#me: scorch go get bacta

[wanderinginksplot]

Sev + "I'm going to give you five seconds to take that back."

Sev x gn!reader (no use of 'y/n' and no pronouns). Flirty (ish).

Word Count: 2,400

Warnings: discussions of medical concerns, references to missions, stimulant misuse, grandstanding, ill-planned bets, semi-flirtatious wrestling.

---

It had all started when you tried to talk your most recent set of charges into being more healthy. 

Delta Squad had been a source of constant frustration for you since you were assigned to be their medic. Normally, commando squads weren’t overly concerned about having a medic on-board. However, Delta had a close call on a previous mission. One commando, Sev, had been in especially bad shape. 

Some time in a bacta tank had fixed the worst of their injuries, but there were certain limits they shouldn’t push if they wanted to avoid a repeat. Sev needed to be particularly careful, since he had suffered damage to his ribs and many of the organs within them - including his heart. 

Which was why you had been irretrievably furious when you found him downing a packet of stims. 

“Are you trying to die?” you had demanded. “Because I know you’re not stupid, and those are the only possible reasons you would be using stims with damage to your heart. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I have a mission to complete and I don’t have eight hours to sleep before we get there.”

Honestly, you could have expected that kind of answer, but the nonchalant tone Sev had used was what pushed you over the edge. 

“And when they wear off? You know, since you took them three hours before we even break atmosphere?” You had shaken your head, clenching your jaw so tightly that the muscles ached. “If you had bothered to talk to me, I would have advised you to sleep for that time, then take half a stim pack when we arrive.”

“I don’t need some vorpan baar'ur telling me what to do,” he had spat. “As long as I can do my job, the GAR doesn’t worry about the little things. Including my health or my life.”

You didn’t understand the Mando’a, obviously, but that didn’t stop you from rolling your eyes at the drama of his caustic words. 

“Apparently, having someone tell you what to do is exactly what you needI” you had countered. “Do you know what kind of shape you’ll be in after another dose of stims? Even I would be able to beat you in a wrestling match! Some use you’ll be to your brothers then.”

It was a bit too far, and you felt bad as silence fell in the small ship. You had worked with enough troopers to know that they prided themselves on loyalty to their brothers above all else. In your defense, though, you recognized the signs of someone who wouldn’t be talked out of their nihilism. By meeting him head-on using the parameters of life as he saw it, you had hoped to shake him out of his stubbornness. 

It was only bad luck that it hadn’t worked. Sev’s expression had darkened and you prepared yourself for a threat or a cutting insult, but Scorch had laughed, breaking the tension.

“Sounds like a good, old-fashioned bet,” he had said, chuckling in a way that could only be described as ‘gleeful’. 

Sev had scoffed and walked away without another word, but your luck ran out.

Delta Squad had gotten a call from General Jusik, alerting them that the leader of the Separatist-controlled planet had opted for a peace talk. As a gesture of good faith, the GAR was withdrawing the commando squads who had been set to invade.

“We’ve been redirected,” Boss announced when Jusik disconnected the call. The sergeant stepped out of the small cockpit where he had been navigating with Fixer. “We’re to touch down on a Republic-friendly planet in the next system and settle in. We’ll be backup if things go south, so stay ready to go. Get some sleep if you can.”

“Those of us who didn’t already take a packet of stims,” you had muttered when Sev went back to cleaning his blaster instead of heading for the bunks. 

Unfortunately, your sarcasm would prove to be your undoing. Scorch perked up at your quiet admonishment, visibly brightening. “Hey, didn’t you say you could beat Sev in hand-to-hand when he’s using stims?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, holding eye contact with Scorch, but trying to watch Sev in your peripheral vision.

“I’m going to give you five seconds to take that back,” Sev growled. When you looked over, you saw that he very much was not focusing on his blaster anymore. 

“I don’t think I will.” The way you lifted your chin was nothing short of antagonistic, but you were angry. Clarity of thought while angry had never been your forte. Despite that, you clocked the gray undertones in Sev’s face and the way his fingers were trembling slightly. “In fact, I think I could beat you now, whether or not you take another dose.” 

“You’re on,” Sev told you, a challenge thick in his tone. 

“Wait-” How you hadn’t seen this coming, you weren’t sure, but your stomach was sinking. “I didn’t mean I actually want to wrestle you. I’m just telling you, as a medical professional, that-”

“Hey, you already said you would,” Scorch reminded you. “Too late to go back on it now.”

“Knock it off, Six-Two. It isn’t too late for anything,” Fixer told him, turning around in the cockpit to face you all. Before you could thank him, he continued as he eyed you directly. “It’s actually a choice: wrestle Oh-Seven or admit that stims aren’t that bad.”

“They are that bad, though,” you insisted. 

“If you’re going to wrestle on my ship, do it in the cargo bay,” Boss said over his shoulder. “I don’t want to explain broken equipment to the GAR.”

“This isn’t enough of a challenge to break anything,” Sev decreed. He watched you as he set aside his blaster and stood. “Cargo bay. Five minutes.”

It was overdramatic to specify a time and place on such a small ship, but it still made the pit of your stomach tighten. You took care to offer him an unimpressed face and a simple nod. 

"This is gonna be fun!" Scorch said excitedly. 

You strongly disagreed, but that wasn’t going to help. It was far too late for that. So you stifled your misgivings and made your way to the back of the ship. 

Sev had stripped off his armor by the time you got there. That hadn’t been a concern, but you wondered if it should have been. There was nothing at all you could do against plastoid armor. However, much as you loathed to admit it even to yourself… you were almost as disadvantaged anyway. The sight of Sev’s muscles swelling and bulging under the tightness of his body glove was enough to make the ship feel like it was lurching through the galaxy. 

You were wearing comfortable clothes, having refused to change into your lightly armored medic’s gear until you were closer to your eventual destination. You were comfortable and didn’t have to strip off any clothing, but that was almost a pity. It was starting to feel distinctly warm aboard the small ship…

“Ready?” Sev asked. 

You nodded, resigned to being decimated by the fully-trained commando. He didn’t attack immediately, choosing to watch you instead. You circled warily, already closer than you liked. The cargo bay of the ship was reasonably big and, as promised, you weren’t going to break anything. That should keep Boss happy, but there still wasn’t a vast amount of space. 

So you and Sev circled around, watching each other. You were focused on his chest: all of the hand-to-hand training the GAR had offered told you that motion was typically forecasted in the torso, so that was the best place to watch if you wanted to avoid being surprised. 

When you occasionally snuck a glance at Sev, he was watching your face rather than your torso. At first, you wondered if you should be doing the same with him, but then you started to feel flustered rather than wary at the weight of his eyes. 

That was when he pounced. 

You managed to avoid the first lunge, but you weren’t expecting him to recover his balance as quickly as he did. In half a moment, Sev was upright once more and diving at you. 

A strong arm hooked around your waist and you were falling, cushioned from the ground by Sev’s body, but the impact still knocked the air from your lungs. Sev flipped you over and you made your move, rolling quickly out from under him before he had time to close the distance between you. 

You got to your feet - or, you started to. Sev’s hand closed around your ankle and pulled. It wasn’t enough to put you back on the floor, but it was enough to bring you heavily to your hands and knees. Since you were already in the proper position, you kicked out with your foot and felt a surge of victory when your heel connected. 

And then you were horrified, turning around as you gave a loud gasp. “Sev! Are you okay? I’m so sorry-”

There was a small smudge of dirt on his forehead from your boot, but Sev’s grin flashed bright. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

And then he grabbed both of your ankles, pulling hard enough that your knees went out from under you and you landed on your stomach with a soft, “Oof!”

Sudden heat at your back warned that Sev was getting ready to pin you, so you rolled again. He seemed to expect the movement then, dropping onto you in mid-turn from your side to your back. 

With a sudden, surging need to keep your freedom, you pulled back a fist. Your goal was Sev’s recently injured ribs, but you came to your senses before the blow came too close to landing. You were a medic, and every bit of training you had received covered how to prevent injuries, not cause them. 

Sev didn’t know that, however, and he winced sharply. He curled into himself in an effort to protect his ribs - a motion that only put more pressure on them. The flash of pain across his face would have made you stop even if you hadn’t already decided to do so. 

“Are you-?”

Before you could ask if he was hurt, he had reached down, snagged your wrists, and pressed them against the cold metal of the floor. You were pinned. 

You were on your back with a commando pressing you into the floor, but you both… stopped. Your breathing was heavy and - with more than a little surprise - you noticed that Sev’s was, too. Of course, his ribs probably still hurt and you would have to check him for a boot-borne head injury, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling anything other than pain.

You definitely were. 

The chilly bite of the floor at your back faded into the distance as you and Sev studied each other from closer than you had ever been. Sev always looked vaguely angry, but you had wondered if that was his natural expression. That seemed to be true: if you didn’t know him as well as you did, you would have taken his expression to be one of irritation and disdain. But there was softness in it, too. That was what left you feeling like you couldn’t get a full breath. 

“Well, Sev, I’d say you won,” Boss remarked dryly. 

The comment pulled you back into the moment and you realized that Boss, Fixer, and Scorch were all observing the scene. It felt vaguely ridiculous then, wondering what it would be like to kiss the man who currently had you pinned to the dirty floor. But as Sev released his grip and stood, you missed the warmth of him like it was something tangible.

To your surprise, though, Sev held a hand out to you in a silent offer to help you stand. You took it and he lifted you easily. The silence was thick. 

You cleared your throat. “Well, I guess I was wrong. One stim pack isn’t enough for me to win a wrestling match. I still think-”

“Save it,” Sev ordered and you froze. No matter what you thought had changed between you, it wasn’t enough to save you from his sharp tongue. But when he spoke again, Sev’s voice was far more gentle. “It was closer than I thought it would be. Another few minutes and I would have probably lost. I’ll lay off the stims.”

“Aww, no rematch?” Scorch complained. 

Fixer made a sharply derisive noise and left for the cockpit. “I’ll pilot us to the staging planet.”

“All of you, get some rest,” Boss ordered before he left as well. 

Scorch lingered a moment, glancing between you and Sev. You were still standing close together, the tension palpable between you. Unlike most of your interactions, that tension was not actively hostile. 

You were torn between wanting Scorch to leave so you and Sev could talk about what had just happened, and wanting him to stay so you didn’t have to. Slowly, like he was watching something interesting unfold before his eyes, Scorch turned and retreated to his bunk. Since the bunks were in the section just ahead of the cargo bay, Scorch was still in hearing range, but a sense of privacy settled thickly around you and Sev. 

When you finally gathered the courage to look over, Sev was watching you. Neither of you spoke, and your mind raced in an effort to find the right words. 

Your lips parted, though you didn’t have the slightest idea what you planned on saying. Fortunately, Sev spoke before you could say some muddled assortment of words that might mean nothing… or too much. 

“We should sleep while we can,” he told you. After a moment, he added with a wry grin, “Some medic told me I need actual rest, not just stim packs.”

It was more familiar ground, and you relaxed enough to jibe, “What disappointing news.”

“Yeah,” Sev agreed. “But the delivery made it a little better.”

You could only shake your head as you followed him to the bunks.

---

Author's Note - I love Sev wayyyyy too much! I have written more fics for him than for any other member of Delta Squad. That being said, I'm going to focus on Scorch and Boss next since I haven't done much for them. If you have any great ideas for either one that you'd like to throw my way, feel free to comment, ask, or message!

Thanks for reading! You can find other works on my masterlist. As of a few days ago, I discontinued my taglist. You can find just fics on my side-blog, @wanderinginksplot-writes. (As soon as I work through my drafts on this blog, all fics will be posted there first and cross-posted here later.)

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars republic commando #star wars legends #delta squad #republic commando #repcomm #delta squad sev #sev x reader #sev x you #reader insert #reader #gn!reader

[vodika-vibes]

Our girl Rynn is back with her husbands where she belongs! 🙌 Now about that extended vacation for them—

She is! And the next time a Jedi shows up to ruin their vacation, Sev is going to shoot them. Repeatedly.

@moonwrecked

"Honestly, what were you doing? Getting into fist-fights with Wookies?" Sev grumbles as he carefully applies bacta to Rynn's back. "...They weren't Wookies." Rynn says primly, before she hisses when he presses a bit too hard on a bruise, "Sev...that hurts-" "Normally," Sev says, as he lightly pats her side in an apology, "I'm more than happy to have you naked and under me, but I much prefer it when you're not covered in bruises and cuts." "Pervert." Rynn replies fondly. "Yeah, yeah." He carefully adjusts her so he's able to get to another bruise and then he pauses, "Cyare?" "Hm?" "...did you use super-glue on this laceration on your side?" Sev asks, his voice very mild. "...I'm not answering that, because I don't want to." Sev nods, reasonably, and he leans in to press a light kiss to the back of her neck, and then he pulls back, "FIXER!" "No, don't do tha-" Rynn sighs when Fixer appears in the door. "What?" "She used super-glue on a laceration." Sev reports immediately. There's silence for a moment, before Fixer pins a disappointed glare on Rynn, who, tellingly, turns her head so she doesn't have to see it. "Get her to the infirmary." Fixer says, without taking his eyes off her, "I'll let Boss and Scorch know." "No fair. You're ganging up on me." "There, there. It's because we love you." Sev says brightly.

#star wars #star wars au #competent jedi au

[arcsimper5]

Yaim'ol - Chapter 2

yaim'ol - [yai-MOHL] - return, homecoming

Pairing: Sev x F!Jedi OC, Scorch x F!Jedi OC Characters: Delta Squad (Republic Commando), F!Jedi OC Cin Rating: M - Explicit content in later chapters Warnings: Gore, Canon-typical violence, angst, smut (later chapters), descriptions of injury, force osik.

Following on from the end of Republic Commando, Sev and Cin must make their way through the galaxy, overcoming trials and tests in a bid to keep themselves alive long enough to reunite with their squad.

Chapter 2 - Orders

“Execute Order 66.”

The words repeated in Sev’s head, over and over. Whether it was the comms or if it had just been ingrained, he wasn’t sure.

What he was sure of, was that Cindar Kivye was a traitor to the Republic. The woman he’d shared his missions with, his body with, his life with, was to be killed.

And he was the only one left to do it.

He’d noticed the moment she smuggled onboard the small transport vessel, somehow managing to slip past the Geonosians and the Trandoshians who were taking him down to Kashykk’s surface, settling into a dark corner and waiting.

The utter grace and beauty she had exuded as she’d cut down each and every one of those disgusting creatures had made his heart race, heart pumping by the time she was finished, covered in guts and gore and blood.

As soon as she’d released his binders, he’d ripped his helmet off and been on her, crashing their lips together, catching her by surprise.

“Disobeying orders to come get me, ner kat’ra?” he teased between their brutal meeting of mouths, “naughty girl.”

“Like I’d ever leave you behind,” she teased softly, leaning up to nip at his bottom lip. They simply stared at each other for a moment, tension hanging in the air before she cleared her throat and extricated herself from Sev’s grasp, moving to the control panel.

“Damn, they’ve locked in the course,” she murmured as Sev composed himself and pulled his helmet back on, joining her at her side, looking over the foreign controls.

“You understand that mess?” he huffed, trying to make any sense of the odd characters there.

“Jedi training. We have to at least know the alphabets of most sentient species,” she shrugged, blushing when Sev leant in closer, knowing he was smirking under his bucket.

“Have I ever told you how hot you are when you’re smart?”

“A lot,” she chuckled, wincing and drawing in a sharp breath as she leaned closer to him.

“Cyare?” 

Sev was on her immediately, gloved hands smoothing down her back. “You hurt?”

She shook her head, ignoring the pointed stare he gave her through his helmet.

“Only a scratch,” she waved him off, “I’ll live.”

Sev growled lightly in displeasure, moving to her other side, frowning when he saw blood seeping down her leg, soaking her trousers just above her boots.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out sharply, reaching for the small medkit attached to his belt. Knowing it was useless to argue, she simply shrugged, concentrating on trying to decipher the symbols.

As he worked, Sev’s hands were gentle and strong, a sigh leaving her at the feeling.

“The others get out okay?” he asked lowly, a note of fear registering in his tone.

“Yeah, evac went fine. They were pissed though,” she admitted, eyes darting across the holoscreen in front of her as she tried to disengage the course that had been set. “They wanted to come back, but…”

“Mission comes first,” Sev nodded before falling back into silence for a moment, working carefully as he applied bacta and covered Cin’s wound. “Why did you stay?”

The question caught her by surprise, her eyes widening a little as Sev stood back up and met her gaze through his visor.

“I promised,” she murmured, pointedly ignoring him, “after the Prosecutor. And I wasn’t about to go back on it.”

Sev hummed quietly for a moment, letting out a chuckle.

“Jedi are gonna be pissed.”

“Let them be. I don’t care. We don’t leave people behind.”

Sev stared at her for a moment, knowing she could feel the intensity of his gaze even through the bucket, smiling fondly while she continued to work.

“Mesh’la,” he called, raising a hand to her face carefully, running the back of his knuckles down her cheek. A single tear followed it, his stomach clenching.

“I wasn’t going to lose you again,” she breathed, closing her eyes. She leant into his touch, taking a breath as if to speak again when an alarm blared loudly, making them both jump. “Karking hells, what now?”

Within seconds a hologram of a trandoshan flickered to life on the console, it’s yellow eyes sharp, teeth bared.

“Filthy clone and filthy Jedi,” it hissed at them, Sev growling in response. “Take our ship, kill my brothers. You will pay!”

Before either of them could respond, a massive explosion rocked the ship, sending them both hurtling over the console. Landing sprawled on the floor between the console and the viewport, Cin scrambled for purchase on the durasteel floor.

“Cin!”

Sev was screaming for her as the windows turned red, the vast expanse of Kashykk below masked by the glow of re-entry. They were going down.

“I’m here!” she yelled back, looking around frantically. Her tightly plaited hair was loosening now, framing her face as she tried to crawl towards him, yelping as the ship tumbled and turned, through the atmosphere and now hurtling towards the ground. “We need to stabilise the ship!”

“No time!” Sev grunted, bracing himself on the console and launching himself towards her, managing to catch her around her waist. With an inhuman amount of strength, he pulled them both towards the rear of the ship, to the storage compartment. Forcing the doors apart, he pushed her inside and made to follow, only for the ship to lurch violently again, sending him flying backwards.

As the doors slid closed once more, encasing her in the thick walls within, she screamed his name, reaching out with the Force.

“Sev! Please! Come back!”

Only silence answered her, soon smothered by the grinding of metal and electrical screams as the ship plunged through the thick tree canopy and into the ground.

#star wars #star wars republic commando #republic commando fanfiction #star wars the clone wars #republic commando #clone commando sev #clone commando scorch #delta squad #daniwrites

[kalevalakryze]

The Water Rescue

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types,  Pairings: Ahsoka Tano/ Hera Syndulla Characters: Ahsoka Tano, Hera Syndulla Warnings: Mentions of Drowning, Near Death, Injury, Burns Notes: For Whumptober Day 14 Prompt: Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.” Word Count: 1,106  AO3 Link: Here!

There were hands scrambling at her shoulders desperately. When her eyes opened, she was met not with the acrid battlefront, but the sting of salt-water, and the blur of green skin as her savior reached into the waters, finally getting a grip on her arms. 

Darkness swallowed her once more as the Green Savior started to pull. “Hey, Snips.” Anakin… She tried to chase his voice and the memory of blue eyes, tried to chase not the man he became, but the man he was. “I know you’ll figure it out- Where you need to be… You always do.”

Her back hit the cool metal of the extended ramp, hard enough for water to come out of her mouth in spittle; Someone started pushing against her chest and stomach, urging the water that was suffocating her from the inside to force it’s way past her lips once again. Sputtering, her savior rolled her to the side, allowing the Togruta to throw up sea water and splash onto their boots, soaked from their small dive after her.

It took too long for them to get oxygen into Ahsoka’s lungs, her eyes had shut before her first unobstructed breath, and before her body could register the frigid temperature of Seatos, leaving her frame trembling against the frigid aid and frozen ramp, even in unconsciousness.

Despite the Togruta’s expansive build, Hera had outgrown her by almost half a head, and while the Togruta’s muscles were a fine bit more defined, the Twi’lek had more than her fair share of lugging around the gladiator built Jedu that came into her life so often. 

Getting Ahsoka situated in her arms was not difficult, getting back to the improvised landing pad where the T-6 was settled was not difficult, but getting Huyang to back off for five seconds was proving to be impossible. 

“Huyang, please.” She called at last, having to dodge around the fretting droid so she could get Ahsoka into the bunk he’d been over preparing. 

With reluctance, the ancient droid looked between not-Jedi and Rebel, servos whirring as his head moved in contemplation. “Very well… I will go and thank young Jacen.” The droid finally relented, sparing his last connection to the Jedi temple one final look before moving somberly off the ship to find the young force-sensitive. 

Sighing to herself, Hera began the tedious work of peeling away Ahsoka’s sopping wet clothes, leaving them in a pile near one of the small emergency drains to take out and handle later. The state of the woman’s gloves were worrying, though she couldn;t imagine the pain the burns scalded into her palms had to be, leather scorched to raised skin in the lines and forcing her hand to curl painfully to avoid stretching ruined skin out. Poking experimentally as the injury got her a twitch from the force-sensitive woman. “Just hold on for me,” The Twi’lek whispered, rising to her feet with a quiet ‘pop’ of her knees. 

“Hera?” Ahsoka’s voice was rough and scratchy from all of the salt water she’d swallowed, her one good hand reached out to loop her fingers around Hera’s bare wrist, thumb pressing into her exposed pulse point, to double check that the woman in the ship was real and alive. 

“I’m just going to grab you some bacta, Kaa’lia. Is it still in the ‘fresher?” 

“Mmmm,” Was her only response as the woman’s hands dropped tiredly back to the bed, tugging at the sparse sheets to cover the gooseflesh that rose to bare, cold skin. 

When Hera returned with one of the kits emergency bacta packets, she caught Ahsoka in the process of fighting to sit up and get out of bed.

“Nuh-uh, no way, return to sender, Ma’am. Lay back in that bed or so help me,” She fussed, hurrying back to the bunk to offer the woman aid in getting back down. 

“Hera, really, I’m fine.” 

“I’ve made the executive decision a long time ago that Jedu can’t be trusted to determine their own wellbeing, so I have decided; you are wrong.”

A small, defeated smiled at Ahsoka’s lips as the other woman returned to perch at the edge of the cot once more. 

“You’ve got me there.”

“I know, dear. Hands please.” Ahsoka offered a quiet, dramatic sigh as she settled her hands in Hera’s waiting ones, nose crinkling at the pain of moving her burned hand, wincing at the cool feeling of bacta being spread across the warm, raised skin and the careful wrap of bandages to stop any from being wiped away.

“Let me give you a hand getting dressed?” Hera questioned when all was said and done, fingers nervously smoothing across the uninjured skin of Ahsoka’s pinkie, the pad of her thumb smoothing across the woman’s chipped nails. 

“You already got me undressed,” Ahsoka teased gently, turning her good hand around to brush her fingertips against the General’s knuckles.

“So, you want me to leave you naked?”

“Well…” Ahsoka’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile, albeit weighed down by exhaustion, lopsided as she shifted in the bed. 

“Nope, you were literally drowning less than thirty minutes ago.” Hera argued, rising once more and crossing the ship without allowing the woman a chance to retort. Chasing the memory of the compartment that she knew Ahsoka often kept Hera’s spare sleep clothes. 

Getting Ahsoka to sit back up long enough to work the sleeveless shirt around her shoulders had been easy, comfortable even, as the Togruta’s forehead rested into the softness of her stomach, hands resting on the backs of her knees as Hera worked the ties at the back closed, fingers brushing soothingly down the soft, leathery feeling of her back lek, feeling the older woman’s breathing begin to even out under her gentle ministrations.

“Got to get pants on, hirani,” Hera whispered, pressing her lips to the tip of Ahsoka’s left montral where it tickled the side of her lek. “Then, you can get some much needed rest, and we can figure out where to go next.”

At the promise of sleep, Ahsoka managed to lean herself back from the comfort of Hera’s abdomen, offering a groggy, not-so-helpful amount of aid in sliding the loose pants up her legs.

Ahsoka was already lost to the calm embrace of sleep, only conscious because of the gentle tug at her waistband of the little movements of Hera’s fretting, but eventually, the Twi’lek managed to tuck Ahsoka into the threadbare blankets, the Togruta’s breath fanning over Hera’s lips when the woman brushed against her to offer a gentle kiss, easing her into the calm plunge of slumber at last. 

Twi'leki Translations: Jedu - Jedi Kaa'lia - Love Hirani - Beautiful

#whumptober 2023 #no.14 #water inhalation #“Just hold on” #star wars #ahsoka series #fanfiction #drowning tw #burns tw #injury tw #near death tw #herasoka #lightpilot #hera syndulla #ahsoka tano #hera x ahsoka #ahsoka

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Episode 11 Thoughts

Spoilers for TBB Season 2

It is day 873 without Echo and I am not thriving. 🤧

We unfortunately did not get the Rex and Echo centric episode that I was hoping for, but I still really liked this episode. So obligatory "I miss Echo" bit aside for now, let's get into it!

Mysterious smoky ship. Interesting. 🤔

Aside from the little electrical zaps, the first few seconds is very monochrome. I kind of love it.

Horror(ish) elements coming through very early on!

MOUNT TANTISS

Dr Hemlock!

Okay, so the hemlock people were right. Dr Parsnip would've been kinda funny though. 🤣

Ngl, the way they were hiding his face, I thought that there was going to be something about his face worth hiding.

There wasn't.

Unless Dr Hemlock is someone that's been sent before? 🤔 I don't remember anyone by that name. 😅

Nala Sé has appeared!

Omg Cid is such a bitch. 🤬

JUST DITCH HER!

Wrecker nodding along to each percentage then seeing Hunter's unimpressed look and going into angry mode. 😭

Interesting to see Omega, who has always been the first to help Cid, turning as well.

I get very stressed when Tech goes off by himself somewhere. He's already broken a leg this season. 😬

Tech wouldn't have to go off by himself if Echo was here. 🥲

The squad feels so empty without Echo and Cross. 😭

This episode is spooky. I like it!

There was me thinking it was a weird Zillo hybrid. Turns out that's just what small Zillobeasts look like.

Saying that, THE ZILLOBEAST IS BACK!!!

Completely forgot we got a glimpse of it in the trailer. 🤣

Tech looks so adorable. 🥰

Another Omega and Tech team up!!!

There is a lot of Hunter piloting the Marauder this season.

Omega being a little nerd is so personal to me. Science girlies rise!!!

Although I guess it was less of a choice for her. 🥲

But she's a smart bean and I love her.

HOW QUICKLY IS THAT THING GROWING?!

FORGET INDESTRUCTIBLE ARMOUR DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT COULD MEAN FOR SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERIES

RAPID CELL DIVISION = POSSIBILITIES OF FINDING NEW THINGS FOR ANTI CANCER RESEARCH AND-

I'm getting ahead of myself. Oops. 😅

Although I will say this...

HOW??? I know it's Star Wars but that thing grows that quickly off energy??? What???

I just realised I forgot to mention the arm from earlier.

Yeah... the arm hanging out of the mouth.

Ew.

Anyway back to where we were! 🤣

Omega having to turn off the machines so that Tech will actually leave. 🤣

Zillibeast laser? Interesting. 🤔

Is that likely a giant bacta tank or just a random fluids container?

These poor people just lost all their electricity because of the zillobeast and now they're being forced to leave?!

I feel so bad for them. 😭

So many Commandos this episode. 🤨

I just love Wrecker leaning on things with his arms crossed. 🥰

I wanna give that man a hug.

He would give good hugs.

ECHO AND REX MENTION!!!

We have to be seeing those boys soon. Come on. 🥲

They're definitely all still in touch with each other though which makes me happy. 🥰

Is that Scorch?

Suspected that Lama Su would still be alive!

NOPE NOPE NOPETY NOPE NOPE NOPE

WE ARE NOT GOING AFTER OMEGA

NOPE

Anyway, overall thoughts are that I really liked this episode! The spooky vibes were really fun and I was glad to see some more of the zillobeast!

Felt like a pretty even split of dialogue across the Batchers today, and we got some new characters as well. I think it was well balanced! Not the Echo and Rex episode I was hoping for, but still very enjoyable. 😄

BUT NEXT EPISODE IS A CROSSHAIR EPISODE AND I CAN'T WAIT!!! I MISS THAT GRUMPY TOOTHPICK SO MUCH!

Anyway, I'm gonna have to disappear for a few hours while I avoid Mando spoilers 😅, but I can't wait to see what everyone thinks of the episode later!

#part of me is worried that we won't see echo until episode 14 #and that makes me sad #BUT IT'S CROSSHAIR NEXT WEEK!!! #star wars #the bad batch #the bad batch seaskn 2 spoilers #the bad batch spoilers #tbb spoilers #tech #wrecker #hunter #omega #echo #crosshair

[firewoodwander]

What might you think about Kix/Scorch? —MBW

Not a clue, frankly

@mandalorianbrainweasel

Wish you would write…

Kix doesn’t really like medical facilities.

He likes that they’re better stocked (somewhat), that they’re better prepared (sometimes) and that they’re a lot more organised than what he’s used to (almost always). But he’s a field medic and a trooper, and he never really got far enough past his fears of physical examinations on Kamino to feel completely, one hundred per cent settled walking through halls that look so similar.

Still, that doesn’t mean he thinks the dramatics his fellow brothers kick up are warranted.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dive like this?” the commando asks, grinning very winningly for a boy with a black eye and a freshly re-opened split lip.

Kix looks up and around and at the inoffensive blankness of the GAR Medical HQ, the dozen screens on standby around them, and the gleamingly clean equipment, and then slowly back to the RC on the bed.

“Pick that one up on your downtime, did you?”

Twelve-sixty-two chuckles a little and rubs at his bleeding knuckles. “From a brother—just wanted to test it out for once, I guess. Not that I don’t think the situation applies.”

He punctuates that with a wink that is not wholly ruined by his battered state. Kix has certainly seen worse, and certainly been hit on by worse.

(He’s definitely including the time Rex, high on meds and unable to move anything other than his right arm, had made a very brazen pass at him in front of half the company, including Skywalker, to absolutely everyone’s embarrassment and glee.

No, Kix isn’t going to let it go. Ever.)

From an RC, in the grand scheme of things, it’s rather flattering.

“Congratulations,” Kix tells him dryly. “I can confirm that your brother lied, and that the line is terrible. You’re not getting out any faster than it’ll take for me to clear you. And you are aware that I saw you try to fight an AZI droid twenty minutes ago, yes?” He gestures to the black eye and grimaces. “It didn’t exactly help your set up.”

Twelve-sixty-two shrugs as if he knew this would have been the outcome, but clearly thought it was worth the try. He’s an interesting character. Kix eyes him almost unintentionally while he gazes off, smiling slightly to himself and letting Kix get on with the formwork on his datapad.

“The name’s Scorch, by the way. Didn’t catch yours…”

“Kix,” Kix allows. “Please don’t tell me how you earned that name. I can take a guess.”

Scorch pouts a little, for show, then chuckles again. “See a lot of my kind of crazy around here?”

Kix does laugh, then. “I know my fair share of wild-spirited idiots. And they don’t have anything as serious as that shell of yours to protect them from themselves, either.”

Flashing that grin once again, Scorch leans back on the diagnostic bed, musculature on show, in what Kix assumes is supposed to be a flirtatious manner. “Commando training has its perks.”

“Indeed,” Kix hums, and then fetches a supply of antiseptic wipes, bandages and bacta gel.

To his credit, Scorch doesn’t squirm so much as Kix patches up his last little scrapes. The broken leg is still quite severely bruised, but it’s clearing, and apparently mobile enough for poorly executed escape attempts. Kix reckons if he hadn’t been so impinged, or the medcentre wasn’t staffed by a hundred perfectly capable soldiers who are very used to commando antics, Scorch would have made it outside with no hassle at all.

Perhaps Kix should be grateful the rest of his squad aren’t here.

“You wanna get a drink some time?” Scorch asks abruptly. Kix blinks and looks up from the patch he’s applying to the man’s left side floating ribs. “I know a couple of good places… Or the clone bar’s good, too.”

“Promise you won’t try to elbow me in the solar plexus, next time?” Kix asks, and Scorch beams, looking not a mite repentent.

“Of course. We can save a round of sparring for another time.”

An interesting character, Kix thinks. Hopefully the good kind of interesting, too, because somehow against all good sense, he opens his mouth and says—

“Perhaps, maybe I could. But you’d have to be paying.”

And he doesn’t even regret it that much, after.

#cloneshipping #writing tag #scorch/kix #repcomm

[sanerontheinside]

QuiObi + #45 😇

45, a kiss out of anger, because we like to suffer 🤭

[prompts || send another!]

sooooo after watching the Kenobi show I spawned like. 2-3 ideas. this prompt belongs to one of them! background: Qui-Gon leaves the Order after Obi-Wan returns from Rattatak (we do lightly touch on the why of it)

This prompt either falls in the middle of that story, or my brain will decide that it's already checked this idea off the list (tho i kinda hope not, there's more that can be done here, and I think this scene could also be fleshed out—) anyway here we goooo

He floated. 

The pain had been indescribable. Heat that refused to dissipate, seemed only to get worse, endless, endless. He was still burning, even now when he’d been pulled out of the flames—had he been? He couldn’t say. He was still there, unable to breathe, choking on ash. 

Anakin had felt this. He’d been alive, abandoned on the hot Mustafar sand. Obi-Wan had turned his back on him. 

You should’ve killed me when you had the chance. 

Pain, old and dull and inescapable, streaked through him. For a moment it seemed to him that he’d burned on Mustafar, been left charred and empty; that he’d suffered those injuries for a decade. 

But he hadn’t, had he? Hadn’t even known that Anakin still lived. He’d wandered beneath the scorching suns of Tatooine, and at best his burns had been superficial; he’d survived all of it, because he had a mission to complete. Something important, something to hold on to… 

Something was missing. 

Obi-Wan jerked, and found himself restrained, sluggish. 

He tried again. He was trapped, encased in some gelatinous substance. The smell of it was cloying—

Bacta. 

They were losing precious time. Obi-Wan struck out and kicked for the surface. 

“—need more time!” Tala was calling up to him insistently. “Ben, your injuries need time to heal.” 

He pulled off the rebreather, stubbornly ignoring the way the barely-healed skin pulled and ached. “Where’s Leia?”

Tala’s expression cracked. That told him all he needed to know. 

She sighed. “The medic will want a look at those burns.”

Obi-Wan bit back a protest. The bacta treatment, however brief, had at least dulled the pain. And though he tried not to think about it, the idea of sinking back into the tank filled him with dread. 

*

The base was set up smartly, by someone who knew what they were doing. They’d repurposed one of the old structures left abandoned after the campaign on Jabiim. Jabiim likely still hadn’t forgiven the greater galaxy for what had happened there: Empire, Confederacy, or Republic, it was all the same to them. It remained an unregarded, struggling world—perfect for an illegal base of operations. 

A couple turns away from the room where they kept the bacta tank (Obi-Wan doubted they could afford to keep more than one) there was a cramped little mediwing. Tala made sure Obi-Wan got as far as the exam table, then left him there. He could still hear her soft voice, barely, no doubt speaking to the medic just outside. Obi-Wan thought he could just about imagine how that conversation went. Medics liked things to be neat and clean; that a patient would fight bacta treatment was baffling to most. 

Obi-Wan sighed, and geared up for a minor fight. 

“Leaving us so soon?”

The sound of that voice slid down his spine like ice. 

“If we had a patient record, I’d have you signing a form indicating you refused treatment.”

Obi-Wan swallowed against the lump in his throat. It refused to budge. 

“Still, I’m sure you know how this works: bacta-packed compression bandages for the burns, a broad spectrum antibiotic, an analgesic for the pain you’re going to tell me you’re not in.” 

Obi-Wan watched the tall frame moving around the little ward out of the corner of his eye, rifling through the drawers. The bandages were tossed almost carelessly onto the exam table beside him, then the man returned with two hypos in hand. 

“Non-negotiable, I’m afraid,” the man said. 

Obi-Wan forced himself to look at him. 

Qui-Gon looked… different. Older, terribly worn. His eyes were bruised with sleepless nights, and his face was gaunt. He’d lost weight. His hair was silvered now, twisted back into a long braid. 

Obi-Wan licked dry lips and tried to think of anything to say. “A medic?” was the best he could do, apparently. 

The corner of Qui-Gon’s mouth twitched up in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He picked up one of the bandage packages and tore into it. “Amazing, what skills you’ll pick up on the run. Most people are too grateful to ask questions, even about unlikely recoveries.”

“Ah.” 

Obi-Wan tried not to jump when Qui-Gon started to wrap the bandages around his ribs. It had been such a long time since he’d been touched. He missed Qui-Gon’s hands… 

But Qui-Gon’s motions were brisk, perfunctory. Obi-Wan fought down a pang of grief. He didn’t deserve that comfort from him, anyway. Obi-Wan desperately cast about for another topic. 

“How long have you been working with the Path?” His voice sounded strained, even to him. 

“Separatists had been hunting Force Sensitives already.” Qui-Gon shrugged. “Mostly sentient trafficking, but some had likely suffered a more terrible fate. I still had my old contacts then. When the Republic fell… it was hard going, for a time. A few years later, I started crossing paths with Roken and the Path. Joined forces. It was better than getting in each other’s way.”

Obi-Wan nodded. Mostly, he found himself listening to the cadence of Qui-Gon’s voice, the long-missed timbre of it. There was a bit more brogue to his speech now than Obi-Wan remembered. Maybe that was telling of the years he’d lived more Rimward than Core. 

“I wondered if you would come look for me,” Qui-Gon said into the silence. “I suppose I shouldn’t be terribly surprised you didn’t.”

Obi-Wan stayed still and quiet. He tried to speak as neutrally as possible. “You left,” Obi-Wan said. 

“You didn’t need me,” Qui-Gon growled. 

Obi-Wan rocked back where he sat, feeling like he’d been slapped. Qui-Gon had been well-shielded, but this—the bitter pain in his voice, the anger and the grief—he could’ve been Force-blind and he would’ve still been able to taste it in the air. The feelings had spilled out in a brief, bright flash, like a meteorite catching fire. 

“I have always needed you,” he said. 

“After Rattatak,” Qui-Gon bit out, hurling the words at his feet like the accusation they were. “You shut me out, you—”

Qui-Gon’s eyes flashed with warning, but Obi-Wan had nothing to answer to that anyway, because Qui-Gon was right, of course. He’d shut everyone out. It wasn’t like he’d had much time to deal with the consequences of such a thing. And Qui-Gon had stayed close to him, hovering-but-not, edging around him on tip-toe—

Now he was angry. Like he’d been angry since he’d left the Temple, and carried that with him for the last twelve years. The sight of Qui-Gon Jinn angry was a rare thing. Obi-Wan himself barely had the reserves left for such a feeling. 

Amazing, Obi-Wan thought. After all these years, at least one thing remained consistent. He’d disappointed Qui-Gon after all. 

And yet, here he was; bandaging Obi-Wan’s arm and shoulder even as he ground his teeth. 

“I have always needed you,” Obi-Wan said more softly. “Even when I pushed you away. I’m sorry, for what little it’s worth.” 

Qui-Gon shut his eyes and leaned forward, surprising Obi-Wan when he rested his brow against Obi-Wan’s temple. 

“I thought you dead.”

The words were so quiet, barely a breath, that Obi-Wan felt more than heard them. He turned his head gently into the touch. “I prayed you weren’t.”

“You didn’t look,” Qui-Gon noted. 

There was that bitter edge again, though weakened this time. Obi-Wan smiled, and shook his head. “I had a job to do. I still do.”

A long, low breath spilled from Qui-Gon’s lips. “You awful, infuriating thing,” he whispered. 

Then a hand was on Obi-Wan’s chin, turning and angling his head, and dry lips pressed against his with a fierce desperation—angry and desperate and grieved. The kiss was like nothing he’d ever known—a greeting, a plea, or maybe a curse. One of them bled. 

It was over as quickly as it had begun, and Obi-Wan found himself panting, fingers curled into a well-worn, soft, blue tunic. 

“Qui,” he gasped, “what—”

“I lost you here, on this planet,” Qui-Gon rasped. 

Obi-Wan glanced up at him, found those blue eyes burning into his very soul. 

“I won’t lose you again,” Qui-Gon said, “certainly not here. Wherever you need to go, I’m going with you.” 

Obi-Wan opened his mouth automatically, though every line of Qui-Gon’s body was coiled fierce and ready for a fight. And Obi-Wan was tired of fighting. 

And he missed his bondmate. Twelve years ago, when he’d locked away the mess that was Rattatak, he’d locked away parts of himself with it. He’d done it again, in the middle of the desert, burying his past life with his Padawan’s. 

What a horrible thing to bury, he thought, eyes falling to his hand where it lay over Qui-Gon’s heart. Over the scar that had nearly taken Qui-Gon from him; the reminder of the countless nights that followed as he pulled apart nightmare after nightmare, fear after fear, only to discover that he’d been in love with his Master for years. 

He’d thought that love had withered away, at least on Qui-Gon’s part. That that was why Qui-Gon had left. 

Twelve years later, here they were again. He’d buried something living, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be forgiven for it. 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, all right.”

#quiobi #hurt obi wan #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #yes i did hear 'Jabiim' and decide to go feral what about it #kiss prompts

[the-baddest-of-batches]

Sneak Peek Dar'Aliit: Chapter 2 - The Promises We Break

“I’m going to skin that chakkar alive!” I groan and shove myself onto my elbows. The doctor—Palpatine—turns immediately from his work and hurries across the medbay floor to stop me before I can get up.

I scowl at him.

“Commander, you should not be up,” his face is tight. “You only just got out of bacta treatment and your injuries…” I can feel his eyes trailing to my scarred up arms and chest.

I ignore him and put my feet on the floor anyway. “Forget it.” I’m angry. I’ve been angry for days now, but to unconscious to do anything about it. But I’m not unconscious anymore. Days of bacta treatment and I feel fine. Fine enough to skin a man alive. Specifically Jay, that traitor.

My fist clenches at the very memory of his smirk before he lobbed the first grenade and then my vision flashes to a blank. I blink however, and scan the room, distracted by another though. Myren.

I catch sight of her buttoning up her shirt. She’s sitting over by the other medbay bed and looks, in all honesty, better than me. Even her injuries from the past week have healed.

Exhaling, I am thankful for that. I promised to keep her safe after all.

Myren turns to me and I can feel the heat in my face as I look down. I turn it into a grimace and try to shoulder off Palpatine who stubbornly remains, insisting silently that I do not try to leave.

It’s Myren, though, that rounds the corner and meets me with her calm stare. Her gaze flickers down, and up, and meets my eyes.

“You should lay down, Commander,” she says. “You’re still healing.”

I open my mouth but I know better than to argue. Myren of all the people here knows more about me than anyone. And refusing will only get me blackmailed later.

Defeated, I slink back to the bed and sit down. Palpatine smirks.

“Clones,” he mutters and moves off.

With a roll of my eyes, I lean back. I am sore. But what’s truly sore is my ego, and my pride, and my sense of safety. Jay was one of us. I allowed him into the Winterfang team and like a di’kut it nearly got us all killed.

Myren walks up and sits on the edge of the bed. She stares off into space and I can see that she’s lost faith too. She hugs her elbows tighter to her sides than she ever has before. I lean forward and put my hand on her shoulder.

Myran blinks and looks back. “No getting up,” she insits, and sighs.

“I’m not,” I argue, frowning stiffly, but I do sit cross legged behind her and let my hand rest against her shoulder. “I’ll catch him,” I whisper. “Don’t worry I won’t let Jay—”

“Jay’s dead,” Myren says blank. “Rho took him down with a rocket. The Doctor informed me.”

“What?” I echo and look around. There’s still blast scorches on the floor from the scuffle and the door to the holding cell is damaged, but closed. I lift my hand from Myren’s shoulder and rub the side of my head. How much did I forget? I was close to the blast.

“You were unconscious,” Myren says, putting my mind at ease. “You…saved my life.”

“That’s my job.”

“Thank you.” Myren catches my eye. She smiles and I can see her relax, only slightly. She pulls her knees up onto the bed and turns around so we’re cross-legged facing each other. She sits with far better posture. I smile and slouch forward.

Myren folds her arms and I can’t help but wonder if she’s mocking me slightly, but I realize quickly she’s just afraid to be left exposed. “Commander,” her voice is quiet. “Be careful…please?”

“About?” I tilt my head. Generally, I’m careful. Okay perhaps there are times, moments, and lapses in my caution, but when it comes to Myren, I have to be careful. I cannot afford to break her or harm her in the least. And I won’t let anyone else try either.

Myren unfolds her arms. She rubs at her knuckles. “I mean on missions, and…out there,” she gestures vaguely. Myren does nothing vaguely. Her face is a deep blue.

Leaning forward, I hug her. I’m stiff, and sore, and she’s a bit hesitant, but there’s a comfort in the fact we’re equally awkward, equally afraid, and equally aware of the vulnerability we have the universe, and each other.

“I promised I’d protect you,” I whisper firmly. “I won’t break my word.”

#dar'aliit fanfic #star wars fandom #clone trooper oc #kian and myren #imperial agent #fluff #angst #ao3 fanfic #sneak preview

[blackkatmagic]

Prompt! Mace is stuck in a time loop of evening he fought Palpatine. He’s a little surprised at first at how willing the CG commanders are to help him commit murder, but he appreciates it

Mace is scorched, bleeding heavily, and missing a hand, still out of breath from his last fall before the section of looped time reset, when he staggers in the Coruscant Guard’s main office, then locks the door behind him.

Halfway out of his chair, Fox freezes, eyes widening. “General Windu!” he says sharply, and reaches for his comm. “Thire, go get Medical—”

“Only a Guard medic,” Mace says, and Fox goes still, Thire frozen halfway to his feet on the other side of the room. Mace meets Fox’s narrowing eyes, feeling the wash of suspicion rising, and can't even manage to hide the exhaustion in his voice when he says, “I don’t trust anyone else.”

He’s failed to kill Palpatine four times now. Four betrayals, four falls out the wide window, four times surviving just to watch the Jedi Order fall right alongside the Republic. Exhaustion is the very lightest word for what Mace feels right now.

Fox glances from Mace to the door to the other commanders, then deliberately reaches over, switches off the comm, and engages the privacy lock on the office. “We have an hour before the shift change,” he says.

Stone rises, pushing past Thire, to approach with quick steps. “I've got bacta,” he offers.

The best possible outcome. Mace tries not to stagger as he heads across the office, but he must look bad enough that Thire meets him halfway, grabbing Mace's arm and supporting him right to the empty chair across his desk. It’s a familiar seat, and Mace collapses into it with a sound that might be a groan, tipping his head back. thinks, a little grimly, of how he’s going to get Fox to agree to what he needs help with, but—Fox is the best shot in the Guard, the most fearless man Mace has ever met. If he can't do it, no one can. And all of his commanders are intensely loyal and well-trained and brave. They’re necessary, too.

All Mace needs is to not sound like he’s gone mad for the next hour.

“No caf this time?” he asks, then sets his teeth against a gasp as Fox pulls his robe away from the long, jagged slash that’s sheeting blood down his side. The third fall, Mace thinks. He wasn’t able to stop all of the glass as it fell after him.

There's a pause, careful, and then Fox snorts quietly. “You didn’t even call ahead this time,” he says, and from the tone of his voice Mace might almost believe it’s one of their weekly meetings, nominally to discuss security but more often to drink caf and complain about the idiocy of senators. “Not a Jedi. Don’t expect me to read your mind.” With a quick, ruthless jerk, Fox pulls a shard of glass free, then catches Mace's shoulder before he can do more than cry out and slaps a bacta patch over the spot, sealing the edges.

When the world stops lurching like one of Anakin's crashing ships, Mace opens his eyes, and finds himself pressed face-first to hard plastoid, as red as blood.

“My apologies, Commander,” he manages, though picking up his head feels like rather too much effort right now. “I would have called if I could have.”

Above him, there’s a quiet breath, and Stone sets a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” he says quietly. “What happened to you?”

Fox’s hand curls around the back of his skull, holding him carefully in place, and—after three years of war, trooper armor feels like safety. Even seeing what the 501st was forced to do, all Mace can feel right now is a deep, desperate sense of shelter, like finally finding a light in a storm.

“We’ll murder them for you,” Thire says on Mace's other side, conversational and easy, like it’s the predetermined outcome, without question and entirely within their ability. “Just give us the name, General.”

Mace opens his eyes, staring at red and white plastoid, and takes a breath. “The Sith Lord,” he says. “I found him.”

Fox’s indrawn breath is a vicious hiss. “Thire,” he says without hesitation. “Those slugthrowers we seized the other day, in the lockup, and the ammunition—”

“On it,” Thire says grimly, and then he’s gone, across the office and into another room. Fox himself doesn’t move, and Stone’s hand curls more tightly around Mace's shoulder, holding him steady.

“General Windu,” Fox says, quiet. “Just give us the name and we’ll take care of it.”

They will, Mace thinks, and it’s almost astonishing. Within ten seconds, Fox had a plan, and that’s—well. Precisely why this is where Mace came when he’d run through all other options and was on the verge of collapse.

“I need to come,” he says, though when he goes to lever himself to his feet, Stone gently pushes him back down. “You may hesitate, and I need to guard you if you do. He’s powerful—”

“Hesitate,” Fox repeats, frowning. He glances up as Thire returns, carrying two locked boxes. “Why the kriff would we hesitate? He’s a Sith Lord. He did this to you. He’s the one behind this whole karking war.”

Right. The difficult part. Mace takes a breath, carefully pushing himself upright, and says, “His identity. You might think I'm lying.”

There's a pause, and then Thire snorts, thumping the boxes down on top of Fox’s desk. “With all due respect, sir,” he says. “I can't even pictureyou lying to a clone.”

Stone makes a sound of quiet amusement. “What he said.”

Mace glances up, meets Fox’s eyes. “I'm going to ask you to help me murder someone very important and highly-placed,” he say quietly. “With no proof but my word.”

“And your injuries,” Fox says ruthlessly, though his hand is careful on Mace's throat. Mace should likely be thinking of troopers in the Temple, executing children, but all he can picture is Ponds on his left, Razor on his right, Stak asleep against his knees in front of the fire. It makes him close his eyes again for just a second, leaning into Fox’s touch.

“It’s Chancellor Palpatine,” he says clearly, as steadily as he’s able to. “Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith Lord. I need your help to kill him.”

There's one beat of stunned, frozen silence. Then, careful, Thire clears his throat. “You want us to kill the Supreme Chancellor?” he asks.

“Yes,” Mace says, and when he sits back, all three commanders are staring at him. Something in his chest sinks, grim and resigned. “I can't—”

“Thire, get those damn boxes open,” Fox orders. “Stone, we need some kind of distraction. Grab some detonators.”

“Sir yes sir,” Stone says, and scrambles to obey as Thire lunges for the lock boxes. “That rotary blaster—”

“No blasters, just slugs,” Fox says firmly. “General Windu, if he sees you—”

“He won't remember my attempt to kill him,” Mace says automatically, though he can't quite get his brain to click over and accept that he can see in front of him. “I—Commanders—”

“No backing out!” Thire says over his shoulder. “It came from a Jedi, it’s an order, just let us do it this one time—”

“No take-backs,” Stone agrees, dumping a bandolier full of grenades over his head and settling it quickly. He also grabs for a very large vibrosword that’s leaning against the wall. “Even if you’re wrong, sir, we’d better just check, right?”

Fox snorts, and as soon as Thire gets the box open, he reaches for one of the slugthrowers. “Call it a birthday present,” he agrees, and glances at Mace, considering. “Sir, if you stay here—”

“I'm not staying,” Mace says firmly, and pushes to his feet, just managing to catch himself as he sways. “Use me as a distraction. Put me in cuffs and tell Palpatine that you found me trying to sabotage the power grid.”

That, of all things, makes Fox hesitate, but after a moment he nods. “After that, we’re taking you somewhere secure and dumping you into the softest bed I can find,” he promises. “Sir.”

Mace won't object. He might even drag the three of them down with him, just for that little bit of extra safety. If they manage to kill Sidious, they’ll all deserve every bit of rest and safety they can get.

[On AO3]

#drunk drabble fills #my writing #macethirefoxstone #mace windu #commander thire #commander fox #commander stone #star wars

[zinzinina]

Miss Samantha, I have a question about Delta Squad: How do you think each of them handle being away from their partner for a while? This can be NSFW or SFW, either way, I'm just waiting to get the game and i'm curious. 😌💕

Elizardbeth, my absolute beloved! Thank you so much for asking! Fair warning; things did get a little bit angsty with our favourite emo man Sev x

Pairing: Boss x F!Reader, Fixer x F!Reader, Scorch x F!Reader, Sev x F!Reader Word Count: 2.5k Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: Some mentions of PIV, oral sex (f receiving), comm sex, canon-typical violence

Not tagging anybody because I’m not sure who would actually be interested in this one

Boss

Boss will never admit aloud how much he hates being away from you

Not because he’s afraid the boys will think he’s gone soft — it’s far too late for that anyway, they all saw him getting misty-eyed over your Holopic — but because it’s his job to keep everyone else moving forward

It wouldn’t do for tough, no-nonsense Boss to suddenly start dragging his heels every time they need to head out on another hellish, ugly job wading through knee-deep muck, blasters jammed with bug shit

So he designates time between missions to comm you, and Maker help anyone in the squad if they interrupt

Everyone knows exactly what it means when he barricades himself in the server compartment

The line connects just as he’s shutting the doors, grizzling at someone (probably Scorch, let’s be honest) to “quit fucking around and get some bacta on that”

The switch in his voice is immediate; straight from gruff to gentle as his frown dissolves into softness at the sight of your face

“Are you keeping well, ad’ika?”

He gives you no indication of what’s been happening or where he is, not wanting you to worry

If there’s fresh scoring or blood on his armour, he doesn’t comment on it and neither do you

He wants to hear all about your day, demanding every bland little detail, concerned when you mention the minor disagreement you had at work or the broken appliance in your apartment

The only time he’s ever stern with you is when he hears that you’ve been working late and skipping dinner to finish up at work — telling you that you need your rest, and to eat properly; that while he’s not there, you need to take better care of yourself

It sometimes feels darkly funny to you; calmly telling him about your quiet, domestic frustrations when he’s been spending the past day inches from death, his voice still rasping hoarse through the connection from shouting

It’s like you’re both playacting — pretending at a normality that doesn’t really exist

But then there are some calls with Boss that turn out very differently

You answer from your bed, flat on your back as you blink shyly up at him

He curses low at the sight of you in that outfit; the one that rendered him speechless the first time he saw you wearing it

“All this just for me, mesh’la?”

You respond sweetly, tilting your device down lower to show him the way you’re laying, your knees bent, legs spread just so on the bed

And then he’s issuing instructions, low but direct

“I want you to lift that skirt up for me. That’s it, cyar’ika… Good girl. Shab, you look so pretty. Suck those fingers… use your tongue — yes, suck both of them… maybe even a third. Get them nice and wet. Now, pretty girl. Show me how much you miss me.”

Fixer

After the first week passed by without you hearing from Fixer, you were worried something had happened

You’d scoured every Holonet report you could find about the sieges in the Outer Rim, terrified of what you’d learn

Only to read that things were going really well, actually: no major loss of Republic assets, only minor casualties… overall, very quiet

Yet still you heard nothing, your transmissions left unanswered

Then a second week goes by, and a sad, bitter kernel of self-doubt creeps in

Maybe he’s talking to someone else. Maybe you weren’t the only person he was seeing; maybe you completely misread what the two of you had together. You feel like an idiot, and you walk around, heartsore and paper-fragile for several days

But by the end of the third week, you’re angry

How busy could he really be? He can’t take five minutes to send you a quick message, just to let you know he’s safe? They have the time to eat and sleep; surely he’s thought about you at least once in those moments of rest?

Your righteous indignation bolsters you through the remainder of his time away, and you’re almost able to think about him without tears prickling your eyes when the transmission comes through

“Campaign successful. Returning in 33h. standard.”

You stare at your datapad, reading and rereading the short, brusque message several times

How dare he? The sheer audacity! You begin typing at furious speed; unleashing the most scathing, stripping message you can muster

But once it’s done, you falter, your thumb hovering over the ‘Send’ for just a moment too long. No matter how loudly you internally yell at yourself, you just can’t bring yourself to do it

You tell yourself you’ll just save your acid to tell him in person

You’re checking yourself over in the mirror one last time before you open the door; grimly satisfied with how incredible you look. He’s going to be so sorry, you think

Your door slides up with a little blip, and there he is: helmet under his arm, armour scuffed and scratched but clean from dirt

He has heavy pockets of tiredness underneath his eyes, and before you can gather your anger, you find yourself saying something else

“You look tired.”

He blinks, his tone matter of fact. “I haven’t slept yet. I came straight here from the debriefing.”

Then he’s stepping over the threshold, his lips meeting yours with a desperation approaching starvation and every ounce of fury dissolves as you remember just how badly you’ve missed him

You barely make it to the bed before his lips are closing over your clit, sucking messily at you as he detaches his codpiece, too hurried to bother with the rest of his armour before he’s driving himself home inside you

Afterwards, laying sweaty and panting beside him, you find your voice again, small with emotion

“I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

He glances at you quizzically. “We aren’t supposed to use the network for personal transmissions. It is against the regulation guidelines. But…” he slides his gauntlet off, turning it to show you the inside. There, burned into that prized, elite-class, highly valuable Katarn armour, are your initials above rows of tally marks, one for every day he’d been away

“I… suppose I’ve already broken regulations.”

Scorch

Scorch sends you a hundred and fifty transmissions a day

That isn’t an exaggeration

And they’re frequently the most inane, pointless messages you’ve ever received in your life

“polystarch rations again, wish i was eatin u out instead babe lol but fr”

“miss u”

“left one of boss’s socks in sev’s bucket, smells like shit, he’s gonna lose it when he finds out”

“love you babe”

“when i get back can we get fried nuna again like last time? i’m SO HUNGRY”

“saw a mynock nest full of babies today, u would have loved it”

“what u doin”

“sev says hi”

Occasionally he sends pictures: a pile of Geonosian boulders accompanied by the caption “u make me rock hard“ or his yellow-gauntleted hand offering a thumbs up in front of a pile of tangled explosive wires, Fixer squinting blurrily at the camera in the background

Frankly it’s reassuring; feeling his constant presence on your wrist comm at work, waiting alone at your favourite Abednedo takeout place for your order to be called, laying across the sofa with a Holodrama playing, sending him live updates on the plot (Scorch has an extreme addiction to the cheesiest Holodramas and asks about every twist in detail, bemoaning Nak Pama’s decision to take Reevo back again after that cheating scandal with her secret identical twin two weeks ago, and does Dibu’a know yet who the fertiliser of his eggs turned out to be?)

Whenever it’s been a few hours without hearing from him, you know it means he’s mid-mission

You try your hardest not to worry about him, but your heart swoops with relief as soon as you see the alert light up; “blew up a bug nest! it was sick! wyd babe?”

Scorch is a prolific taker of dick pics

Sometimes you’re bewildered with trying to figure out how he took the picture, like the one of him with one hand wrapped around his blaster, the other around his cock

He does try to make them artful, though it’s a little hard when he’s shut in a tiny, harshly-lit military ‘fresher. He’s tried every angle he can manage, and most of them fill you with affectionate enthusiasm, humouring him with your responses

But then one day he sends you a short recording of himself, his fist loosely pumping his length, his voice close enough to the recording that the harshness of his grunts make you shiver delicately

His breathing roughens as his grip tightens, his hips bucking into his hand as he gets closer… then, when he spills into his fist, you swear your heart skips a beat

You watch it ten times, listening to him babbling your name and trying to keep quiet. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, and you writhe on your bed, getting yourself off to the recording again and again, your comm device inches from your face

So you decide — fuck it, you’ll send one of your own

In it, you whisper to him how many times you’ve watched his message; how hard you came when listening to him, and all the filthy, deranged things you want to do to him — or have him to do to you when he gets back

His reply pings through: “!!!!!!!!”

Sev

Sev struggles the most with being away from you. Like, really, really struggles

He becomes withdrawn and moody — even more so than usual

Sev’s abandonment issues follow him around like a cloud, and he has to remind himself every day how much you love him, how you promised to wait for him for however long it’ll take for him to get back, that you won’t move on while he’s kept away from you

He’s conscious of his own clingy tendencies, which is why he has a self-imposed limit — one transmission a night, otherwise he knows he’d never be able to focus on getting any work done

He’s not able to relax into tasks like Scorch does; his focus needs to be all or nothing

So he throws himself headlong into the absolute worst of their jobs, knowing that the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can get back to the ship to await further instructions

Sev’s nights are spent hunched in his bunk, expression unfocused

If anybody asks what he’s doing, he growls a response that’s sure to keep his brothers at a distance. “Daydreamin’ about Trandoshan anatomy. Reckon if you rip the head off just right, the whole spine’ll come out clean.”

Scorch makes a performance of retching. “Fuck, Sev! Stay over on your side of the cabin, you creep.”

Which does the trick nicely, because now he’s free to take the ribbon of fabric out from where it’s hidden inside his armour. The smell of your perfume has faded, but if he crushes it to his face hard enough he can still conjure the image of you standing in front of your dresser, half-dressed and soft-eyed as you apply the fragrance to the secret places between your breasts and behind your knees

When he composes his transmissions, Sev writes to you in poetry

He knows he’s not as artistic or expressive as he’d like to be; he can never quite get the depth of his feelings out into the right syllables and it always seems somewhat pale in comparison to what he really wants to say, but he pours his heart out nonetheless

He tells you about the wasteland of ugliness surrrounding him; waking to worn durasteel walls, walking through crumbled ruins spattered with the remains of their enemies, the red soil of Geonosis staining the treads of his boots with all the blood ever spilled into that hellish dust. He tells you that it’s difficult to believe this much horror exists in the same galaxy as you; that just on the other side of a hyperlane you’re waking up, singing quietly to yourself in the ‘fresher, raising your beautiful face up to the warmth of the spray

He tells you about his dreams: the surreal, confusing one about a family of purrgil growing large enough to swallow moons, the one about you stretched out on your bed, your nails digging into the muscles of his back as your breasts bounce against his chest with every thrust… and the bad ones, too

The one about his body suddenly being taken from his control; he raises his blaster and shoots at a figure he can’t see, even though his mind screams at him to stop. Or the one about Scorch not moving out of the way fast enough; Sev’s limbs heavy and thick as syrup in that way unique to dreams, unable to prevent his little brother’s body being ripped in two

He writes to tell you that you’re with him every moment of every day. He sees you in the brilliance of the suns overhead, and in the azure opalescence of the mineral dust he finds in his gloves at the end of the day

And at the end of every transmission: “Wait for me, my love. Please keep waiting for me. I’ll always come back to you.”

#delta squad x reader #delta squad #repcomm #republic commando fanfiction #clone commando sev #clone commando scorch #clone commando boss #clone commando fixer #sev x f!reader #scorch x f!reader #fixer x f!reader #boss x f!reader #delta squad headcanons #delta squad x you

[wanderinginksplot]

One-Shot: Sev + Motto

Sev x gn!reader fic, features the rest of Delta Squad as supporting characters.

Word Count: 1400 or so

Warnings: reader receives minor injuries (burns) on a mission

---

"Play di’kutla games, win di’kutla prizes."

If you had heard Sev say it once, you had heard him say it a thousand times.

Working with Delta Squad was normally fine. Honestly, it was outright entertaining on a regular basis. As an expert in untraceable comms, you were often partnered with commando squads. Infiltrating enemy planets was a norm in your job, and you made sure the squads could communicate with each other and nearby GAR ships regardless of which side controlled the planetside communications systems.

Delta was one of your favorite groups. Fixer was direct and to-the-point, efficient beyond all else. Scorch was side-splittingly funny, even in the middle of an intense battle. Sev was funny as well, though his humor was darker and full of wickedly clever observations. Boss was a natural leader, and he never felt the need to throw his authority around to make a point. More importantly, Delta Squad accepted you as one of their own, and your work with them was seamless in a way it wasn’t among other commando squads.

Of course, that also meant that you were subject to the same treatment as any other member of Delta Squad.

“Watch your fingers!” Fixer warned. “Heat gloves are standard issue for a reason.”

“Does it look like I have time to put on gloves?” you demanded. “Focus on covering me, and I’ll get this done.”

Two minutes, forty-seven seconds later, you had finished setting up the tower and taken a major step toward establishing communications on the Separatist-controlled planet. You would never admit it to Fixer, but you had thoroughly burnt several of your fingers on the superheated durasteel of the communication diverter’s inner core.

Crawling back through the brush to avoid enemy detection was awful. It may not have been so bad, but the burns were scattered across both of your hands and they were already beginning to blister.

You made it back in good time, despite the injuries you were trying to hide. Boss and Scorch had been the other team, going to plant detonators in the appropriate spots. Despite the comparative complexity of your task, you and Fixer were the first ones back. Sev was there to greet you, scowling at the pair of you.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

“Excuse me, are we not the first team to finish?” you asked, satisfaction clear in your voice.

“Yeah, but if you had been faster, we would have an update on Boss and Scorch by now,” Sev countered. “You know how Scorch gets around too many thermal dets. He may have blown himself up by now and we missed it.”

“Considering how many detonators he had, I’m sure we would have seen the explosion from here,” Fixer told him.

You laughed at the solid point - half because Fixer was funny when he wanted to be and half to release the anxiety and adrenaline of a successfully completed stealth mission.

Fixer leveled an unimpressed look at you. “Besides, some of us could spend this time treating the injuries we’re trying to hide.”

“You got hurt?” Sev asked, frowning at you. From any other squad, it might have sounded like concern, but you immediately spotted it for what it was: a vague irritated belief that you would slow them down.

"Barely," you snorted. "Minor burns, nothing to worry about."

"Until the blisters pop and leave you open to infection," Fixed countered, already taking over the observation post Sev had been manning. "Oh-Seven, take care of it, please? I'm not up to playing medic right now."

"Oh, so I have to?" Sev griped.

You stood up, throwing a look of disgust at the pair. "I think I'll patch myself up, thanks."

You had barely cracked open Delta Squad's first aid kit when heavy footsteps warned that someone had followed you. You ignored Sev's red-streaked armor as he stepped up behind you, focusing instead on spreading bacta gel across the tender burns on your hands.

"Here, just- Would you let me do that?" Sev asked impatiently, taking the gel from your hands.

"I could do it myself," you told him, a little pointlessly, since he had already taken over.

"I know you could, but it'll be faster if you let me."

Sev had removed his helmet, and he had the stubborn set to his jaw that warned that he wasn't going to let this go. Rather than waste both of your time, you rolled your eyes and stuck out your hands. He knelt in front of you, the kit open beside him, and started to apply the bacta gel.

He worked in silence for a few minutes, callused fingers oddly gentle against your skin, until you couldn't take it anymore. "Go ahead, say it."

"Say what?" Sev asked, looking up at you with a frown on his scarred face.

"What you always say," you explained with a frown of your own. "Come on, it's basically your motto."

"I don't have a motto," Sev told you slowly. "I'm not some idiot with a motto. I'm not Scorch."

"Okay, but you can't think of a single phrase you repeat often?" You pressed. "Especially when someone gets hurt doing something you think is stupid?"

"Not really," Sev denied, clearly puzzling it over.

You watched him, aghast at the idea that you had been making up his insulting phrase. As he turned his attention back to your burns, you caught a glimmer in his eye and you nudged him with your foot.

"That's not funny, Sev!" you tried your best to sound furious, but the way you were laughing detracted from the effect. Sev chuckled along with you. "I thought I was going insane!"

"I wouldn't say it to you," Sev said, finishing the last bandage.

You stared at him. "Yeah, of course not. It isn't like you've said it to me multiple times in past missions."

"Well, those, you actually had done something stupid and you got what you deserved," he told you mercilessly. "But this time, you got hurt trying to complete a mission."

"Yeah, but I wasn't wearing the proper gear," you countered.

Sev didn't look impressed, picking up one of your carefully bandaged hands as he spoke. "I know burns, and heat gloves wouldn't have saved you here. Maybe the burns would have been less intense, but we would also be picking melted synthweave out of your hands."

You squeezed Sev's hand since it was still wrapped around your own. "Thanks for making me feel better, Sev, and for taking care of my hands."

"Well, I have to make sure my favorite comm specialist is willing to work with us again," Sev told you, helping you to your feet.

You had never taken a step away, and from your position standing close to Sev, you stared up with a dumb grin spreading across your face. "I'm your favorite comm specialist?"

"You're my favorite anything specialist," he told you and you beamed at him. To your complete shock, he returned your smile, his handsome face glowing with the quiet happiness of the moment.

You began to speak, though you had no idea what you planned to say. Unfortunately - or fortunately - you were interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Boss and Scorch. Delta Squad's leader was supporting Scorch, who limped along making exaggerated noises of pain.

"Scorch, what happened? Are you okay?" you asked, horrified that he had been hurt.

"I didn't bring enough fuse," Scorch answered, immediately dropping his pained attitude - though his limp didn't change a bit. "Had to run from the site and I twisted my ankle."

"Well, play di'kutla games, win di'kutla prizes," Sev told him sourly as you shot him a disbelieving grin.

"Yeah, yeah," Scorch muttered. "This team doesn't appreciate my talents."

"Talents," Fixed scoffed.

"Of course!" Scorch replied, sounding offended. "It takes talent to get hurt this often and not die."

"The Kaminoans may have bred us for tenacity, but I don't think that's what they had in mind," Boss told him. "There's something to be said for learning from your mistakes."

"Isn't anyone on my side?" Scorch complained, eyeing you pointedly.

You sighed, but threw him some sympathy anyway. "I'm on your side, Scorch. I'm glad you're okay."

Fixer cut short Scorch's gloating. "That's only because you weren't the only one who was injured doing something stupid today."

Scorch gave you a commiserating nod. "Did Sev give you the speech, too?"

You glanced up at Sev. The scarred commando was watching you as he tried to bite back a smile. You shot him a subtle wink and said, "Yeah, something like that."

---

A/N - dedicated to myself, because I say "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes" way too often for someone who is usually the one playing the stupid game. Feel free to visit my masterlist for other one-shots and series, or make a request!

#star wars #star wars fic #star wars prequels #star wars republic commando #star wars the clone wars #prequel era #sw fic #sw fanfic #republic commando sev #clone commando sev #sev x reader #sev x you #republic commando fixer #fixer #republic commando boss #sergeant boss #boss #clone commando scorch #republic commando scorch #scorch

[vodika-vibes]

That sounded like such a Jedi way for Rynn to get hurt—

Right? Fixer's just like, "Why do I love you again?" And then Rynn, like, kisses him or smiles at him, and he just melts and remembers exactly why he loves her so much.

@moonwrecked

Boss folds his arms tightly around Rynn, burying his face in her hair. She still smells like bacta, but it doesn't bother him. Because under the scent of bacta, is still the scent of Rynn. He brushes his hair off the back of her neck and presses his nose against her skin, taking a moment to press a light kiss. She moves, and twines her fingers with his, "You're affectionate this evening." "Mm, I missed you." She tries to shift to face him, but he tightens his grip around her, and she releases a huff of annoyance. "You're not going to let me kiss you?" "Mm, you're hurt. People who are hurt don't get kisses." Boss presses a light kiss to the side of her neck, a small grin on his lips. "Scorch kissed me." "I'll just have to talk to him." "Mean." Rynn pouts, "Just a little kiss?" She asks as she manages to twist so she's able to look at him. "Please?" Boss favors her with the smallest smile, and he leans in to brush her lips with his own, before he drops a kiss to her cheek, "Sorry, cyare. Maybe when you're healed."

#star wars #star wars au #competent jedi au

[dottiechan]

ICEBREAKER Pt. 7

Read on AO3 (link in bio)

Part 1 | Part 2&3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader x Hunter

Wordcount: 2325

Summary: Bracca is nothing more than a blur. But in the midst of this chaos, there are flashbulb memories, vivid snapshots of moments that will be etched into your mind for the rest of your life.

Warnings: cursing, anxiety, injuries

You're sitting in the corner, mute. Everyone is tired, exhausted beyond belief in the belly of a rusting Republic warship, decommissioned just like you should be. You're all waste, fighting for scraps of individuality in a world that only values witless cooperation. Tech once called the Empire "the very death of critical thinking," and you wonder if he meant it literally. If he meant himself too, and his army of identical brothers, those ticking time bombs with switches sewn inside their heads. If he meant Wrecker grabbing him by the throat before trying to kill you. If he meant Crosshair's blind obedience to an Empire that could never love him back as you do.

Your hand glides over your tender arm, and you wince. You will be bruised, the imprint of Wrecker's hand will bloom purple on your skin, like a strange flower. Your back will be painted blue and black and purple too from where it kissed the ground after he threw you across the med bay. You don't know how many times you will be traumatised before you can find some semblance of peace in this godforsaken Galaxy.

And when you look at Omega - sweet Omega, struggling not to fall asleep, holding Wrecker's hand, hoping the man who tried to kill her a mere hour ago would wake - you somehow manage to feel even worse.

...

It takes time, for them all to undergo surgery. You look at their shaved heads, their confused faces as they look around. They won their own freedom, fought for it too. You want to imagine him here too, in the middle of this quiet victory over the unconscious, silver hair shaved on one side, shaking fingers placing a toothpick between soft lips, uncertain eyes searching for yours amongst his brothers. You want Wrecker to put an arm around those sinewy shoulders only to evoke a scowl on that beloved face.

Wrecker gazes back at you sadly when he notices you staring.

"On your feet, soldier," Hunter extends a hand to you with a small smile on his face. But you know him well enough now, and you see through his façade. You know just how shaken he is, shaken down to his very core. You take his hand and let him help you up. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me."

"You know that's not something I can do."

"I'm fine, I promise. Completely functional. I'm not the one who's just had surgery," you tut gently, taking his bandana from him when he tries to put it back over the bandage on his head. You're as careful as you can be, ignoring the stabbing ache in your arm as you fix Hunter up, gently brushing his short pieces of hair in the front back over the red fabric once you're finished tying a knot. "There. Good as new."

He catches your hands before you could withdraw them, and upon realising that most are distracted by Rex's and Echo's conversation, he holds them to his heart for a little while. His forehead comes to rest against yours gently, but at first you're not sure if he meant to do that, or if he just bowed under the great weight on his shoulders. But his eyes are searching your face now, and his breath ebbs and flows in harmony with yours. You've seen many soldiers do this before, brothers sharing a peaceful moment together before facing death on the battlefield. The Mandalorians call this a Keldabe kiss. But in his mind, Hunter just simply calls it arriving home.

"We'll be okay," you swallow thickly when he pulls back, placing a hand on the side of his face.

"We'll be okay," Hunter echoes, pressing his cheek into your palm, but if there's anything he's learned today, it's that he can never truly be sure of that.

...

"This is it, boys."

Rex almost looks reluctant, as if being around the Bad Batch has rekindled fond memories he's not eager to part with. This used to be his life, being surrounded by his brothers, saving the day. And while he feels satisfied, this victory leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he realises that in the grand scheme of things, he's barely changed anything. One family saved, but countless others lost. Like his own brothers, for instance; his own stupid, stubborn, loyal brothers, buried on a bare rock of a moon. Their loss left a hole in his chest bigger than the crater their crashed ship indented on the planet surface, and saving your squad is like a bandaid over a blaster shot to the heart.

He allows his gaze to linger on Echo for a while, the last man he's known well to survive, the last nail in the coffin of his grief. He looks so different now, and yet for a moment he expects Fives to materialise behind him. Dominos attached at the hip, his very own double trouble, the dual curse that followed him everywhere. He used to grumble about how they behaved all the time. But he loved them, he loved his little brothers with all his heart. And look where that love got them.

Fives is not here, of course. Rex never dared ask where they buried him. He's heard rumours of unmarked clone mass graves, but he was never brave enough to accept that truth. That's why he and Ahsoka buried their own dead with dignity, marking an extra grave along the rest, empty but reserved still.

His gaze finds you then, eventually. The only one who isn't a clone here in this rusting medbay, the sore thumb sticking out, the lost one with sad eyes who's seen too much for a civvie. He saw the way Hunter held onto you just now, how you shared a quiet moment in the corner when you thought no one was watching. He promised himself he would do this for Fives, that he would tell you if he ever saw you again that he talked about you even months after that one night at 79's. That he called you the one that got away, that he jokingly said he was saving himself for after the war when he could ask you to marry him. Fives was always full of shit, and no doubt half of what he said were just jokes, but he knows he cared about you still. It's apparent that you're a remarkable person, easy to grow attached to, but twice as difficult to forget.

He wants to do this for Fives. He wants to tell you, he wants you to know that the man who ultimately saved the ones you love loved you in turn. But you already seem like you've been through enough and he hasn't the heart to put you through this as well.

You catch him looking at you, and you muster a small, tired smile. "Take care, Captain."

"Ma'am."

I'm sorry, Fives, he keeps repeating over and over in his head as he turns to leave.

...

The deck is about to collapse. It is the only way you even have a slight chance of survival, you know that. And yet you feel stuck in this very moment, unable to move, deer in the headlights, shaking from head to toe.

The squad is whole again.

You'd like to believe you wouldn't know what would happen if you approached him, if you tried to pry his helmet off and look into his eyes. You'd like to believe he'd let you, you'd like to believe he would listen to your pleas, that he would stop this madness. Order his troops to stand down. Come home with you.

You'd like to believe. But all you can think about is Wrecker, out of his mind and yet still so terrifyingly present somehow, grabbing Tech by the throat and throwing him against the wall before coming for you.

And you know Crosshair would gun you down without hesitation.

"Crosshair... Please don't do this. We can help you." The plea escapes your lips before you could stop it, however. Crosshair tilts his head towards you, and even though you can't see his gaze, just knowing that his eyes are on you is like being struck by lightning. How long was it since you last saw him? How long was it since he last gazed at you, and you at him? He seems almost as frozen for a moment as you, and you allow yourself to believe he's still in there, raging against the control of the Empire. You don't know what it was that you two shared back on Hoth, but you know it meant something. It had to. And judging by his consideration, and the hesitant way he shuffles a step closer to you, you know he must remember too.

But he moved too quickly for Hunter's liking, and he's by your side, trying to shield you as much as he shields Omega. Whatever moment you and Crosshair just shared is over. You can tell, by the tightening of his shoulders, by his stance turning defensive once more. You got through to the real Crosshair for a second. But the menace - like some demon possessing his body - is back in control once again.

"Crosshair, wake up! You're being controlled by an inhibitor chip." Hunter's reasoning falls on deaf ears now. It is over. You should accept it, but you can't. But at least you're not the only one who can't admit defeat.

"He's telling the truth. The Kaminoans put chips in all the clones. Remember what I told you in the brig?"

After Omega's spoken up, a stretch of silent tension follows. You're all nervous, weapons aimed, caught in a death trap with no way out but down. And yet you're holding on, you're still holding on to that last shred of hope that your words will finally get through to him. That you can finally put down the cross you've been bearing and rest.

"Aim for the kid."

You don't know how many times you can be traumatised before you finally give in. But you make room for one more, and the day is far from being over yet.

...

You're going to be sick, but you know you can't be. You've treated a thousand gruesome injuries before, but somehow a partial blaster burn to the chest will be your final straw, you can already tell. You gingerly lay the bacta patch across the scorched patch skin and flesh as your fingers tremble like a new recruit's. The internal damage was thankfully minimalised by his armour, but this is still going to take some time to heal from.

You don't know how long it will take for you all to heal from leaving Crosshair behind once more. From losing Omega.

When your breathing starts bordering on frantic, Tech nudges you aside and takes over, but you can't leave. You sit on the edge of the cot, and clutch Hunter's hand in your clammy ones. You can't lose anyone else, you can't, you heart wouldn't take it.

When he finally comes around again, the look in his eyes are so hurt you finally give in to the urge to cry.

"I guess I can't hold the mission on Bracca against you anymore," Hunter rasps through his pain, trying to ignore how choked up and panicked the thought of losing Omega makes him.

"No, you really can't," you agree quietly, wiping at your eyes as you try not to let your anxiety get the better of you. Not when you're supposed to be Hunter's comfort, when you're supposed to reassure him.

"This is the only thing I ever want to wake up to," he whispers, a weak hand reaching up, longing touch ghosting along your features. He's dying a little inside every time he fails, swallowing the shards of every heart he breaks as atonement. They're jarring his insides, leaving him breathless every time he moves. And yet he keeps pushing on, even now, even when he feels worse than he's ever felt - all because of you. You're his only remedy in this fucked up world, the only person who still makes him believe there can be a happy ending for you all. He loves his brothers, but they're just as guilty and cynical as he is. He understands why he can't pin all his hopes on a child, but for some reason, he can't make the same exception for you. His voice is quiet, but it's obvious his head is clear when he speaks next.

"Cyare."

A little to the side, Tech finishes checking the medical scans for the last time. Hunter's condition has been stabilised, and for now, all he can do is look into the bounty hunter who took Omega. He casts one last look at you and Hunter, hand in hand, eyes glued to each other's face, and he sighs.

"How's Hunter?"

"He'll live," Tech answers, placing a hand on Echo's shoulder. "We've been through a lot over a rather short period of time. I think they've earned a moment of peace alone though, wouldn't you agree?"

Echo's face rarely reflects the emotions inside him, but now an endless kind of sadness perches itself on his features as he nods and follows Tech to the cockpit.

"They deserve a lot more than that. Hell, we all do."

...

Crosshair would agree with that sentiment now as he's patched up at the medbay of an Imperial flagship, alone aside from the medical droids. His head is killing him, his thoughts are sluggish, but the pain in his chest is not only from his injuries. He keeps remembering you, over and over again, your beautiful face, the way you said his name as if he mattered, as if he still belonged to you. And you left him behind anyways again.

If he heard Tech's and Echo's conversation now, he'd agree. He deserves better too.

#dottiechan writes #hunter x reader x crosshair #hunter x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb x you #tbb x reader #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch x you #the bad batch x reader #tbb hunter #tbb crosshair

[shatouto]

@obiwanobi allowed me to write a sequel to this lovely raised-as-sith!anakin and jedi!obi-wan fic!! pls enjoy this tiny little 1.3k of hurt/comfort

content warning: description of injuries

capable de deux

The standard clock strikes half past midnight.

Obi-Wan sets the basin on the floor. The man who is no longer Vader sits against the wall like a broken doll, one arm bent in a sickening angle, hands lying palm-up and unclenched between half-crossed legs. He’s not uncooperative, just limp, when Obi-Wan lifts his hands or turns his shoulder to remove the broken armor pieces. He’s not unresponsive, just lackluster, when Obi-Wan decides that the clothes are too mangled to salvage anyway and announces it to him in a murmur. He’s not unfeeling, just very, very quiet. Worryingly quiet.

In the shadow of Anakin’s silence, the only light that comes through is his eyes. Obi-Wan feels Anakin’s gaze like a physical thing, following his every movement in weary wariness as the scissors slowly snips their way along the seams. It’s borderline suffocating, how the air is so thoroughly silent that Obi-Wan can hear exactly how shallow Anakin’s breathing is. He sets all of the blood-soaked scrap fabric aside and dips a cloth in lukewarm water. He meets Anakin’s eyes, before wiping a streak down his front.

Anakin’s body is littered with scars; if there is a patch of unmarred skin left amidst the glossy criss-crossing, it would be dark with bruises. So many scars for someone so young, Obi-Wan catches himself thinking, frowning deeply - because Anakin is young, younger now than any other time Obi-Wan has glimpsed him outside of his distinct helmet. Young enough to be a Padawan, even, had the Jedi found him before the Sith. Obi-Wan sighs.

A deep cauterized gash runs from the tip of Anakin’s shoulder to the middle of his chest, and a fresh burn spreads from his heart to diaphragm, all of which Obi-Wan quickly covers with bacta patches before cleaning the rest. The blaster shot wounds are a more pressing concern, as they are still bleeding. He bites his lip in commiseration, nearly holding his breath as he cleans the too-tender flesh as gently as he can. His lineage does not have a gift for the art of healing, and Anakin’s shields are still rammed up high and tight, so Obi-Wan opts to monitor Anakin’s reactions for any sign of sudden pain.

Anakin doesn’t make a single sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. If it isn’t for his breathing sometimes hitching, Obi-Wan would have thought that Anakin is entirely numb - which would have been worrying. Whenever he glances up to Anakin’s face, their gazes touch; Anakin’s eyes train on his face rather on his moving hands, not alert, but not aimless either.

Water darkens in the basin. Obi-Wan has changed it for a third time, and is on his second washcloth. There is so much blood it’s a miracle that Anakin has made it this far, has dragged himself into the Jedi Temple without getting caught. Obi-Wan works his way down to the slippery patch on Anakin’s thigh, which turns out to be a wound that he can’t - and doesn’t want to - even begin to guess the cause: Raw burnt flesh just ripe for infection on the edge of a gaping cavity still oozing blood.

He whispers an apology as he has done for every touch, dabbing the cloth at the least damaged edge of the wound. This is by far the nastiest wound he’s seen, and Obi-Wan raises his gaze, worried that this might be where Anakin breaks.

Anakin doesn’t.

And somehow it’s even more disquieting.

“You can’t feel it?” Obi-Wan breaks the silence.

Anakin finally blinks at him. Even the confusion is better than the utterly blank look he has been sporting.

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief, short-lived though it is. “Your injuries?” He specifies.

Anakin cocks his head a bit - almost cute, Obi-Wan thinks in passing - but then says in a voice devoid of emotions whatsoever. “It’s not that bad.”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Anakin, there is blood and bruises everywhere on you and I think your arm is badly broken. Can you even feel it?”

Anakin shrugs with his unhurt shoulder. “No.”

“You can’t—” Cold dread bursts in Obi-Wan’s chest like a sheet of ice shattering. He places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Anakin, you need to see a healer! Why did you let me—”

“No, I mean”—Anakin straightens up minutely—“I can’t feel it because it’s not there anymore. It’s just a mechno-arm. Dooku cut my real arm years ago.”

“…Dooku.” Obi-Wan stares at him, voice flat. “Dooku, the other Sith, who’s supposed to be your ally. He cut your arm.”

Anakin makes a vague sound of affirmation, and falls silent, letting Obi-Wan struggle to form a reply to that. Now it’s his turn to look at Anakin in the face, while those now-blue eyes turn towards the ground, lashes so long they cast shadows of their own.

“Don’t call a healer,” Anakin finally mumbles, not looking at him. “I don’t want healers. I don’t want… people. I don’t like anyone touching me.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, realizing that he still has his left hand on Anakin’s shoulder, while his right rests just over Anakin’s knee, still clutching the washcloth. He makes to pull away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Anakin’s hand flashes up in sudden, unexpected liveliness, immediately squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. His eyelashes quivers.

“You’re not ‘anyone’.”

—

The entire living room smells like bacta with a hint of blood by the time Obi-Wan is done. He locks Vader’s lightsaber with its buzzing red crystal in a drawer, and wraps away the broken prosthetic and ruined armor and shreds of clothing; it’s not safe enough to discard them conventionally, and he will have to burn them later, ideally somewhere unfrequented. Right now, there is no way Obi-Wan can leave his quarters. Not with Anakin limping out of bed at the sound of a fresher door sliding open or shut.

By all rights Anakin should have passed out from lightheaded exhaustion by now, yet he seems even more awake now than even when Obi-Wan first found him on his knees in the hallway. Anakin pauses at the sight of him and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He fixes Obi-Wan with the gaze of a Loth-wolf.

Obi-Wan lets out a sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He takes a seat beside the former Sith. “Anakin,” he enunciates each syllable in a lingering rhythm, “could you please stop watching me like this?”

Anakin blinks at him; so far, Anakin seems capable of two states of being: desperate, and confused. “What do you mean?” He looks deceivingly innocent, covered in bandages and wrapped in Obi-Wan’s colors - a thought that Obi-Wan, startled, quickly shuts down. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth hangs open, his mind running the sentence through. Always? Since before? And then it occurs to him that Vader wore the helmet along with his full suit of armor every time they clashed in battle. The few rare times they crossed paths outside of combat were all hair-thin ceasefires, too tense, too charged with fragile hope for him to notice. It dawns on Obi-Wan that Anakin has no concept of what is an appropriate amount of looking, of staring at someone.

“...Should I not?” Anakin ducks his head a little, and reaches for Obi-Wan’s hand.

By Force, this is a man who demanded surrender from Jedi only to open fire on them, who killed hundreds with just his hands and a lightsaber, who led operations that burn cities of civilians, who scorched the earth of whole planets and poisoned whole systems. This is a man who has done enough evil to make the core of a kyber mountain shudder. He has no rights looking like this, lamb-like in both colors and manners.

But could a child weaned on blood and brought up on broken bones know any better?

“Go to bed, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, in a tone distinctly reminiscent of that which he used with a younger Ahsoka in her rebellious day. (Not that she has gotten any less rebellious; she only moved on to matters more significant than bedtime.) He squeezes Anakin’s hand, and eases him down onto the pillow, and watches Anakin until Anakin can’t watch him back anymore.

And like all infants who fall asleep with a hand in their own, Anakin holds on tight.

#obikin #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #is it still vaderwan if he’s alread an ex-sith #anyway #CLEM #SENT ME #THE DIALOGUE PART #AT 2:30 AND I WAS LIKE ‘ok there is no way i could keep myself from writing this’ #i fuckin love this au man #like bless u clem #i was struggling to find a good way to bring a sith anakin back to the light and then you just #you just dropped this right in front of me #i totally hijacked clem’s au hngngnkdf #i have so much more i wanna write #so much #shatou writes