ahold of my heart :) ❤️ Once again, if you wanna be added to the taglist, just let me know in the comments ☺️

Wolffe encouraged for me to write this because of how i said Crosshair would smell like the ocean, and i just need to get my feels out :) i also used some word prompts for this, so please…

enjoy :) 🥰❤️

Crosshair x GN!Reader Drabble: He was gone all the time. It felt so… empty. Some days you even wondered if he wasn’t just a figment of your imagination. Some days he came home, in the doorway to your apartment, pulling you into the living room, arms wrapping around you. Those days were the days you knew he was real.

Genre: Fluff, and a tad bit of angst, but not a ton, I promise.

Warnings: None, besides established relationship, but not mentioned

Word Count: 1,033 words, 5,633 characters

*Disclaimer: I do not own anything relating to the Star Wars universe, nor do I own anything relating to the Clone Wars universe. I do not own any characters, places, or things unless they are of my own creation.*

Picture is from Pinterest

Word Prompts: Cuddly, Warm, & Soft

(Proofread)

I am so scared that some days you don’t even exist. But then you walk through the door, and I know it’s going to be okay. - Moons

// In The Tide Of Warmth //

It was the days when he came home, home in your arms, to your sweet kisses and languid touches. Where you would open the door of your apartment, hope bubbling in your stomach that perhaps it was the one you had been waiting for all this time. Tearful gazes and arms thrown around necks. Cradled bodies against the other, and a whisper that came from his lips:

“I’m home, my love. I’m home.”

Those were Crosshair’s favorite days.

They were yours too.

He had come home late in the night, the Coruscant traffic glowing through the bay windows of your apartment in the night. The sky was blue, deep in the hue, lighting the sky with a color that looked like that blue that was reflected off of a raven’s wings. Pearly stars scattered the night, neon greens and cherry reds from signs all around.

Then there was the warmth.

He had instantly led you right to the living room, clinging you to his chest in his moment of need. For you.

There would always be a void in your relationship with the sniper. He, away in active battlefields and war zones. You, tucked safely away in your apartment, going down to the farmer’s market in your neighborhood every Thursday.

It was an ache in his heart, one that he carried as soon as he left the threshold of you, his home. One that Hunter felt when he met his brother the next morning in the barracks. One that kept his eyes open as his brothers slept peacefully around him at night, unaware that he was missing his own peace.

One that stayed in the muscle behind his ribcage until he came home once again. One that was staved off in the short time you two were able to be in the other’s embrace.

The void couldn’t be filled, but you made the most of the little time you received with him. Always.

It was in your living room, the one that had shadows casted on the floor from the signs outside, where you clung to the other.

Swaying oh so gently. No music, but then again you never needed music. The traffic outside of the glass was music in itself. Shouts and beeps, the rushing of engines and motors clunking.

Warm. Your nose nestled into his neck as it had so many times before, his hands wrapped around your back, fingers softly tracing your waist. Your fingertips gently play with the curls in his hair. Supple lips pressed delicately to your collarbone, then your neck, resting for a short time on your shoulder before repeating the cycle anew.

It was quiet, save for the music of speeders coming through the walls. An occasional mumble, tired, soft hums. There was no battlefield here. No aching hearts here.

Only serendipity.

“I made cookies earlier.”

It was a whisper from you, barely audible.

A quiet chuckle, one that barely reached your ears. A smile on your lips, unknown to him. You begin to pull away to grab the treats you had baked in the early afternoon, the grip on your waist tightening.

“No, no yet.”

You could have cried at that moment. The guard he had so meticulously built around everyone else, including his brothers, falling before your eyes as you snuggled your way back onto his arms.

You breathed in his scent, the smell of blaster fire filling your nose. Even in your home, in his arms, the battlefield still lingered. Always waiting, watching. Never quite leaving you. Or him for that matter.

There was something else.

It was a breezy aroma, one that reminded you all too well of the planet he had come from, one he told you that haunted his dreams.

It wasn’t a bad smell though.

It was… comforting.

“You smell like the ocean.”

The swaying did not stop, nor did his soft touches, but the kisses halted. Breath hitched, lodged in his throat.

“Is- is that bad?”

You pull back from his neck, missing the fragrance instantly. It was a nervous gaze that met yours. Scared, unsure.

It was a quiet laugh and the softening of your heart as you gazed back at him.

“No, it smells like you. Reminds me of you as a person.”

“Oh?”

It was a soft giggle from your mouth, a smile that almost struck him straight through the heart before your explanation finally came.

“The ocean is rough, right? Perhaps a bit mysterious? When people first meet you, you’re mysterious and a little rough.”

You chuckle softly once again, but you don’t miss the way his eyes look fearful, panic quick to swoop in.

Your reassurance comes faster.

“After a while though, the ocean calms down. It becomes serene. You open up, you’re funny and nice-”

“Nice?”

It was a soft smile from you that made his eyebrow raise higher.

“Yes… you’re sweet.”

He was sure the butterflies in his stomach were stuck in his lungs.

You smiled at him sweetly. Sweetly. Just like you said he was. Out of all the words you could have chosen, he didn’t expect the one you did choose.

He loved it.

“Well, I think you're sweet too. Very beautiful, and… sweet.”

A sutter in your heart, some beats skipped. Neither of you were quite sure who leaned in first, or who nuzzled their nose against the other’s.

What you did know was that when your lips met, it was pure bliss.

Lips that were a tad chapped captured yours, soft and gentle. Slow, he took his time, just like always. It was his way of trying to savor every feeling he got, the feelings of which he carried in his bones while he was away.

It was him that pulled away, nestling himself back into the crevice between your neck and shoulder. It was you who cuddled back into his hold, pulled so close that your hearts beat as one.

Swaying oh so gently, with the scent of salty waters filling your nose. The nightly traffic continued, but the stars still shone bright in the night sky.

Shining softly on two lovers, gently swaying in the moonlight.

taglist: @loth-wolffe @dreamingofclones @ahsokasleftbicep @hellothere-generalangsty @and-claudia @monako-jinn-stories @teletraan-meets-jarvis @kybacrystal

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kkrazy256 · 3 years

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Title: Pretend It’s Not Forever

Prompt(s): Day 4 Bonding | Laughter

Warnings: None

Characters: Boba Fett, Commander Fox, Bossk

Additional Tags: Deception Arc, Missing Scene, Canon-Compliant, Fox Helps Boba Escape Prison, Dialogue-heavy, Just Two Bros Having A Serious Chat While Breaking The Law

Word Count: 4130

Summary: Boba gets separated from Bossk during the prison escape and runs into a familiar face

[On Ao3]

@loving-fox-hours

It’s really no different than all those lockdown drills back on Kamino.

At least that’s what Boba keeps telling himself as he presses up against another wall to let a wave of prisoners run past without trampling him.

“Bossk?” He shouts over the noise, walking with his hands splayed against the metal of the corridor. He had lost the Trandoshan about two levels back. They hadn’t exactly been very good at making friends. Boba couldn’t just let himself look soft . He had already gotten laughed at enough for not being able to kill a Jedi, he wasn’t about to let them think he was an easy target. Never show weakness.

Bossk has gotten into enough fights on his behalf to run into a few assholes looking to get a final punch or two in.

“Boba, just go! I’ll catch up.” Bossk hisses, throwing one over his shoulder and baring his teeth at another. Two clones run into the hallway, shouting orders and raising their blasters. Bossk bowls them over with a snarl, and then Boba’s scrambling out of the area without looking back.

A Weequay skids around the corner, shoving Boba’s shoulder hard in his mad dash for freedom. He hisses, rotating his arm with a scowl. That Hardeen bastard’s grip had been tight, and the condescending air around him still stung deep within Boba’s chest.

You don’t want to do this.

Get him, Hardeen!

Kill that brat!

Show him how a real Jedi Killer does things.

He wishes Bossk would’ve let him try and kill the asshole after the fighting started in the mess hall. The guy hadn’t been anything special; Boba could’ve definitely taken him down if they went for a Round 2. The handful of credits from Bane would have to do for now. It should be enough to catch a ride to the lower levels. Maybe even a nerfburger to share with Bossk. He’s not going to miss the prison slop any time soon.

He flinches when another loud crack echoes down the halls. The drills on Kamino were never so chaotic. Here, there is yelling and the sound of blaster fire, both live and stun rounds. Some yells become shrill and just a touch too scared. Too hurt. It makes Boba feel cold. The monotone overhead speaker drones on, its facility on lockdown warning barely audible over everything else.

The passageways in the prison are darker than the blinding white of Kamino. They’re more narrow, with sharper turns that have Boba’s heart in his throat every time he peeks into a different hallway and waits for the inevitable blaster bolt to the face. It never comes, so he keeps moving.

He avoids running into any more prisoners, and the new area he’s in is relatively void of activity now. There’s an occasional squad of clones that hurries by, shouting orders into their communicators. It sounds like a majority of the riot has been contained. Boba hopes he’s going in the right direction.

Back on Kamino, everyone moved at a brisk but controlled pace. There had been rules on where everyone had to go and stand before the lockdown ended. There were protocols that told everyone which group they belonged with.

But Boba didn’t remember any of those; he never had to go with any of the others. All he had to do was find dad.

But there’s no dad here to look for. Boba swallows, standing straighter. There’s no dad anywhere. Not anymore. There are only others with his face and his voice. But it’s not the same. It’s not the same helmet, not the same tone. They’re all younger. Younger than dad, and in some screwed up way, younger than Boba too.

It’s not the same.

And dad hadn’t always been on Kamino. There were times where he’d be off-world for a job that he couldn’t take Boba along for. That left Boba wandering the halls, doing his best to look like he knew where he was heading.

If dad’s ever not on Kamino and there’s an emergency, he was supposed to find—

You go find Wolffe and the others in that group. You stick with them until I come home.

And you’ll come home soon, buir?

Of course, ad’ika. You’re here, so that’s where I’ll come home to.

That doesn’t mean osik now.

Wolffe is working with the Kel Dor Jedi that had brought him here in the first place. Boba had kept his head down when the Jedi met up with Wolffe on the trip to Coruscant ( how long has it been since then? He doesn’t even know anymore) . He hadn’t wanted to see the disgust that was probably obvious in Wolffe’s face.

Cody is working with that Kenobi bastard, but Hardeen had apparently taken care of him. Guess that guy isn’t half bad for a jerk.

He has no idea where Bly and Fox went after their deployment nearly two years ago.

And Ponds—

He slams a fist against the wall and the hollow ring lingers for several seconds. The clattering of plastoid in the adjacent corridor stops at the sound before coming closer. Boba lets out a soft gasp and barely manages to press himself into a small crevice in the wall just as three clones run by. He doesn’t breathe until the footsteps grow faint again.

And he had kil— Aurra had killed Ponds.

Aurra had.

But does it even matter? Ponds had been dead the moment Boba and his group boarded the Endurance . He had just been too dumb to see it at the time. Aurra is probably dead too. He remembers the other Jedi mentioning her crashing the Slave I in a fiery explosion.

His dad’s Slave I . Up in flames.

His dad’s buy’ce , in pieces back on the Endurance .

His father’s belongings, gone and with nothing to show for it. It’s just Boba, wandering the hallway of a prison trying to make his escape.

Some legacy he turned out to be.

Dad is gone, and Boba can’t go to Wolffe and the others. Especially not any other clone. He doesn’t have allies here, only enemies. He can’t trust any of them. No clone would come across him and see him as a friend. Not after what he’s done.

They’d come across him, stressed and with their blasters raised. And then…

Would they hesitate? Like Boba had?

Or maybe after all that he’s done, he doesn’t even deserve that?

He turns the corner without checking and hits against something solid, stumbling back onto his ass.

Plastoid.

Boba looks up and all he sees is red, white, and the black of two gun barrels aimed at his face.

He counts silently in his head, the tightness in his shoulders leaving as he relaxes. There’s nothing more he could do here.

He wonders how many seconds of hesitation he’s worth.

The hands holding the blasters lower.

“...Boba?”

He tenses, looking the clone over. Their armor is different from the typical guard’s. The colors are all the opposite. Most of them knew who he was, it isn’t like there are many like him being held here. But something tells him there is more going on than just that.

“Why don’t you just get it over with?” Boba juts his chin out, looking straight into the dark visor. The clone seems shocked that he had managed to meet eyes through the helmet, but Boba’s had enough practice to do it easily.

The gloved hands move purposely slow and Boba can’t blink.

They holster both blasters, and one reaches out to —

To him.

Boba can only stare, jaw dropping. What in the Stars does this mean?

“Boba, it’s Fox.”

Fox.

If there’s an emergency, you go find Wolffe, Ponds, Bly, Cody, or —

“Fox?” He whispers, taking the offered hand automatically and letting Fox haul him to his feet, “wh-you ended up being sent here?” He considers the kama and extra embellishments on the armor, “you’re a commander?”

“Even better, a Marshal Commander.”

The present situation comes rushing back, and Boba yanks his hand back the moment he’s steady. This isn’t Kamino. Fox isn’t just another clone being asked to watch over Boba while Jango’s out.

This is Coruscant. This is a maximum security prison. Boba is a prisoner during a riot. Fox is the Marshal Commander of the Guard.

There are no friends. Only enemies. Trust no one. Never seek out help.

He’s learned that the hard way. And he’s not about to fall for it again. He’s smarter than that, he’ll do better.

“Come on.” Fox says, jerking his head towards the end of the hallway.

As if.

Boba shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. It would take a second for Fox to unholster his blasters again. He has a chance.

Fox grabs him by his jumper, shoving him around the corner.

“hEY—”

“Shh!” The sound is hissed out, barely audible through the helmet’s speakers.

“Commander!”

Boba shuts his mouth and shifts just out of sight. Fox goes still, shoulders squared and back straight as he turns to regard someone.

“Report, lieutenant?” His voice is a lot more steely.

“The riot’s been contained. We’re mainly chasing stragglers now.”

“Casualties?”

“Over a dozen prisoners and eight troopers. Live and stun rounds were used.”

Boba’s heart skips and he breathes out through his nose. Bossk is strong. Bossk is okay. He has to be okay.

“Prioritize the critically wounded. We can’t have another medbay overflow. And the instigators?”

“We think we’ve got three that escaped via the crematorium.”

“Through the morgue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The spaceport in sector 8 is the only route they can reach from there. Have Thorn’s team cut them off.”

“Yes, sir. General Yoda and General Windu are on the line. They want a status update.”

Boba hears Fox’s muffled curse.

“I’ll be with them after I finish clearing this level. Head back to Command and oversee until I return.”

“Yes, sir!”

The footsteps grow faint, and Fox prods him again, “lets go.”

Boba shuffles his way down the corridor with Fox at his heels.

Every so often, Fox would place a hand on his shoulder and steer him in a different direction. Moments later, a trooper would pass by the way they had just been headed.

He resists the urge to rub his shoulders. Fox is helping him. And Boba doesn’t understand why.

“Where are we going?” He bites his lip, and finally asks, “this isn’t the way back to my cell.” Is he being punished? Is he being brought to a different cell? A smaller one? One with no windows? No cellmate? None of those options sound good.

“Do you want to go back to your cell?” Fox simply says, and Boba scowls. He’s always been a snarky asshole, even back on Kamino. Boba doesn’t have time for this. He’s tired, hungry, and his shoulder still hurts from Hardeen’s hold. If he can’t escape, he just wants to be thrown back in his cell. And hopefully, Bossk would be there too.

If not, then maybe he got out. Without Boba. But getting left behind shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore.

“Where’s your scaly friend?” Fox asks, as if reading his mind. Boba huffs.

“Don’t know, lost him in the crowd. We were supposed to meet up again.” He pauses, squinting up at the blank visor, “he’ll be here any minute and then I’m out of here.”

“If he’s smart, he’ll be heading towards this sector.” Fox agrees, and Boba frowns.

“Why do you know about him anyway?”

“The reports say he was registered at the same time you were. The Guard tells me he’s been keeping an eye out for you.”

Fox has been keeping tabs on him, Boba realizes. He’s the Commander of the Guard, he knows that Boba’s been here since the day they brought him to Coruscant.

Fox hasn’t visited once.

Boba knows he shouldn’t have expected him to, even if Boba had hung out with his batch the most back on Kamino.

Because in the end, they all grew up without him. In the end, Boba isn’t one of them. He’s gotten one of them killed. He has gotten many of them killed.

Fox should be mad. So why is he...

“Why are you helping me?” Boba wants to stop walking, but Fox continues to gently push him forward, “you know what I’ve done.”

“And what is it that you’ve done?”

Boba takes two brisk steps ahead before whirling around to face Fox with a snarl, “Ponds.” The name echoes and it felt wrong for him to say.

“I…” He looks at the grey floor, he can’t stand looking at that blank helmet. But he doesn’t want to see the alternative either, “that was my fault.”

“It was Aurra Sing that killed him.”

“She shot him, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t part of the whole thing.”

Fox tilts his head, “she promised you something, didn’t she? Something that made you agree to work with her.”

Boba blinks, then blinks again when his eyes start to sting, “she said she knew him, that they worked together before….”

His hands shake from how tightly clenched they are, “she said she’d help me get revenge. For...for…”

“For the Prime.”

“For my buir .” His cheeks feel hot, and wet. Fuck , he’s too old for this.

“...I hurt a lot of people. A lot of clones.” He thinks of Jax. We’re all in it together. The betrayal etched across all those faces just like his own when he left the pod. The betrayal on all those older faces that will eventually be his own.

“You did, I saw the reports.”

“So why?” He sucks a breath in and his voice shakes, “why aren’t you angry!?” How can he just stand here, so damn calm while Boba’s the one falling apart? It’s just not fair.

“...Do you want me to be?”

No.

“Yes!” He throws his hands up, “it would make more sense than whatever the hell you’re doing right now. It’s treason, isn’t it? Isn’t that all you guys care about? Being loyal?”

He’s breathing hard, and Fox approaches him, kneeling down and holding a hand out. Boba turns his head towards the open palm. They’re large, hidden under a layer of fabric and protected by a dark red plate. It’s not the same.

“Boba, you’re—” Fox’s hand hovers for a long three seconds before he drops it back at his side, “you’re a damn kid. And under all those circumstances? I-, I can’t say that I agree or that I would’ve done the same.”

The gloved hands ball into fists before relaxing again, “but I understand, alright? It’s not as simple as right and wrong, and I sure as hell don’t see it that way either.”

Boba sniffs, rubbing his nose with a sleeve, “doesn’t make what I did okay.” He’s not going to pretend it is. Dad taught him to own up to his mistakes, even when it’s hard to.

“No.” Fox sighs, “no, it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean jail is the right answer. There’s nothing in here for you.”

“There’s nothing out there for me either. I’m alone.”

Even back on Kamino, surrounded by so many just like him, he was alone. And as he grew older, he only found it to be more true.

“Well, you won’t always be. Sooner or later, you’ll find people who will want to be with you for you.”

“...And not because of what my dad left behind?”

He’s lost the helmet, he’s lost the Slave I . It’s just Boba now. Nothing but Boba. Is that enough for anyone?

“Just for you. People who won’t care about that reputation of yours.”

“...Do you mean it?”

“...Yes.” Fox answers softly. It’s the same dark visor staring back, but for a moment...Boba imagines there’s a face there. Not quite his dad’s, not quite his own, but a face.

“But…” Fox stands to full height, straightening out his kama before giving him a look, “that can't happen unless we get you out of here.”

He holds out his hand again.

Boba takes it without pulling away this time.

They navigate the halls in silence, dodging other Guard members every so often. The lieutenant had been right about getting the riot under control. Boba can no longer hear any more sounds of blaster fire. The amount of footfalls have decreased. They are running into less and less people.

“Are we almost there?”

“Almost.” Fox rolls his neck in a way that looks like he’s rolling his eyes instead, “if it were that easy to break out of prison, we’d all be fired.”

“You don’t get paid. I don’t think you can get fired.”

“Touché”

“Actually,” Boba looks up with a smile, “I think I’ve made more money bounty hunting than you’ve ever had in your life.”

“Way to rub it in.” He flicks the back of Boba’s head, and he resists the urge to kick the asshole in the shins. It would hurt his own foot more.

They continue walking.

“Do you remember what you said earlier?” Fox starts after a minute, voice sounding weird, “about loyalty?”

Boba frowns.

“What about it?”

“It’s true. We were trained to be loyal to the Republic. But you know what else we learned back on Kamino? Something that wasn’t taught?”

Boba raises an eyebrow, and Fox places a hand over his chest plate thoughtfully. He looks around, as if checking for someone listening.

“Our loyalty is with our vode, first and foremost.”

...Boba knows that. He’s no stranger to the closeness of the other clones back on Kamino that persists even after they’ve become grownups. Boba had his dad. The clones had...well, they have each other. They are vode . He knows that, so why is Fox telling him this now? Unless...unless?

“...Am,” He swallows his spit nervously, “am I one of the vode? Even though I’m not like you all? Even-, even though I screwed up?”

Fox sighs again, leaning down until—

Cool plastoid taps against his forehead, and Boba forgets to breathe. The hand on the back of his head scratches at the short, trimmed curls and Boba closes his eyes with a shudder. The last mirshmure'cya he had—

Beskar. Warm from battle. Dusty with the sand of Geonosis. Empty.

He no longer remembers how it feels anymore.

Until now.

“Ori’vod,” Fox’s voice is quiet, close enough to be heard without the robotic quality of his helmet speakers, “you never stopped being a vod.”

By the Ka’ra , Boba needs to stop crying in front of Fox.

“Asshole,” he shoves Fox away after an embarrassingly long time, hiccuping and rubbing at the corner of his eyes, “you know I hate it when you guys call me that.”

Fox snorts, reaching to rub the top of his head, “we know. But you are our littlest older brother, and nothing’s going to change that.”

“Quit it, di’kut ! Don’t touch me.” A squeak escapes him and he dodges more attacks on his buzzcut by skipping ahead with a grin.

Crash

He turns around just in time to see the overhead vent hit the ground and a blur of orange and green land on top of Fox.

Bossk .

The two tussle in a mess of limbs, snarling and hissing curses. Fox slams his head back, helmet nailing Bossk in the snout. The Trandoshan grabs the hand reaching for the holster. His other clawed hand grabs Fox by the head, pulling so his neck is exposed. He opens his mouth, rows of fangs gleaming in the lights as he dips down to bite—

“BOSSK, STOP!” Boba shoves his fingers between the gaping jaw, and Bossk immediately pulls away with a growl.

“How many times have I told you to not put your hands in my mout—”

“—Don’t hurt him! He’s okay, he was helping me!”

Bossk tilts his head, hands still wrapped around Fox’s throat while he kicks uselessly at Bossk’s side and scratches at tough, scaly skin.

“Boba, you know this one?”

“Yes! That’s my...my younger brother. So, so let him go already!” He demands.

Bossk looks between the two of them one more time before dropping Fox. The Commander lands on his knees, coughing and rubbing his neck.

“Younger brother, huh? Shit Boba, do I have to teach you math too?”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, leaning down to pull Fox to his feet, “you okay?”

“Not the worst I’ve had.” Fox mutters once he’s steady. He glowers at Bossk, “glad to see you finally caught up.”

The Trandoshan sneers at that, but doesn’t do more than flex his claws. Fox isn’t going for his blasters either, so okay maybe things aren’t too bad.

Boba catches Fox’s gaze, “you’re gonna let him leave too, right?”

“Funny if he thinks he has a say in it.” Bossk’s tongue darts out, flickering in the air.

Fox crosses his arms over his chest, “if you take three lefts from here through the vents, it’ll take you directly to a landing bay that isn’t being used. There won’t be any patrols there.”

“...that’s awfully kind of you, Commander. No traps or anything fun like that?”

“I just want to have your word.”

“On what?”

Fox pauses, looking down at Boba.

“That you’ll look out for him.”

Boba opens his mouth. He doesn’t need anyone to —

Bossk gives a teetering laugh, slamming a large hand over Boba’s head and rubbing it, “been doing it for months, no reason to stop now.”

“Quit it!” He does not whine . He doesn’t.

“Good. If I find out you ditched his sorry sheb , I’m dragging yours back here.”

Bossk grins.

“Now go, you don’t have much time.” Fox points at the open vent and Bossk nods.

It takes him one single leap to scurry his way back into the ceiling. Show off.

“Didn’t find anyone else crawling up there, did you?” Fox shouts as he kneels under the vent, cupping both his hands together. Boba takes a step onto it.

“None that I didn’t already toss out. It’s my escape route, I’m not sharing.”

Fox actually barks out a laugh, and it nearly startles Boba off his hand before he finds balance.

“Hey,” He whispers, and Fox looks up, “I uh…” His mouth feels dry, “thanks.”

“Remember what we talked about, alright? Don’t do anything stupid out here. You have to stick around to find those people.”

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Bossk groans from inside the vent, holding out a hand.

“But it seems like you’re not as alone as you thought, kid.” Fox hums.

“...Yeah.”

With that said, Fox gives him a boost and Bossk pulls him up the rest of the way.

“Clean up your damn mess.” Fox heaves the grate off the floor and hands it off to Bossk to put it back in place.

“Easy there, Commander. I might drop it again.” Bossk snickers, but does as he’s instructed.

Boba scoots his way over the grate, peering through the slits.

“Will I see you again?”

“...I don’t know. Maybe.” Fox’s voice sounds distant, “when the war ends.”

“Okay,” Boba nods, “don’t die before then.”

Fox gives another laugh that sounds weirdly choked up, “that’s my line, ori’vod.”

Boba grins, “ Ret'urcye mhi "

“ Ret'urcye mhi ."

The crawl towards the abandoned landing bay is quiet, the only sound being the rumbling of the vent space as they inched forward slowly. Bossk isn’t exactly light. Too much movement and noise would get them caught.

“You know,” Bossk finally says once they make the final left turn. The exit grate is in the distance, “I thought all clones were awful. But I guess that one’s okay.”

Boba turns with a frown, “hey! I’m a clone too, y’know.”

“I was including you in that statement.”

“Oh...okay.” He turns around, stops, then whips back again, “wait, in which way?”

“In that you’re also awful, kid.”

“You take that back!” He gasps, and Bossk cackles.

“C’mon, Boba. We’re here. You got that grate?”

He hmphs , grabbing the vent grate and shaking it.

“Yeah I got it, it’s loose enough.”

He pulls it off, letting it drop onto the ground below.

“...Boba?” Bossk’s voice draws him out of his thoughts when he doesn’t move.

“...what will we do now, Bossk?” He is ship-less. He has nothing but the handful of credits from Bane.

A hand settles on his shoulder, “whatever you want, little boss. I’ll be here.”

Boba pats the hand, lips curling up just enough for Bossk to respond with a toothy smile of his own.

Boba jumps out of the vent, landing on solid ground. He takes a deep breath, reveling in the air of freedom that surrounds him.

“I’ve got a name to make for myself.”

[ao3] if you wish to kudo/comment <3

#commander fox #boba fett #commanderfoxweek2021 #tcw #star wars #sw mine

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ghastily · 4 years

Text

✎ — Gravity (4/??)

➥ Wolfpack x Reader | 3245 | Ao3

⚠️ Blood, Off-Screen Home Invasion

Things go from bad to worse.

note: I was worried I was putting Reader through too much at once, but a friend told me “when it rains, it pours”. I hope people enjoy this chapter for all the headaches it gave me.

You’ve never met this woman before and her comment catches you completely off guard, leaving you standing there in the diner looking baffled and confused. Tilting your head to the side, you wonder that

maybe

if you squint you’ll be able to discern what the woman wants exactly. Whatever the hell that may be.

“Uh, I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear apparently, and you didn’t need to be Force-sensitive to feel the aggression rolling off her as a result. It’s enough to intimidate you into taking a hesitant step back, putting space between you and her. Just what did you do to earn this much anger from someone?! She advances after you, jabbing a finger in your direction.

“You home-wrecker! Don’t act dumb, I know you’ve been trying to steal my boyfriends from me!”

What.

“What?”

“Don’t think I don’t know they’ve been sneaking around with you, you slut. Can’t even keep your legs closed, huh?”

“Excuse yo—”

There’s no chance to finish what you were saying because it feels like a bomb just went off in the diner — a bomb named Harmony . She’s a blur of blonde hair, and the pounding of heavy black boots on tile floor. The sound of her hand connecting with the woman’s cheek is deafening, and you stare at them in shock, frozen in place from the suddenness of it all. The woman stumbles back, clutching her rapidly reddening cheek and hisses.

“How dare you!”

“How dare I?! How dare you! Coming in here, insulting a person you don’t even know! A person I consider my best friend!”

The shouting was unbearably loud, nearing the point of screeching from both parties. It hurts your ears. You could see the woman’s face over Harmony’s shoulder steadily turning as red as her cheek as their anger mounted. The commotion draws Dex’s attention and he’s soon coming out from the back to stand between Harmony and the woman. A barricade to keep them from fighting.

“Enough!” His voice booms through the diner and your stomach tightens. You’ve never heard Dex yell like that before. He gently pushes Harmony toward you, “Harmony, cool your jets.”

He turns to glare at the other woman, “Ma’am I think it’s ‘bout time you left.”

Dex’s voice left no room for argument, and though she seemed ready to continue her fight she wisely decided against it. No doubt her only smart decision ever, in your opinion. She’s stumbling out the door shouting about getting the police involved.

You’re grateful there was no one eating at the diner at this hour. The tension in the room takes a while to dissipate after she’s gone.

“A few days ago Wolffe told me they had an ex and it ended badly,” You frown, rubbing your upper arm in an attempt to comfort yourself — something Sinker would do when he noticed you were unsettled by something, “Guess that was her.”

“Case of crazy ex-girlfriend, huh?” Dex hums, one of four arms stroking his chin while the others rested on his hips. “If she’s going to become a problem… I know a guy.”

Harmony huffs, “If we’re going to put a hit on her, I’ll do it for free!”

“Let’s just hope we won’t see her again after that.” You sigh heavily before slipping back into the kitchen, for such a short exchange it felt like it lasted for hours and was just as draining. It’s soft but you can barely make out Dex gently reprimanded Harmony for striking a customer. She retorts they’re not a customer if they don’t order anything.

It makes you smile.

You go home to an empty house that night. There’s no lights to guide you home, no one to greet you when you let yourself inside, no sound coming from the living room.. It’s empty. The darkness inside feels heavy, pushing down on you as you kick your shoes off at the door, next to the civilian shoes Boost and Sinker use.

“I’m home.” You whimper out into the void.

No one answers.

Dragging your feet into the kitchen and not bothering with the lights, you drop the bag of left overs from the diner on the counter. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful to Dex and Harmony, but the guys really did bring something special to your little world. You don’t even remember how you lived without them before.

They’ll come and go like this because of the war, you’ll have to learn and find a way of coping with that from now on. Or maybe they never come home. You take a deep, shuddering breath and bat away at the swell of tears in your eyes.

Whatever. You’re not hungry anymore.

“Cross that bridge when we get there.” You mumble to yourself, haphazardly throwing your leftovers into the fridge before heading down the hall to your bedroom. You don’t bother undressing and just fall face first into the bed with a loud sigh. The bed creaks in protest. Rolling onto your side, you cling to a pillow like it’s the only thing anchoring you here. It’s from Sinker’s side of the bed, the smell of shaving cream is a small comfort that helps lull you into a dreamless sleep.

She’s back again the next day, you can hear her screeching and making a scene in the front. And it’s taking every ounce of your strength to not start throwing Dex’s dishes out the window at her. She’s getting louder, practically shouting at this point, just to make sure you hear ever single venomous word she’s spitting.

“They’re only with you to get back at me! You’re just trash once they’re done playing!”

You do break a dish this time. Slamming it on the counter and it shatters into pieces, you grab the largest piece and barge out the door ready to finish a fight you didn’t even start. Harmony catches you before you can get far into the dining room, slinging her arms around your waist and hauling you back.

“Whoa, hold up, sugar!” Harmony pleads, “I wanna beat her face in too but Dex’s got it!”

Dex is on the other side of the diner, watching a Mandalorian haul the woman out of the diner. She’s hissing and spitting like a wet loth cat and the bounty hunter doesn’t seem even the least bit phased, the customers in the dining room just smirk and enjoy the show. When Dex turns and heads in your direction you can see just how unhappy and disappointed he looks — a cold wash of fear douses your anger leaving you feeling hollow and frightened .

“Harmony, take care of the diner.” The waitress nods quickly, casting a worried look in your direction before hurrying off to finish order tickets.

Dex’s hand is heavy on your shoulder as he turns you toward the back and into his office. You’re shaking when he guides you to sit in a chair, and thick alien fingers carefully pry your hand open. Dex takes the shard of plate you had been clutching and tosses it into the garbage. In your anger you gripped it so hard that it cut into your palm, blood running over your palm and along your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” You choke out around the lump in your throat, hot tears spilling down your cheeks, “Please don’t fire me, Dex. I—”

“Hmph, none of that now. No one is being fired.” Dex is careful as he cleans your palm, wrapping it up in a bandage, “You got nothin’ to worry ‘bout. I ain’t mad at you, I’m mad at that woman.”

You sniff loudly, wiping away snot with the back of your sleeve, “It’s my fault she’s even here in the first place.”

“That ain’t your fault,” Dex lightly squeezes your hand when he’s done. You bite your lip and try to blink away the tears, it’s so hard to look straight at him so you stare at a stain on the floor. “Her bad decisions are her’s alone and no body else’s.”

A small piece of you know he’s right, that none of this is your fault but you can’t help but feel like it is. Maybe if you had never met Sinker and Boost, Dex and others could’ve been spared this drama.

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath.

“Think you can still work, kiddo?” Dex didn’t want to send you home, not with that woman nearby and you so upset. He sounds worried and you crack open your eyes, finally, finally looking at your boss and nod numbly. He doesn’t look angry, there’s only worry and soft affection like that of a guardian looking after their charges.

“All right, whenever you’re ready come back out. Just be careful with that hand.”

Dex pats your head as he gets up, grunting and smoothing his shirt out with his other pair out arms. “Everything’s gonna be okay, just keep your chin up.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, “Yeah.”

The next day is better — a lot better actually. There’s no crazy woman screeching in the diner, you’re not breaking plates, and you’re definitely feeling better emotionally but you’re feeling cautiously optimistic. You’re slowly but surely getting use to not having the guys around, but it’s still rough going home to an empty house and your heart aches with the desire to see them again.

Work flows right by without any incidents, quiet and easy as it usually does, and just as you’re heading out at the end of the day Harmony bounds up beside you. She loops her arm through yours causing you both to sway a bit with her weight against your side.

“Hey there, friend!” Harmony beams, “So I had this idea since it’s the weekend…”

“Mhm, I’m listening.”

“You should come spend the night at my place! When was the last time we had a chance to bond?!” Harmony is practically vibrating with excited energy, “We’ll have some us time, watch trashy shows, pig out on junk food.”

You laugh. At first you thought to say no but the grip Harmony has on your arm says you can say whatever you want — this is happening. And she’s been not so subtlety pushing you in the direction to her own place. “Okay! Okay, you don’t have to twist my arm. I’ll go!”

Harmony lets out a ‘whoop’ of victory, pumping her fist in the air.

It was a night you wouldn’t soon forget. An evening filled with giggling as you built a pillow fort in Harmony’s living room, drank cheap wine, and ate left over desserts from Dex’s. You definitely wouldn’t forget the stomach ache and hang over the next morning.

The 104th Battalion return to Coruscant late the next day, and Boost is anxious to get off the transport and see you again. He had been on edge the entire mission, there was a constant nagging in the back of his mind that something right back home. Something involving you. Boost needed off this ship yesterday .

He let out a loud sigh, tapping his foot against the floor anxiously.

“I told you to use the ‘fresher before we left, Boost!” Sinker smirks under his helmet, holding tighter to one of the overhead rings as the ship swayed around the buildings on Coruscant.

“I did use it! I just wanna —” Boost falters, catching himself before blurting out that he wanted to see you in front of General Plo Koon, “— go get a drink at 79’s cause wow, what a mission that was!”

Wolffe bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

The shuttle sways again as it finally arrives outside the GAR barracks, the side opening up as it slowly descends onto a landing platform. Boost can’t wait any longer and jumps off the shuttle as soon as the hatch is open wide enough for him to get through. He bolts across the platform the moment his feet are on the ground.

“Boost! That’s dangerous! Don’t run!” Sinker shouts and the ship settles. He sighs and chases after his brother at a brisk pace that was certainly not running.

Plo Koon watches in amusement as the two troopers run off. The clones were notoriously bad liars, but Plo Koon enjoyed a close relationship with the men under his care. He knew, though they never spoke of it outright, about their breaking regulations to pursue a relationship with a civilian — and the ultimate fallout of when it failed. Sinker and Boost’s spirits were low and Wolffe had been snappier than usual, until recently that is. “They’ve been quite lively lately.”

“Sir?”

“I hope you’ll introduce us soon, Commander.”

Wolffe’s cheeks grow hot and he’s grateful that the helmet hides his reaction from view. Though he’s sure the Jedi can see right through him.

“I will see what I can do, sir.”

Plo Koon seems pleased by the answer and that’s good enough for Wolffe. He carefully disembarks the shuttle and starts to make his way across the platform, trying to keep a casual and nonchalant pace. The last thing he wants to do is make a scene of chasing after Boost and Sinker. Once Wolffe makes it off the platform and away from prying eyes, he begins to run. He knows where his brothers are going, a tiny piece of him wants to be there too.

Home .

It doesn’t take him long to catch up with Sinker and Boost, but the sight of them lingering outside your door sets off warning bells in his head. Their good-mood is gone, replaced by an emotion they feel in battle.

“The door is busted.” Sinker gestures toward your door and what remains of the lock on it spitting blue, electrical sparks — a sign that someone had failed to hack it and decided to brute force their way in instead. There was no clearer sign that you were in danger, or possibly worse. Wolffe quickly falls back into the role of a Commander, he couldn’t let his worry for you cloud his judgment. He’d worry about that after he knew you were safe.

“Boost, let’s get inside. Sinker, talk to the neighbors and find out what they know.”

The two troopers nod and immediately get to task. It takes the combined strength of Wolffe and Boost pulling to get the door to slide open just enough for them to squeeze inside. Inside they’re greeted by a dark home torn apart by chaos, the walls slashed and marked up with obscene writing, furniture was broken and tossed across the room.

There’s no signs of a fight, just the aftermath of a storm blowing through, but it does little to ease the troopers’ minds.

Wolffe calls out your name.

There’s only a deafening silence.

Boost takes off down the hallway, Wolffe hot on his heels, and into your bedroom. There’s a heavy pit in both their stomachs as they fear for the worst, that they’d find you dead in your bed. It’s only a small relief for them when they find that you’re not here, but the bedroom is no better than the rest. Everything that could be broken — was . Your clothes, their civvies, and any little trinkets you had were destroyed and tossed on the floor.

Wolffe had an idea who was behind this, and an angry fire blooms inside him. He wishes, hopes , he’s wrong.

“Guys! I got something!” Sinker shouts from the front and both brothers rush to his call.

“What did you find out?” Wolffe demands as soon as he sees Sinker by the door, fists clenched tight. Boost stands at his side, his worried expression hidden behind his helmet.

“They’re at the police station.”

“Let’s go.” Before the words can finish leaving Wolffe’s mouth, the boys are squeezing back through the busted front door and racing to the nearest police station. This wasn’t what they wanted to come home to.

It startles everyone inside when three troopers burst into the lobby of the civilian police force, huffing and puffing from running through the streets. And that is where they find you, shaken but safe, sitting on a bench with Harmony beside you. It’s a huge relief.

The moment you’re on your feet is when you’re crushed between Sinker and Boost. It’s an awkward tangle of limbs as all three of you try to hug and cling to each other. It’s horribly uncomfortable with the way their gear and helmets press into you but neither you, Sinker, or Boost are willing to let each other go now. Not for anything.

You do let go, eventually, pulling away just enough to free your arms so you can wiping frantically at your face as happy tears start to swell forth. It feels like it’s been forever, and you’re so happy to see them again. Your voice cracks, “I missed you guys.”

“We missed you too,” Boost rubs his thumb over your cheek, wiping away the stray tears.

You melt under his touch, and the world around you fades away. Everything will be fine now.

Harmony stands up from the bench with a quiet sigh and the barest of smiles tugging at the corner of her lips. You’re preoccupied with Sinker and Boost for now, he’ll have time later with you — privately. Wolffe slips past the three of you to join her, Harmony was there for you when they couldn’t be and she deserved some gratitude.

“Thank you for looking out for them.”

“Hm?” She tilts her head in Wolffe’s direction, curling a strand of blonde hair around one finger, “It’s nothing. That’s what you do for the people you care about.”

“It’s obvious you do,” Wolffe hums thoughtfully, “I wonder if we should consider you competition..”

“Only if you break their heart.” Harmony smirks mischievously at the trooper. Wolffe tenses up, he hadn’t actually meant it but now that he thought about it.. She was the closest person to you.

“It seems like you’re in good hands now, sugar.” Harmony gently pries you from Sinker and Boost long enough to give you a hug, planting an affectionate kiss on your cheek that leaves the faintest trace of red lipstick behind on your skin. “Gonna head back and let Dex know everything’s okay.”

You don’t even think twice about it, oblivious to the exchange between her and Wolffe, hugging Harmony tightly in return. “Thanks for staying with me. Be careful heading back. I’ll comm you later, okay?”

“You’d better!” She grins from ear to ear, sauntering her way out of the police station, but not before catching Wolffe’s eye again. Harmony points at her eyes then at Wolffe, mouthing out a silent ‘watching you’ before she leaves. He shakes his head, looking back at you and his brothers, each with a hand on your hip as you spoke quietly to one another.

“We can’t go back yet while it’s under investigation, and I’ve already imposed on Harmony enough..”

“Don’t think they’d allow civilians in the barracks either.” Boost frowns.

Sinker shakes his head, “Maybe a hotel room?”

“I think now might be a good time to introduce you to Plo Koon.” Wolffe joins the group, rubbing the red smudge of lipstick off your cheek with a frown. You lean away from him with a whine, face scrunched up at how rough the touch is, “He may have an idea of where you can stay until this is resolved.”

#star wars: the clone wars #wolfpack x reader #reader insert #commander wolffe x reader #sinker x reader #boost x reader

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

Text

transitive properties

Summary: Cody is Kote. Kote is glory. Cody is glory. Part 5 and final part of the “scraps” series. AO3. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, canonical character death, blood, open ending.

The Death Star is as clinically detached as he has ever seen it. CC-2224 was only stationed here for a short stint; Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker and their friends came along not long after and saw to that. Cody wonders idly, waiting for the doors to another set of stark corridors to open for him, if the soldier he was would have had any opinions of the place by now. The ship--if it can be called such--has been around for months, destroying planets and menacing others for the fun of it.

But Cody knows CC-2224 wouldn’t have any thoughts on the Death Star. Puppets don’t think. ( At least, Cody thinks bitterly, not the ones who don’t have Sith powers at their beck and call. )

He has to get back on track. Cody enters another corridor, walks down it with his steps measured carefully, not too slow, not too fast. He’s sweating all over, dampness coating the inside of his blacks. This place crawls with disquiet; the very air is different here, void of life. But he has to keep on track. There are no mobile weapons Cody can steal for the Resistance, but he has managed to transfer some electronic files to a datachip from a terminal. Knocking out the guard on duty and stuffing him in a supply closet was actually fairly easy. Cody’s not sure what information he has now but he’d rather it be in his hands than on the Death Star.

There are a few prison cells on the Death Star; he remembers helping escort the princess of Alderaan to one. The path is familiar, his feet leading him while Cody’s head is stuck in the past. How many others has he brought here? Not many, not on this ship, but on others. Oh, on others. How many defeated Jedi struggled in his grip as he brought them to Vader?

Sweat drips into Cody’s eyes under his bucket. The stormtrooper helmet has less insulation than clone armor did, but they also don’t regulate air intake as well. The robe and his insignia are hidden under the crisp white cape he’d taken off the unconscious guard. The Empire does so like their pageantry. He wishes he could rub his fingertips over the robe’s rough weave, like he’s taken to doing to seek some comfort; but it’s important that Cody doesn’t make any sudden moves. He took out the security guards in one of the observation rooms but he’s not sure how many observation decks this place has. He must stay on track. He must be fast.

The keycode to the prison cells is hard to punch in, his hands shake so much. He could hear Wolffe in the back of his head telling him to pull himself together. Fox would be ashamed of Cody letting his nerves get the best of him. Cody sucks in a breath, lets it out, and enters the universal override code. The doors are too loud as they slide open; Cody grinds his teeth down hard and suppresses a frustrated noise.

It takes a moment before any movement comes from the cells. Cody doesn’t blame the prisoners; they’re probably expecting Vader, or a trick. But he doesn’t have time for this. “If you want to leave here alive,” he chances calling out, “you’ll get up and come with me. Now.”

Perhaps the wrong thing to say to trauma victims. Cody doesn’t have time.

(“You catch more flies with honey, dear heart,” Obi-Wan says in his head. Cody grinds his teeth again.)

A Twi’lek man steps tentatively out of the fourth cell on the left. A Clawdite woman comes from the third cell on the right. When an Utapaun and a Togruta join them in the corridor Cody thinks he may be sick in his helmet. (“Steady,” Obi-Wan would tell him, gently, kindly. “No use fretting over the past now. One step at a time, Cody.”)

Four prisoners and a datachip of information Cody isn’t sure is worth the trip. This is how effective Cody is now. He shakes himself from his wallowing and gathers the prisoners. “I’m from the Resistance,” Cody tells them. These days it almost feels like the truth; it’s better when Rex is there with him. “I’m here to rescue you. We need to be quick, and as stealthy as we can be.” The Twi’lek is limping. The Utapaun is a foot taller than everyone else. They’re going to be fairly obvious. Cody wishes he’d had the foresight to reprogram one of the droid guards to take with him. He’s not going to be much cover by himself.

“How will we get off the ship?” The Togruta speaks up, her voice hushed, strained. There are old bloodstains on her tunic. Cody pulls a few packs of bacta from his kit and passes them to her thoughtlessly.

“Security had the logs of every escape shuttle on the Death Star. We’ll take them at around the same time, they can't go after all of us; each pod only takes two people, three if we squeeze. Here,” and he projects the map of their route using the comm installed in his vambraces, a gift from the Rebellion’s quartermaster, “this is our path. If we get separated, memorize this and run .” Cody points at the Utapaun and the Twi’lek. “You and you, you’re going to be the most obvious; we’ll let the others go first, then you. I can carry you if I have to, but if you can run through the limp it’ll leave my hands free for shooting.”

“I can do it.” The man nods, eyes wide in his face. The Utapaun shakes his head before he stoops, loops the man’s arm around his shoulders, and lifts him into his arms. When he meets the visor of Cody’s helmet, he shrugs, shifts the Twi’lek’s weight, and nods for the others to lead on.

“I’ll bring up the rear and draw their fire. Let’s move.”

Cody shows them how to stick close to the walls, to clear the corners. The Clawdite palms the extra blaster he passes to her deftly and takes the lead. The Togruta sticks close behind her as they move swiftly ahead of the group.

“You’ll be slow carrying him all the way.” Cody checks another corner and pulls them up short as a couple troopers pass by. The other prisoners hide around the opposite corner until the guards are out of sight, then dart onwards. Cody ushers the men ahead of him and hurries behind, shooting a searching glance over his shoulder.

“I work manual labor on cargo ships.” The Utapaun says. He barely sounds out of breath. “I have him.”

That works for Cody.

Something pulls at Cody’s attention when they pass through another corridor. He ignores the tingle going up his spine, the niggling in his brain. They’re close to the finish line. A minute more before the guards he knocked out are found, maybe less. Just another level before they reach the pods, and the elevator is right there at the end of the hall. They could get out of this.

But that something makes Cody pull up short, nearly jerks him around on his feet. It’s like someone shouted his name, like when Obi-Wan would get hurt on the battlefield during the war and he’d go down quiet but Cody’d just know .

The doors to Vader’s chamber taunt him from the other end of the hall. He hadn’t realized they were so close.

“What are you doing?” The Clawdite hisses from behind him. The elevator doors swish open. “Come on!”

His blaster drops, hanging at his side uselessly. Something is pulling him towards those doors. It doesn’t feel like Cody knows a Force push or pull feels. Obi-Wan had used that on him plenty of times when facing down a tank or a thousand droids. This is something else, something more. He needs to follow this.

“You know the path.” He calls, absentminded. “I’ll catch up.”

“You’re leaving us?”

“Call it providing a distraction.”

For how secretive Vader is, his doors don’t withstand a single blaster shot to the control panel. The intimidating black slides open before Cody and he steps inside. There’s a strange seat in the middle of the room that cracks open like an egg and waits for him to lower himself in. He doesn’t, but looks around instead, ignoring the alarms that blare as he does. He’s attracting attention, stalling, losing time, why is he here--

And then his eyes land on the lightsaber and Cody understands.

Obi-Wan’s weapon is familiar in Cody’s hands. He’s held it a dozen times, passed it back to his general again and again and again. “This weapon is your life,” Obi-Wan would tell Skywalker before handing it off to Cody like it was nothing. (It meant something. He never said, and Obi-Wan never did either, but. It meant something, when Obi-Wan did that. Cody knows.)

Cody clutches the ‘saber close to his heart and runs for the elevator.

There are troopers outside the doors when they open. He raises his blaster, fires off a shot, two, three. A trooper takes one in the bucket and goes down, another catches a bolt to the chest and is blown back. But then a bolt sears past Cody’s trigger finger, close enough to burn, and he yells. The blaster drops from his hand. Another bolt catches the side of Cody’s helmet as he lunges forward and gets into cover. The bucket heats with the blaster fire, singeing his scalp. He wrenches it off and almost doesn’t register the pandemonium on the landing platform in front of him over the ringing in his ears.

There’s a horde of troopers and Imps welling from all sides. He’s pinned at one end of the platform and he can see the Clawdite and Togruta climbing into a pod on the other side. They'll make it out of here. The pod’s sequence is already glowing on the control panel; as soon as the doors close the pod disengages from the main ship all shouting and blaster fire is drowned out by the sound of a shuttle jettisoning off into space. The Utapaun crouches behind some supply crates ahead of Cody, half curled over the Twi’lek defensively. Cody’s distraction probably should have been a little louder.

He shucks the cape, annoyance at the extra weight flitting at the edges of his attention. The robe flutters with his movements before settling back into place, hanging over his shoulder unevenly. Without the cape his insignia stands out proudly; if Cody dies here today, he’ll die with the 212th and the Jedi in his heart and on his breast.

Cody pulls one of two sonic charges the quartermaster allowed him for the mission and tosses it into the center of the room. The blast goes off and sends enough of the Imps back that when Cody shouts, the Utapaun has time to rush to another pod. Cody dives for the cover they’ve vacated and rolls onto his heels, rising to scan around. The Utapaun is having trouble juggling the Twi-lek and entering the ejection sequence. If he can give them enough time, Cody could get there and squeeze into the pod before they blast off. He needs to provide cover fire but Cody doesn’t have a blaster .

Cody swears and pulls out his last sonic charge. The Imps are starting to surge back again, maybe fifteen in total. His last detonation cleared off about half of the enemies in the room altogether, but they’re spread out now. He’ll have to come up with another option if he doesn't want to wait until the crowd converges on the prisoners and risk taking them out with the Imps.

The same something that pulled Cody to Vader’s chambers screams . At the same moment, the doors to the main hanger across from the escape shuttles open and Darth Vader sweeps inside.

His breathing is loud in Cody’s ears. The Imps freeze for a moment, shock and fear spreading through the crowd like wildfire. It gives the Utapaun the moment he needs to enter the sequence but Cody sees the Twi’lek surge in his arms, cowering back from Vader’s presence, twisting and tangling himself up. He’s in the way. if he doesn’t get himself under control they’re both done for. If Cody doesn’t do something now, as Vader takes slow, sure steps into the room, they all are.

(“ Now, Cody! ”)

Cody stands, vaults over the supply crates, and steps between Vader and the escaping prisoners. He places his hands on the hilt like he’s seen Obi-Wan do a hundred times and flicks the ignition switch. The blue fire blazes up in a long line beside his face, flickering over the scar on his temple. He feels his expression drop into place, hard and steady, carved from stone.

(Carved from stone the way Obi-Wan always was. He misses him, Force, but Cody misses him.)

Vader stops. Cody wonders if he’s startled the Sith. The insectoid facemask tilts, considering. “CC-2224.”

“My name is Cody.”

“You will stand down.” Every regulated breath makes sure the words are measured. Cody’s skin crawls.

“Never.”

A lightsaber must never be crimson. Obi-Wan always looked sick when a Sith’s weapon ignited. Cody watches Vader lift his and feels everything but mostly a cold determination. “Then you will perish.”

Cody sneers, all that rage and grief and guilt welling up and choking him so much he can barely get his retort out. Then, a second before he speaks, that strange something wraps around him again, warm and calm like a security blanket. It’s Obi-Wan. Cody knows it. He knows.

Cody plants his feet, Obi-Wan’s lightsaber in his hands and Obi-Wan’s memory alive in his heart. “At least I’ll die like a Jedi. You can’t say the same, Skywalker. ”

Red clashes against blue and for the first time in a very long time Cody revels in battle.

#codywan #cody sw #commander cody #obi wan #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan fanfiction #sw #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #star wars the original trilogy #star wars the clone wars #star wars the prequel trilogy #darth vader #captain rex #Luke Skywalker #tcw #my writing

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a-lil-perspective · 4 years

Text

I don’t want to be that person—

But I really need to get this off my chest. This is the culmination of two months buildup of thoughts that have been screaming far too loud for me to continue simply taking in stride. I can’t do it. I apologize in advance, for anyone who actually reads this, if this is a deterrent to you about my character or my minuscule space taken up here on Tumblr. Again, I really can no longer remain silent. If it’s any solace:

I tried.

Where to begin. First off—as much as I’d love for this to be an update on the next chapter of Remember Me, it is not. For those of you who’ve kept up with the story, I’m sure you’ve noticed my uploading pattern these past few weeks has been reduced to solely weekends—and barely that, might I add. While I will try to have Chapter 9 up within the next few days, I cannot guarantee when. At this point in time, it’s not a lack of creative streak, it’s a lack of time. I have all these outlines and segments in my head but can’t seem to even catch a breath much less put the story down in my notes or in Word for later edit and upload. But I’m trying. I really am. As I’ve said before: I will finish this story, come hell or high water. But currently being engulfed in the former has been a huge burden.

Per my past psa’s: My health? Two giant thumbs down (nothing to do with COVID-19). Personal aspects? Two giant thumbs down. Both are and have been slowly corroding me. To avoid this post seemingly grabbing for sympathy, I’m going to just stop there with that. But I’m truly suffocating in this corner.

Next point in case: I’m going to be completely candid here. It’s extremely difficult and utterly exhausting to continue posting fics. Mentally and Emotionally. The pressure to post. The pressure to post because if you don’t in a timely manner, you lose your momentum and “fall behind” when you post again. Then you’re right back to square one thereafter because people have grown absent in your absence. It’s exhausting and stressful to spin in that wheel.

It’s difficult when you pour every drop of energy into a work, only for it to sit largely unnoticed on your blog. To stay up literally all night making sure your punctuation is impeccable, re-reading the same fic over and over before you post until your brain explodes and you utterly forsake the fic the minute you hit that post button. To take up space on a post tagging and adding those notes and engaging flares that go unrequited. It’s... well, it’s detrimental. It gets you down. It gets me down. I’m not going to lie about that. We all want validation and I will be the first to shoot my hand up in acknowledgement.

I’m going to stop right there as you’re reading to clarify: This is not a call-out post. This is not a guilt post. This is not me giving an ultimatum. This is not me demanding reblogs. This is not me telling you “your likes don’t matter” (I have literally seen that on posts and it kind of disgusts me. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now).

Reblogs, while unanimously appreciated, are not a priority to me. Comments and feedback and communication are invaluable to me. That’s it. That coveted and intimate interaction between the Writer and the Reader. One is not more important than the other. We’re a team, a unit, a force that balances each other on a broad, diverse scale.

I don’t ask for much—I don’t ask for anything here, actually (unless it’s directed towards the general audience over what y’all would like to see, which largely goes unengaged whenever I bring up). No, I don’t post fics that frequently. No, I don’t crank them out as quick. No, I don’t have that many. Yes, I’m new to fanfic writing. But I work quietly and solely with all my own plots and dialogues and ideas (I love prompts and requests, though). Thus my usually hefty works. Y’all get the whole nine yards. But I don’t feel like I really get to bounce my ideas around to others, which can further exacerbate that sense of isolation for me around here. I put myself through a really long process for every single thing I write because, the quality of my work matters to me. A lot. So I try to take my time to deliver that. And... I guess I just hope you know that or can discern that as you read each time.

Another astronomically exhausting aspect is this platform itself. It’s painfully evident to me, in my four meager months here, that Tumblr is just one big popularity contest. Who can upload the most, the fastest, the most efficiently. Who has the most followers. Who accumulates them the quickest. A place where your “exposure” is literally at the mercy of others. And when people purposely don’t want to aid in that, it spirals into this really toxic mindset causing friction between Writers and other Writers, causing unnecessary strain, avoidance, insecurities, and hinderances to YOUR precious work. And I’m not about that. It’s a no from me.

Also, I’ve just got to interject with this bit: Bad Batch Writers. Bad Batch Writers struggle. In my opinion, from what I’ve seen, it’s like if you aren’t writing for a popular Clone like Wolffe or Fives or Jesse, you don’t get traffic. Which I think is just... kind of corny. Okay. I think it’s really corny and ridiculous. Please know that I’m not saying anything bad about those Clone babies, the people who write them, or anything like that. Please don’t hear what I’m not saying. I’m just making a point. Bad Batch does NOT get enough love. And the Writers ultimately suffer because of it. That’s all there.

We’re all supposed to be in this together. Your work—your writing—is neither good nor bad. There’s no such thing. There’s only YOUR writing; your unique, beautiful words that I LOVE more than anything, that only YOU speak. We all speak a different dialect and flow through our storytelling. And it’s a beautiful, wholesome thing. It always has been. It should never be this detrimental stage Tumblr has made for content creators. Let’s be honest: Tumblr is not the ideal place to thrive. And I’m just... sick of it.

I’m beyond an exhausted state. I can’t remember that last time I wasn’t. (I know everyone is, with the ebb and flow of our world’s daily uncertainties during these unprecedented times). But for me, personally, it’s getting increasingly harder to keep up with the reblogs and comments and blogs of all the stories I love, while updating my work and trying to interact on my blog, while battling my health and nonexistent energy, and constantly be exposed to the “Tumblr Tumbles”, as I call it—the overbearing popularity and the waiting and the wondering and the silent seething because of it. It’s just too much. And it doesn’t take a detective to pick up on that attitudinal shift around here. It’s all just one big, pernicious cycle. And seeing that here nearly every day, exhausts me. I don’t know how else to convey as much. But I just can’t do it. And honestly, I get this overwhelming loneliness just being here.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m going to continue doing my thing until my engine sputters out. I’m going to keep up with storytelling, because I love it more than anything. I just needed to get this off my chest. I’m just rambling. I might delete this but, I might not. Who knows.

I just... Geez. I need to know that I’m not just shouting into the void over here like always.

Communication to me is key. If you don’t want me to tag you anymore: tell me. If you don’t want me to message you: tell me. Please. Just don’t like me? Cool. Tell me. It’s better to know and communicate than to walk on eggshells around everyone and everything. I’ve applied that flawed strategy throughout my whole life and I strongly dislike doing so. It adds no benefit to either party. Just be honest with yourself and others. That’s always super important.

For those of you, my handful of regulars who are around... you know who you are. Thank you. My thanks is but a meager conveyance of my undying gratitude for you. But I want you to know how much I appreciate your presence here. Words cannot express.

@halzore... You are a real mate. You are an incredible being who is not only insightful but, a true muse here. I look to you as more than just a devoted Reader of mine, and you should know that I would NOT have gotten this far with my Bad Batch Post Order: 66 series—or any of my Bad Batch works, for that matter—without your encouraging words. Holy cow. You’re a dearest friend. Your writing, art, and musical talent leaves me in awe. (A truly brilliant mind, please go love her y’all). Thank you for seeing all the good, little things in me and my work. It makes this all worth it. You make it all worth it. I get really overwhelmed thinking about it. But I just want you to know I appreciate you so much.

To anyone who’s ever left me kind, encouraging, and wonderful comments... I remember them. I do. I think of them when I’m down, and I think of them now as I write this—which is in my dispirited state, ironically. But I appreciate it. I think it is so SO important to lift each other up with words. You don’t have to reblog and all that (only speaking for myself here). Just take a moment to say something kind to someone. It makes someone’s entire day, week, month, year. Please... love other Writers. Love yourself. We all struggle. But let’s do it together. Let’s be there for each other.

Come talk to me. I don’t bite, I promise. Tell me about your day. Tell me something about yourself. I care. I love that interaction, because you are MORE than just a Reader to me. You are a valued human being with feelings, desires, wants, needs... come share that with me. If there’s something you’d like to see in my future works, something that would engage you more; please, come tell me.

I’m going to try and get better. At writing, at navigating this strange place, with my health, with life. I’ve been at my breaking point for so long that my barely held together pieces and exposed, worn chinks are almost uneffected and unresponsive to any help or healing. But I’m going to try.

Thank you for being here. I’m sure it can be hard to have patience with me and my nonexistent uploading schedule, but, I do have several wips in the works (teases in my masterlist in case you’re wondering). They’ll come around. :’)

Keep your head up and shining, lovelies. And I’ll try to do the same.

#psa #lil speaks #I’m... sorry.#I have a ton of anxiety posting this but I’m also almost indifferent.#could I have worked on my WIPS instead of this?#yes #did I? no.#yes this is long but I needed to say all that.#I’m tired.#trying not to explode.#it’s a lil thing

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