#I remember that when Cody told Brandi “I see no color” she told him “then you don't see me” and that's so fucking striking

[lovinnelily]

Y'all do know you can't make Jason be NOT white without changing his whole character, right?

For other characters, yes, because their physical appearance are not that influential in their story, on how they are viewed by people, on their personality formation — you can have a black/asian/indigenous/arab/brown/latino/etc Nico and yes, the hate he gets will have a undertone of racism but at the same time nothing significant on his story, motivation or personality will need to change. This is also true for other characters: Clarisse risks repeating the "aggressive WoC" stereotype but the character itself doesn't change.

This isn't true for Jason, whose main character trait is how he is perceived by others and how he showcases himself to others based on that perception. (specially with how little effort Riordan put on him besides making him perfect-er Percy who's somehow also weaker and less important than him).

Let's not pretend a black, Arab, indigenous, Asian, Latin man, etc, in the USA would ever be treated with the universal reverence Jason gets from New Roma, you can't have the illusion of perfection and most of all, of invincibility they have about him when you see him suffering racism or xenophobia in the middle of a mission. Nothing in his life has ever gone wrong, that's his image, destined to be king, he is supposed to have no weakness on his peers eyes.

He is not trying to prove people wrong, he is trying to prove them right; he isn't worthy despite their prejudice, on the contrary, he only tried to make himself worthy to fulfill their expectations. He can't be a woman or an immigrant or have a visible disability or any other thing that strays him from a perfect ideal by western society standards, and be that same character.

#Different from the other white character in the series he was never questioned or doubted #There's a presumption of perfection with no exceptions that society doesn't give to us (women poc immigrants visible minorities in general) #His privilege (handsome white man with no visible disability son of Zeus etc) also prevented anyone from worrying for his well being #This illusion/expectation of him having no weakness/being untouchable pushes himself too far and clouds his judgment. #I headcanon he didn't even consider the possibility of myopia because that wouldn't fit Jason Grace Son of Jupiter so it wasn't an option #And you think it'd be the same character after facing racism? Because ain't no way he'd be praetor without going through racism #I think I'd love him nonetheless since I'm very weak to the whole golden boy tearing himself to save the world but it'd be a new character #jason grace #I know racism in USA is different from here but I know how different a “non-racist” white person treats me and treats my white friends #Also for him to not be an entirely different character if PoC would be incredibly disrespectful and racist on its own #It would fail to recognize the difference in how we are read (and written). I hate that a lot. #I remember that when Cody told Brandi “I see no color” she told him “then you don't see me” and that's so fucking striking #We ARE different. treated differently. if you act like you don't see it then you also turn a blind eye to the violence that comes from it #This is straying from my point I got a bit heated banalization of things I care about usually does that to me #Point is please don't change Jason on the very few things that man actually bothered writing about him #I actually think this is true about Octavian too. A lot of what he is allowed to do would not be possible if he weren't a white man. #Same for Rachel Elizabeth Dare. I mean you can work around making her poc but it will truly be pushing A LOT #Let's put it this way: a woc doing a street performance is perceived very differently from a white woman doing a street performance. #Specially in the eyes of cops #Pjo

[southwalessubculture]

don’t actually go to parties right now, y’all, we’re in a pandemic. just imagine that this is from before (or after, if we make it that far) the social distancing/covid era.

He’d been eyeing you all night, to be honest, and it wasn’t like he’d been subtle; Marko had called him out on it a few times (a bit louder that he’d have preferred, the alcohol loosening his already quite loud friend’s lips even more), and he couldn’t pretend that Luchasaurus’s knowing glances were lost on him. He knew that he was being too invested, that you would catch on soon enough, but he couldn’t necessarily help it. He’d been desperately in love with you for over a year, and he was so tired of wondering if you reciprocated his feelings that he honestly wished that you would catch on so he would get, at the very least, an answer of some kind to his feelings.

He’d looked at you as a close friend (and wanted that to turn into more) since essentially the moment he’d met you; you had joined SCU when they had come to Jurassic Express’s defense after an attack by the Dark Order, you showing your almost effortless ring expertise as you helped to fight off the band of Followers from the ring. He still remembered the way that you’d helped him off the ground, your touch warm against his skin as you’d wiped a bit of blood from a cut on his cheek.

Ever since then, you’d worked well together; you occasionally trained with him and his tag partners, you had come to the aid of the group in quite a few matches since then, and he’d even gotten to team with you in mixed gender matches on a couple of occasions. Even outside of the ring, he always enjoyed getting late-night dinners with you after shows, movie nights in your apartment, and even the time that Marko had once (jokingly?) tried to put you through his kitchen counter after you won an intense game of Clue.

He always felt a surge of pride when you used one of the moves he’d taught you, relief when you came backstage unharmed from a brutal spotfest, and pure happiness when you would get excited over a good song on the radio. He’d never gotten tired of your smile, the way that you’d hug him after a rough loss, or the laugh as Marko would jump on your back during an entrance. Even when you were upset or angry, he would sit and listen to your struggles and worries, letting you run your hands through his hair (an absolute rarity for anyone) to calm yourself.

He blinked a few times, eyes dry from the reminiscing, and immediately lost the color from his face when he noticed that you were looking at him. You giggled a bit, waving to him before turning back to your conversation with The Butcher and The Blade, fingers loosening the belt around your waist to give you a little more room. Your words flowed along with theirs, but your mind was far away from the conversation, stuck on Jack. 

You’d noticed how excited he (and his teammates) had been when you came backstage from winning your first AEW Women’s Championship, clutching your new prize with diamond tears of pride on your cheeks. You tried to make it to the group, so excited about your victory and wanting so desperately to celebrate with them, but you’d constantly been cut off every time you’d made an attempt to get to them. To him.

First, it was an excited Brandi Rhodes, who had hugged you to the point where you was sure your waist would have purple bands around it in the morning. A crowd had quickly followed her, everyone from Sonny Kiss and Scorpio Sky to, oddly enough, Brodie Lee and MJF congratulating you over the three hours from your victory to the party. You had noticed that Jack kept glancing at you, and you honestly wished that he would just come over and talk to you instead of sitting by the wall, obviously trying not to add to the crowd that was starting to overwhelm you.

You waved goodbye to your current conversation-mates, promising to be back as soon as you took a quick trip to the bathroom. You felt like the room was closing in on you, so exhausted from the day’s stresses and looking for even a moment of escape. You were lucky to find an empty closet of some sort and shut yourself in, sitting on the floor as you waited for the banging headache to soothe under the quieter environment, away from the pounding music and pulsing lights, courtesy of the Bucks.

You groaned as the music got louder, lights peeking in as someone invaded your private space, but the noise got choked in your throat, turning into a grin as you looked up to see Jack shutting the door behind him. He turned on the closet light, half-hidden under a shelf, and sat down next to you. You leaned onto his shoulder, letting your weight fall against him as you finally let yourself relax.

“So, how does it feel to be the new champ in the division?” 

You let out a small laugh, wincing as you noticed how loud even that was. You pulled the strap free behind you, pulling it around into your lap and running your fingers over the cool metal.

“Honestly, I keep expecting Tony or Cody to take the belt from me and tell me that I haven’t earned it yet or something. I can’t believe it’s real.”

He reached up, pulling his hat off and letting his hair fall down, strands tickling your face as it landed against his shoulders. You let your fingers brush it away, sighing as you noticed how peaceful you felt. How happy you were.

As you finally realized how much you really loved him, so much more than just as a friend. 

“Hey, you there?”

You shook your head, letting out a noise and trying to focus on what he said.

“I said that I’m proud of you. We all are.”

“I have heard so much of that tonight, I’m starting to wonder if it’s actually true.”

He let his arm reach up, his hand falling on your shoulder as he held you.

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I can for me and the boys. I think Marko nearly cried at how you almost wouldn’t take the belt.”

“I couldn’t believe that I’d actually won, I thought it was a mistake. I’d never even dreamed of beating Shida for the title, and then it actually happened.”

You looked up at him, noticing how handsome he looked when he smiled at you.

“Well, darling, you did it. You’re here, at the top. What comes next for the great champion?”

Your heart pounded, the sentence flying around in your head and making you dizzy. Darling? He called you darling?

“Can I kiss you?”

The words had left your mouth before you could even process the thought behind them, and you instantly backed away from his touch, trying to apologize in what just became a heap of incoherent syllables. He reached out, fingers brushing your arm, and he felt his heart break when you pulled away, so obviously scared of what you had said.

“If you want to come back over here, the answer’s yes.”

The championship suddenly felt like a weight against your legs, and you pulled it over to the side with slowed motions. You moved a bit closer, thinking that you were on the edge of euphoria as his fingers locked with yours.

“You...you mean it? You’re not just making fun of me for asking?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve kind of been thinking about asking that same question for the past year or so, if you want the truth.”

You looked at him, trying and failing to find any giveaway that he wasn’t being honest. You leaned in, heart caught in your throat, and brushed your lips against his. You wanted to just kiss him, get it over and done, but something stopped you from closing the distance.

“A little nervous?”

You gave him a nervous grin, then looked down as you nodded. He chuckled, tilting your head up with a finger under your chin.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

It felt like there were sparks of raw electricity everywhere that your skin met his, and the feeling only intensified as he finally kissed you. His lips were warm against yours, and the feeling of his hand moving to your waist had you absolutely reeling. You let the fingers of your left hand curl into his hair, arms resting around his neck. You felt like you could lose yourself in his touch...and then you heard someone knock at the door, nearly jumping apart from him in a mild panic.

“Hey, is anyone in there? Do you know where Jack is?”

You looked at him and then let out a silent giggle, brushing his hair back down as he made a face that told you he wasn’t necessarily pleased about Marko interrupting the moment he’d waited so long for.

“Yeah, buddy. I got a little overwhelmed with the crowds and he came in here to hang out with me for a bit.”

You were a little surprised at how quickly the door flew open, Jack’s teammates looking down at you.

“Hey, congrats, kiddo. You finally got to the big one.”

You thanked Luchasaurus as well as you could with Marko’s arms around your neck, laughing as Jack pulled him off by the collar.

“Dude, did she not just say that she’s overwhelmed with the crowds?”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. It’s just...well..you won, you know? You did it!”

You laughed, taking Jack’s hand to stand up as you looked to Marko.

“I appreciate it, just think a bit next time, okay?”

He nodded, looking at Jack for a moment before laughing.

“Hey, I didn’t know Jack wore lipstick!”

He took off down the hall, Luchasaurus (Luchadad? Dadasaurus? this is completely unrelated to the story but i need to know) apologizing before taking off down after him. Jack looked mortified, but you reached up and thumbed away the bright color on his skin.

“I dunno, man, red’s really your color.”

#jungle boy #jack perry #jungle boy imagine #jack perry imagine #jungle boy oneshot #jack perry oneshot #aew imagine #aew one shot

[countessofbiscuit]

I need more Cody/Bo-Katan content! :3

man, don’t we all ♥ i posted a BoCody fic on ao3 about a week ago, then deleted it (and others) in a strange manic episode. as i don’t have anything new to share, i’ll at least let it see daylight again. thank you for making me smile : )

Forward

(ao3)

“This will be a waste of time,” she’d told Tano, as Melsha set the nav for the deep Core. Ursa had picked up comm chatter about Maul’s probable return to Sundari, and it’s a long way to any Third Army theatre on a Kom’rk hyperdrive.

Fives days and too much fuel later, Bo-Katan is proven right, Manda rest her sister.

It’s humiliating, to come all this way just to breathe the same recycled air, to let them see her anxious despair in the flesh, and to still be told, please hold.

And he had seen her: Kenobi’s golden meat-droid, her unintended liaison of a marshal commander, whose intelligence minders had let her keep. Probably for a fucking laugh; he makes SpecOps sound like its own clan of Keldabe-kissed vode.

He watched her stalk off her ship, ready to prostrate herself before the Republic. To beg face-to-face. The hangar throbbed with activity, a sea of white and gold and blue, and his face was everywhere. But she recognized him—that scarred temple peering down from a platform, leg propped up on a rail, garter stripe over his right thigh, extremely at ease with himself.

She’s doubly mad when she exits the comms room, too angry to remember which turbolift bay to use.

The Commander is standing there, caf in hand, next to the security booth where they’d been required to hand in their grenades. Obviously lurking with intent, but she is less than flattered.

“Well, if it isn’t the Mandalorian Resistance,” he says.

He appraises her casually as she gets her shit back and asks the security clone for directions. The reply is so convoluted—and she’s so stupidly undone by the shock of being within three feet of this unmasked Fett—she has to click on her recorder.

“I’ll meet you at the ship,” she tells Gedyc and Melsha, waving them off. She surprises herself by wanting a word with this aggravatingly handsome and somewhat important man; might as well learn how enormously she’s misjudged the impression she’d made on him, too, while she’s down for the count.

The Commander sips his caf. “I see you finally got through.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Hey, I put a good word in for you. More than one. I was getting quite a reputation.”

“As what, a fool?”

“Worse—a sympathizer. They’ve been calling me names. It’s been hell.” He turns to his comrade in the booth. “What is it they call me, Reno?”

The clone doesn’t even look up from his monitor, twisting a dial on his helmet like he’s comfortable processing two streams of audio and fuck knows how much visual data at once. “Cod’ika, sir. Kote, if they’re being nice.”

“See?” the Commander smirks. He turns and indicates for her to follow. “But you found a better ambassador.”

“Yeah, much better,” she says to his broad back, studying the armor she rarely sees him in. “Kenobi had all the time in the galaxy for me in there.”

He leads the way down a corridor or three, and Bo-Katan mentally maps the return route with every turn. Command quarters, she thinks, to judge from the prevailing quiet and generous spacing of the doors. One slides open when he flashes his forearm at a panel, inviting her into a small, windowless office. There’s a comfy-looking chair and a simple desk with a built-in holoprojector. A room where two’s a crowd and three’s an unexpected grope.

She leans against the desk, placing her helmet down next to her, and looks around. Familiarity is rendered vivid. “So this is where you take my calls. Cozy.”

He flips a task lamp on and drops into his chair. “Until you finally stopped calling. Just when we were becoming friends.”

She’s not ready to match his flirtatious good mood. He must have just won a battle, all easy hubris in the flush of victory. It’s been a very long time since she’s known it herself.

“Waste of breath,” she sighs, recalling the frustration of finally being called back, only to be pressed by Kenobi to corroborate some nunabrained theory that Maul’s puppet regime was aligned with Dooku. She could not—would not, so absurd was the idea, and she rued it still. She hadn’t given them the tidy answer they wanted, so they’d given Mandalore the square root of fuck-all.

“And then I had Tano in my backwash,” she continues. “She’s nervy about you lot. Told me to stop trying until we had an offer the Council couldn’t refuse.”

“Where d'you find her?”

“Oba Diah.”

He makes a face. “Was she taking down a spice den? Or hitting one up?”

“She’d fallen in with some two-bit smugglers. It’s what all the cool coreworld dropouts do.”

“And you … recruited her how?”

“Flashed a holo of Maul. He’s my meal ticket to you people—or was. She needed a mission.” Bo-Katan still can’t believe her good luck: how easily Tano had agreed to join this cause stitched up in a threadbare kama, itching for a fight, so quick to give over old but vital intelligence. Not that had come to anything, except to satisfy a small part of Bo-Katan's conscience: she'd done a charitable act by taking in a stray, and Tano was set for years with some secondhand beskar.

“You should’ve told me when you had her,” he says. He drains his weapons-grade caf and sets his cup next to her thigh. “General Skywalker was a wreck when she left. You might’ve had a battalion within a day.”

“I wanted to. She nearly popped the airlock when I said I had you on speed-dial. I think she was embarrassed.”

He nods, chewing his lip, like he’s adding a footnote to memory. “Her departure was … not good.”

“And then when it came out that she and that jaig-bird friend of yours were an item, I begged her to call him.”

“Ahh.” His dark brow creases with more age than he even he’s earned, front-line capable aged five. “She would never compromise him.”

“So I was told.” Bo-Katan looks down at the dregs in his cup and wonders how much stomach he has today for the bitter truths she likes to serve.

“She knows we can’t authorize anything,” he sighs, landing remarkably close to her thoughts.

“No one can, apparently. Except some mystics in their topside tower. How do you live with it?”

His broad, plated shoulders shrug. “Chafing against it won’t end this war sooner. This helps.” He reaches behind his chair for a bottle among datapads, and now she can make out the label of his favorite tipple: Savareen brandy. Pulling out the stopper, he holds out it for her.

“Why not, I’m at the Council’s mercy. Again,” she groans, accepting it with a full, choking swig. The liquor scalds. Manda, it’s been a while since she’s let herself get a little tight. Not since that blond head had rolled and the responsibility of resistance had fallen to her shoulders: a youngest sister, born with stiff knees that refused to bend. Except maybe when the campfire tihaar came out.

Bo-Katan is talking before she knows what she’s doing, emboldened by the drink long before it can excuse what she says. “I wanted the Seps to invade. Can you believe that? My own system. Then the clans would sit up, I told myself, then the Republic would listen. I almost lied when Kenobi commed. I almost said, of course Maul and Dooku are aligned. You better send a battalion, a brigade if you can spare it.”

“Are the people still so resigned?”

“They don’t see him! They see Almec and they don’t see battle droids or clones—” she gestures sarcastically at him, stars knows she’d love to see a million of him on Mandalore—“so they are content. They can dust off babuir’s beskar and talk about visiting ba’vodu in Olankur after all these years, and the fact that a Sith and his criminal ilk are dug in like a galltick into their homeworld—not mine, by the way—means nothing.”

“Should it? Do the shuttles not run on time?” He spreads his arms expansively, offering her the empty everything of this truth.

“Nothing’s late if you’re spiced. Everything arrives precisely when it’s supposed to.” If she’d been outside, she might have spat, purging her disgust and the fatty tails from the brandy from her mouth. “He is no Mando’ad.”

He snorts and reaches for the bottle, and she stares as he drinks his long, practiced fill. It’s almost the same angle, looking down at him from the desk where she normally appears. Except now he’s close enough to touch, in all his colorful corporeality.

“What?” he says after a while, interrupting her study of his noble, sculpted brow.

“Sorry, it’s just …” She bends forward, elbows on knees, to peer at him and this monumental face he’d inherited. This face that had permanently scarred her resolve to never look back. “Fett.”

He flinches from any touch she might venture. “An accident with my jaig-bird friend tried to render it distinctive.”

“It worked.”

“What will you do now,” he asks abruptly, with the flattest affect, trying to squeeze out from under her scrutiny.

Bo-Katan huffs. “Pray there’s a quorum and that transceiver traffic is light. We can’t linger.”

“Tano may be persuasive than you think. I think you’ll get your battalion, after all.”

She swipes the bottle from where he’s balanced it on his thigh. “I need a brigade, at least.”

“Sith are slippery. He’ll just cut through my men like butter whatever the numbers. I saw him do it on the outpost. And he’ll do it again.”

It’s the work of a moment to decide to spill the whole of her strategy to him, to entomb her pitch and the Mandalorian fucking Resistance in this gloom. He’s never had any time for her cause, yet he’s often made time for her. She repays this candor. And if he’s been feeding up to Republic Intelligence, and not just humoring her, at least something interesting might happen with the shit that comes down.

“I’ll be blunt with you. The Jedi are a front—Tano is a front. Sure, I’d like one of them to slice the head off the snake, but I need forces to take on his fanatical army. To crush Almec and his corrupting influence. And to get Shysa and the other clans to fucking pay attention. I need an invasion.”

He nods distantly, like he’s being validated in some gut belief. “An army to bend over for you.”

“Just the once.”

“They always say that.” He claps his gloved hands in his lap, settling back in his chair like an elder keen to learn you some blood-bought philosophy. “Then they ask you to not to straighten up, lest you lift the boot.”

“Not me. I hate the smell of a standing army.”

“So you’d just march us somewhere else. Like Concordia. Or Zanbar. Or—what’s that planet that stole your sister and killed your father?” He exaggerates tip-of-tongue befuddlement. “Irmoo?”

Bo-Katan refuses to take that bait. She stabs a finger in the thin groove of his armored chest, where his karta should be. “Look me in the eye and tell me it’d be worse. You could make a difference. Answer to no one.”

“Just you.”

“I don’t own you.”

He never likes it when she points that out; it’s evident in the way he crosses his arms and clenches his jaw, clearly forcing himself not to break eye contact. But she is most comfortable when others are not, when she’s unbalanced someone with a punch or a retort. Her sister’s answer to conflict had been to seek solutions to make it stop; Bo-Katan’s answer is to hit back harder. And she’ll keep bashing this truth over his stubborn skull until his spirit cracks or he disappoints her by placidly accepting it.

“Funny thing about command,” he says, when the silence outgrows the room. “It’s not about who you answer to, but you who have to answer for. My duty to the Republic may be flimsy and manufactured and—”

“Not worth a mott’s shebs.”

“Yes, that, thank you—but my duty to my men is paramount. Baked in deep. Deeper than any of your complaints about indoctrination and too intense for any gene fuckery.”

He’s right, because he’s more mandokarla than he’ll ever admit. Bo-Katan claws her temple and shakes her head. “Manda wept. I don’t want to welcome the Republic on Mandalore, but I’d sure as shab welcome you. And your men.”

“All however many million there are left?”

“We’ve got lots of wide, open spaces.” That’d be one way to resolve the equatorial DMZ: plant an army of Kryze-friendly Fetts inside the probably-habitable zone and make Keldabe wet itself in a confusion of joy and terror—and inform that august, Republic-sponsored body of hot air known as the Commission for Ecological Restoration to get some thrust up their project or Kalevala will be next.

“What twenty acres and a bantha?” he scoffs. “Actually, you should put that before the Senate. They’ll need to put us out to pasture somewhere.”

“Good luck getting the grass to seed. But you’d be wasted in wasteland.”

He cocks his head, mouth fighting the pull of a grin. This close, she can see the lines where previous smiles have lingered. “Where would you have me?” he asks. “Weeding the palace water garden?”

“Chief Protector.”

He snorts and snatches the bottle back. “Pretty sure that’s an entire subgenre of Mando porn.”

“It’s an actual title,” she snaps, a bit offended, foolishly, on the Protectors’ behalf. Those True Mandos by any other name won’t lift a finger to help anyone who isn’t the Mand’alor, and they’ll willingly stagnate on Concord Dawn for another six centuries before they’ll help decide the question. “Fett came from a Protector line. You could carry on the family tradition.”

Bo-Katan leaves off the part about how warm and wet she’s getting at the thought. A decade ago, she pleaded into those same dark eyes, begging to be hired—for what, she didn’t know, but she’d been young and desperate to prove her mettle. Now she’s the one recruiting from the army Fett had spawned; but still she feels powerless, like trying to buy in on a high stakes game with flimsi.

He uncrosses his arms and tucks them behind his head. “I’ve got a lot of brothers.”

“None of them are you.” The brandy speaks for her into the inviting space between his rich lips and his artificially stiff crotch. Fecund as a tibanna clip, is how he'd described himself once; but her lust, hardwired and long-fermented, wants whatever he’s got to unload into her. She'd been angry. The emotion has slipped sharply into desire, born on the same current of frustration.

“This is definitely the most elaborate means of propositioning me,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll put it more crudely.” Throwing her legs up around his waist, Bo-Katan flops into the Commander’s hard lap. And she kisses him, firmly.

He grunts in surprise. His hands seize her biceps, gripping hard. But he doesn’t push her off, and he doesn’t pull back.

She cradles his strong jaw and drinks in the smell of him: caf and ozone and stale sweat. He is all dirtside organic, up here in deep space. Like a mud-spitting fight, like a dug-in siege—nothing she needs right now, but everything her quickened heart wants.

His hands hold fast; his lips yield. Bo-Katan presses the slim advantage and offers her tongue, which he accepts in wet agreement.

It’s stupid. Bo-Katan of Past and Future scowls in disgust at Bo-Katan of Present, trying to get off by grinding on the first Fett who’s listened to her. But why else has she survived, if not to find him again in the deepest dark? She is dha’cenaar and she has been patient.

She sucks on his tongue, teasing him with profane possibilities—teasing herself, too. Chief Protector Cody, thighs bared, the Mand’alor wrapping her lips around his cock as he stands rigid, upholding the dignity of his post at the right hand of the throne. “Come with me,” she moans into his open mouth. Conquer your conquerors, she thinks, and let’s put the fear of Fett into Sundari again.

“And what,” he huffs, biting her lower lip, “my lady will bare besh and wash her servant’s sins with the cream of her loins?”

Bo-Katan actually laughs, with a squirt into her flightsuit. He has all the delicacy of a goran left too long in their forge, and it’s her favorite thing about him. “Coreward holoporn sometimes gets it right.”

Her infatuation with Jango, a man she'd met but twice, had been girlish; now she's in the fullest flush of mature desire over this finest clone of his, this Cody, who somehow improves even on the original. She mouths him with greed, their measured kisses lost to strong-jawed lust. She aches to press the hot give and take of his flesh into her memory for later—after he’s denied her again, and she’s left chasing this feeling of flame up her spine.

He matches her hunger and widens his seat, sinking into his spine. It lifts his codplate just enough to kiss her crotch. Bo-Katan is close, very close to forgiving every fool’s hope that cost so much fuel to bring her here.

Defenses well and properly downed, he lets go of her arms. Big, balmy hands spread over the swell of her hips; his wrists bump against the butts of her Westars. She imagines tossing him one, his sharp brow sighting down the barrel to find Saxon’s pale temple and painting a bright bloodflower onto Sundari glass. A proper initiation: welcome to the clan, Kote—now you’ve earned the name.

Bo-Katan’s head lolls back, giving him access to her neck, where he gnaws and sucks the skin above her suit, stealing her breath at her throat. It's the most intimate anyone's been with her in months upon months. Birdbumbs bristle down her body, even to her curling toes. She threads her fingers into his close curls. His thumbs begin to explore the creases that dip from her hips towards—

Klaxons wallop the room with ear-splitting fury.

“Shab,” they both choke out, in their truest moment of commonality yet. She wants to rib him about it, but his comm chirps to life.

“SOS from Triple-Zero, sir. Grievous. Action quarters to be assumed. Admiral Yularen standing by to issue the jump on General Kenobi’s command.”

“Copy that,” he says with the unhurried care of naval deadweight.

“Not while I’m here, he’s fucking not.” Bo-Katan scrambles from his lap and grabs her helmet. Her licked blood turns bilious again to remember that it will take seven standard days to limp back to Mandalore from here. She’ll be damned if she gives Maul any more of a head start. If Tano is necking her captain in a supply closet somewhere, she’ll have thirty seconds to show before she's left behind.

Aggravated by the shrill wail of alarm against plasteel, she leaves the Commander before he's even risen from his chair, probably comfortable that he has thousands of hyper-capable subordinates to run the general alarm SOPs finer than strill down. She’s turned down the last of four corridors when he finally catches up with her.

“A Mandalorian is always welcome in a warzone, you know,” he teases loudly.

She rolls her eyes, coming to a stumped halt before the turbolift bays. “So come visit mine, when you’ve sorted out yours.”

He summons the correct one for her. “With or without a venator?”

“Just the brigade,” she says, stepping into the proffered lift. He comes halfway inside himself to punch a series of buttons. Snatching a grope on his cod, her fingertips catching the warm lip of his plate behind his balls, Bo-Katan holds him stiffly before her. “If those bay doors close before I’m clear, I’m lighting that hangar up.”

He wrenches her wrist free with a backwards step and a backthrottle turn into seriousness. “Hot air won’t get you an army, but it might bring one down on you.”

"Who knows, I might enjoy that," she tries to sneer. But it just stings and wells up behind her eyes, as another door closes on her hope for Mandalore.

#bocody #bo-katan kryze #commander cody #bo-katan #siege of mandalore #biscuit fic #tcw #clone wars saved