An easy place to keep track of my stories (and now my art!). Not all works are explicit, but please respect that this is an 18+ ONLY blog. All mature/explicit works are rated explicit on AO3. To be added to the Taglist for a character or series, reply under the relevant post or message me. Inbox is open and anon is on, for now. Thank you all for reading and reblogging!
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Same Heart Master List
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Warnings go into more specific detail in each story post
The Bad Batch
Multi:
Top That!- One-shot
Explicit, g/n reader- Alcohol, slight somnophilia
Crosshair and Wrecker have a bet over who can make you cum the most.
Exile- One-shot
Teen, readers gender unspecified- fistfights, head injury
When you and the squad return to Kamino for Hunter, Crosshair realizes how close you’ve gotten to his brother.
Turning Red- one-shot
Safe, reader has periods and an IUD-
Omega gets her first period and the guys panic. (No pairings/platonic)
You and the sniper get into an argument about following orders, so you teach him a lesson about discipline.
1 2 3
An Art (w/fem anon) 🌶 ️
An Art (solo) 🌶️
Uncrossed Paths- one-shot
Explicit, female reader- smut with feelings, breakups
(Same Heart Alternate Timeline)
Echo decides to return to the 501st, and you go with him, but not before saying goodbye.
Going Back -multipart, ongoing
Explicit, g/n reader- post season one finale
(Entirely separate from Same Heart)
After leaving him behind on Kamino, you give in to your guilt and go back for Crosshair, the others be damned.
1 2 3 4 5
Rain - one-shot
Explicit, female reader- season three spoilers, makeouts, oral, sex outdoors
You and Crosshair find shelter from a storm on Pabu.
Blessed, cursed one shot
Safe, Tantiss, death, birth
Nail-biter headcanon
Damn Woman one shot(?)
Teen, blood, injuries, stitches, hypothermia
Set in the Same Heart timeline, between chapters 13 and 14. OC perspective. Early into her reassignment with Clone Force 99, Ionne Caresh and Crosshair partner for a mission that goes wrong.
The Game one shot
Explicit, alcohol, groping, rough sex, semi public sex, choking, possessiveness
Written as a companion piece to this post. You toy with the sniper at 79’s.
thinking about clones who miss the GAR. what then. dishwashing in the shadows of a 3rd tier city on a mid rim moon wondering how freedom is supposed to taste like bills and grocery lists instead of that final second watching the glowing half-in-orbit horizon from an open LAAT-I ramp before the halo jump. and if it ever will
Our story began when Clone Commando Gregor was presumed lost after his courageous sacrifice on Abafar. I had recently been assigned as a medic to the 104th battalion. And when a faint signal indicated his survival, I knew I had to intervene—no matter the cost.
Written by MAE || Illustrated by LEENA
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries
He sighed again. Since the moment Callie stepped into his sterile and meticulously organized office aboard the Venator, Commander Wolffe had let out seven audible sighs, each more irritated than the last. She had been keeping track. Better to silently count than speak up and risk all out war. This latest exhale, heavy and sharp, twisted his mouth into a sneer and his brow into a deeper scowl. It also brought the count to eight.
“Commander-”
“Silence,” he snapped, voice low and edged like durasteel.
He didn’t look up from the data tablet in his hand. The report he reviewed cast a dim glow in the sterile lighting, lines of tactical information scrolling under the rapid scan of his mismatched eyes. The cybernetic one moved in quick, unnatural flicks —faster than the human eye beside it. The effect was… unsettling. Disjointed. Like watching a clock ticking out of rhythm with itself.
It explained the constant tension in Wolffe’s brow, the deep-set crease that never seemed to leave his face. He needed a recalibration, that much was obvious. Callie suspected it was the source of the tension headaches he refused to acknowledge. She could do it in minutes. But the odds of Wolffe letting her — or anyone — near his prosthetic were slim to none. He was fiercely private about it. Possessive, even.
“But-”
“Don’t test my patience. It’s already worn thinner than ration-paper, Lieutenant,” Wolffe growled.
Then he reached without ceremony for the steaming cup of caf she’d placed on the corner of his desk. He didn’t thank her, of course. He never did. The fact that he reached for it at all said enough. Callie had learned quickly: never show up to his office empty-handed. He drank the caf in long, scalding gulps like a man at war with his own exhaustion. The burning fluid, his munitions. His scalded throat, the collateral damage.
Callie’s jaw snapped shut with a click. She hadn’t realized she’d been gaping until that moment, frozen in place as her eyes locked on the Commander’s weathered, tan hands gripping the pen like it had personally offended him. The silence in the room stretched taut, broken only by the scratch of the stylist against flimsi. Every controlled movement he made radiated barely restrained fury.
She’d been summoned the moment she exited the intensive care unit. No time to clean up, her uniform still dirty. Report immediately. Do not delay. The trooper who escorted her — Sinker — hadn’t said a word the entire walk to Wolffe’s office. His gaze avoided hers with deliberate effort. He kept glancing toward the hallway’s corners, the walls, anywhere but at her. That, more than anything, told her just how bad this was.
They hadn’t cuffed her, not yet at least, but it felt close. The silence, the unsaid weight in the air, the precision with which the escort was arranged, it wasn’t protocol. It was prelude. She knew what she’d done. It had been a calculated risk. One she’d made under pressure, with lives on the line and instinct screaming louder than protocol. But defying a direct order, defying his order, that wasn’t the kind of thing that got swept under the durasteel floor of a starship. Especially not when the entire fleet had witnessed it. Not when high-ranking officers were present.
Now, sitting rigid under his scrutiny, she was about to face whatever consequences a man like Wolffe, one of the most respected commanders in the entire Grand Army of the Republic, deemed appropriate. Her throat felt dry, but she didn’t dare swallow. Not yet. The silence between them was razor-thin, stretched to its breaking point. Finally, Wolffe exhaled, not another sigh of frustration, but something heavier.
“At least tell me he’s stable,” he muttered, low and gravelly.
His eyes finally lifted to meet hers, still hard as durasteel but the edge had dulled. Not quite soft, but no longer sharpened to cut. It wasn’t a truce. Nor was it mercy. A crack had formed in his wall.
Callie opened her mouth, hesitant. “Sir-”
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant Kestral,” he cut in, sharper again. Formal. Cold.
The sudden shift back to protocol hit harder than a slap. She straightened instinctively, spine stiffening as though bracing for impact. The use of her rank wasn’t just a reminder of the chain of command, it was a warning. A boundary being reasserted.
“He is stable,” she replied, voice clipped but steady.
The words lingered in the air between them, more fragile than she’d intended. Because despite her answer, they both knew ‘stable’ didn’t mean ‘safe.’ It didn’t mean ‘out of the woods.’ It just meant not dead. Not yet. From the look in Wolffe’s eyes as he looked away, she knew he understood it.
Wolffe was silent again. The kind of silence that made the skin between her shoulder blades itch and the hair on the back of her neck raised. He didn’t look down at the report this time. Instead, he slowly set the stylus aside with care, then placed the tablet on the desk in front of him face down. The gesture was small, but felt significant. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto her like targeting coordinates settling on a mark. Not hostile but intense enough to make her pulse quicken.
“Why?” he asked at last.
Just one word, which carried with it more weight than the drawn out reprimand she’d been expecting. No rank this time. No barking orders. Just a raw, quiet demand for truth. Callie felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, cautious breath. Her throat was still tight, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. The cybernetic one flickered slightly, adjusting focus. The dark human one narrowed, waiting.
“I made a judgment call. I had intel you didn’t. Real-time updates. If I’d waited for permission we would’ve lost him.” she said evenly, but her voice betrayed a trace of something she hadn’t had time to process. She noticed his jaw tighten. So she added, “I didn’t do it to undermine you, I did it because his sacrifice saved all our lives.”
A long, heavy silence settled between them. Wolffe didn’t speak, didn’t move. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if she’d made things better or worse. Then, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on her like he was trying to read past the surface and down into the core of her.
“You broke rank,” Wolffe said.
“I know,” Callie replied.
“In front of my men. In front of senior officers.” He said.
“I know,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper now.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lash out. He didn’t need to. His silence was louder than shouting. And still, she stood her ground. Because no matter how much trouble she was in now, she’d make the same call again.
“We have rules. Structure. Protocol. Order. I can’t have medics deploying themselves on instinct and a prayer, hoping to save one man.” Wolffe said, his voice quiet but unwavering. His tone steady. Each word landed with the force of something carved in stone.
Then Wolffe picked up the tablet again, posture returning to rigid formality, but the moment of focus--of almost human connection--still lingered in the air between them. She tensed, expecting the worst. A formal dismissal from her post. No, a disciplinary removal. The Grand Army didn’t tend to tolerate insubordination, especially not when it happened in front of witnesses. Instead, he read from the screen, voice neutral and clinical.
“You will receive a formal mark of disciplinary action on your service record. You will be suspended from field deployment for thirty standard rotations. You will undergo an updated psychological evaluation before you are cleared for independent medical operations. And—” he paused, briefly glancing up at her “—you will attend continued leadership debriefings to determine if you will be permanently reassigned.”
Callie blinked. That was it? No demotion? No official permanent reassignment? Not even a formal tribunal? In GAR terms, it was barely more than a slap on the wrist. Maybe a firm talking-to. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. This wasn’t what she'd expected. It wasn’t even close.
“But sir-“
“I advise you to think very carefully before you finish that sentence, Callie,” Wolffe said, cutting her off with a groan as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t even look up. She froze at the use of her first name. Callie, not Lieutenant Kestral. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t protocol. It was personal.
“That seems like... a light punishment,” she said cautiously.
He looked up sharply, the edge of his cybernetic eye catching the overhead light. “Do you want me to increase it?” he snapped.
“No, sir. I just…” She hesitated, studying his face, trying to read the thoughts behind his expression. “I’m just… confused.”
Wolffe didn’t reply. His gaze held hers for a moment longer, and then dropped back to the tablet. Not a dismissal, not quite. The silence pressed in again, dense, uncertain. Then Wolffe spoke, his tone clipped, all business. “If anyone asks, you were granted retroactive permission under Tactical Protective Directive 0-9.”
Callie blinked. “What?”
“He survived,” Wolffe replied. His gaze remained fixed on the tablet and his voice grew more deliberate. “If Separatist intelligence had caught wind of that, he’d have been marked as a high-value target. A liability. You have been retroactively granted authority to intervene, on the grounds of protecting a compromised asset.”
He paused, then looked up, waiting until her eyes met his. That same sharp stare, softened only by the gravity behind it. “But don’t ever do it again,” his voice dropped a notch, call and cold. “You’ll be out of here faster than you can say kriff. Got it?”
Callie swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she said, her nod slow and deliberate.
“You’re dismissed. Report back to your patient. I expect a full medical workup on his progress before end-of-cycle.” He said.
She hesitated. “I thought we were transferring him to an Outer Rim med facility and redeploying with the fleet?”
“We are,” Wolffe replied, setting the tablet aside once more. “You are staying with the trooper.”
Her breath caught. “Sir?”
“Not my call,” he said, already looking back down at the screen. “Orders came in while you were en route to my office. You're to remain at the station and oversee his treatment personally.”
Callie’s thoughts raced, the implications slamming into her one after another. If she stayed behind, she’d be cut off from her team. From the front. From the war.
Wolffe continued, eyes still fixed on the screen in front of him, “You’ll rejoin us once he reaches Recovery Level Three. Until then, station duty.”
Callie stood frozen for a breath too long, the words settling in her mind like dust. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She wasn’t even sure what response would be appropriate. Eventually, she managed a small nod. “Thank you, Commander.” She said.
“Don’t thank me,” he responded.
“But, sir--”
Wolffe finally glanced up, his gaze steady. “Look. You went out of your way to help one of us. That matters, even if you went about it the wrong way.” A beat passed. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a grim acknowledgment. “We’ll call it even. Alright?”
Callie blinked. For a man like Wolffe, that was the closest thing to forgiveness she was ever going to get.
“Okay,” she said softly.
“You’re dismissed.” He said.
Callie nodded again and then turned before he could change his mind. Her boots echoed lightly against the polished floor as she crossed the room and reached the door. She didn’t look back. If she did, she might start asking questions neither of them had answers to.
Once she was through the threshold, the tension she’d been carrying finally began to crack. This last rotation — everything from the mission, to the medbay, to now — settled on her. The weight of it slumped her shoulders, hunched her back. Why? Why did she do it? What was she thinking? And what would happen now?
It felt like the galaxy had shifted a few degrees out of alignment and she had to make sense of it. Station duty. Isolation from yet another legion she’d grown closer to. She’d be on her own again. Except, that wasn’t true…
The trooper.
He would have died on Abafar. If not for her that is. Her mind drifted. Her thoughts focused on the moments after the explosion.
The ship trembled from the aftershock of the explosion when it happened. Sirens faded. The chaos had quieted just enough for reality to set in, but Callie hadn’t even gotten that far. She was standing in a corridor outside the medbay, dazed, when the little WAC droid had bounded up to her, his small mechanical limbs clicking with urgency.
“Medic!” he chirped, almost cheerfully, as if he were announcing a victory and not a disaster. “A clone saved us! Quite the heroic display, really!”
Callie barely heard him over the rush in her ears. Her mind had snagged on two words: saved us. Her stomach twisted. She’d assumed, maybe even hoped, that someone had already responded. That recovery teams were already mobilizing. That comms were relaying coordinates. That someone was doing something. But no.
When she checked the mission logs, her numb fingers tapping through the data, there was nothing. No deployment orders. No medevac notice. No beacon signals sent planetside. No one had gone after him. That lack of action, more than the explosion or the droid’s rambling, was what broke her.
She didn’t remember making the decision. One minute she was staring at the screen in disbelief, the next she was in the hangar bay, climbing into one of the auxiliary transports. She had barely trained on the controls, and flew the damn thing running on pure instinct. Her hands shook as she keyed in a basic descent pattern, her breathing shallow and mechanical as she coaxed the vessel into launching. All she had was a vague approximation of where the squad had been last seen and a few topographic references from the WAC droid's rambling. It wasn’t much.
The surface of the planet was still scarred, still bleeding in its own way. Smoke curled from the remains of the skirmish, rising in slow tendrils that painted the horizon in shades of gray. Ash stuck to her boots as she moved through the outskirts of what barely qualified as a settlement, the air thick with the acrid sting of scorched metal and something worse, something human. And then she saw him. Collapsed amid the rubble and ruin, armor scorched and broken, but unmistakably alive.
The trooper wasn’t moving much, just the shallow rise and fall of his chest under the plastoid plates of his armor, a twitch of fingers that hadn’t yet given up. His helmet had been knocked off, and blood traced a dark line down the side of his face, mixing with soot. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but open.
Callie dropped to her knees beside him without a second thought. Only the bare essentials in her med kit. No field support. Just her hands and her training and the raw, consuming instinct that she had to do something.
She did it because no one else had.
Because in a war where lives were tallied like numbers on a screen, someone had to remember that every number had a name.
And his, was Gregor.
✦ . ⁺ 卌 ⁺ . ✦
The world had tilted askew.
Or maybe he had.
It was hard to tell with the gray sky spinning like that.
The ground beneath him was uneven, cold through the ruined armor at his back. Ash stuck to his skin, to his throat, to his tongue, bitter and metallic. Every breath came thin and hot, like he was dragging air through smoke and glass. His ears rang. Constantly. Like something inside his head had burst and never stopped screaming. The last thing he remembered clearly was the explosion. Heat, a blinding and violent light, and then silence. Not the kind that comes from peace, but the kind that follows when everything else has been torn away.
And now there were fragments. Snatches of sensation. The pulse of pain in his ribs, sharp and hot. The weight in his chest could have been a collapsed lung, or could just be fear. He didn’t know. Couldn’t think straight. His vision swam whenever he opened his eyes, distorted by sweat and blood and concussion.
Light stabbed into his skull when he tried to move. His limbs felt disconnected, like he’d been unplugged and scattered. He couldn’t even remember if the mission had been a success. All he knew was that he was likely going to die here. He had planned to die. That last push, throwing himself between the droid squad and the blast radius, well, he knew he wouldn't survive it. He did it because there hadn’t been time to think. He had a mission. His last, as he saw it. Get those important out of the fray.
So when he heard the footsteps, quick and light across the shattered terrain, he thought maybe his brain was misfiring. A hallucination, the last dying spark conjuring images of a rescue he didn’t deserve. Then the steps kept coming. Closer. Real.
He tried to lift his head but only managed to twitch. The pain sharpened, and the world narrowed to a pulse behind his eyes. He gasped, at least he thought he did. It came out broken, more like a wheeze. He couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t warn them if the droids were still nearby.
A pair of hands landed on his chest, tentative but firm, pressing lightly against the cracked plates of his armor. Not searching for weapons. Not looting. Assessing. There was pressure along the line of his collarbone. Fingers slipped under his pauldron. They stopped at the side of his neck. Pulse check. The contact was clinical, but not cold. She was gentle, despite the urgency in her movements.
He blinked, vision clearing for the briefest moment. Just long enough to see a blurred silhouette against the rising smoke, crouched over him like a shadow given shape. Light framed her from behind, haloing the figure in gold, though it was broken by the dark outline of her frame. Shorter than him. No helmet. He couldn’t make out her face. A voice reached him. Soft, then firmer. He couldn’t process the words, only the rhythm. Steady. Focused. Human. She was speaking to him. Or maybe to herself. Her voice cracked once, but it didn’t break.
Then he felt the sting of medspray against his side, the quick jerk of fabric as she tore open a sealed pack. Field dressing. She worked fast, sealing wounds, stabilizing where she could. Her hands trembled slightly when they touched bare skin. Nerves, probably. Still, she never stopped moving. She could’ve left. Could’ve waited for a real med team, waited for backup. She didn’t. She had come alone. The droid… the one with the round head and endless commentary, hadn’t he been on the ship? Had he told her? He couldn’t hold the thought long enough. It slipped away like oil through fingers.
He tried to move again, to say something, anything, but his mouth didn’t cooperate. His jaw worked, but only a rasp escaped. She looked down. She had noticed. Her hand gripped the strap of his chestplate, bracing him as she shifted. The angle gave him one last glimpse of her face, just a glimpse, but he caught the glint of something silver pinned to her collar. A medic’s badge. GAR. Her eyes, too. They were sharp and tired and burning with something that looked a lot like anger. Anger that he’d been left behind. Anger that no one else had come.
She had.
She wasn’t part of his squad. He didn’t know her name. He couldn’t even see her clearly. In that moment, as the world spun sideways again and his consciousness slipped into the dark, that didn't matter. Someone came back for him.
In a galaxy where soldiers were built to be expendable, that meant everything.
But seriously, the way Omega's persistent kindness wore down two scared, angry creatures until they stopped lashing out and couldn't help but love her and want to protect her aahhhh this child is such a sweetheart, too precious for this world
This week, I read a fic that was around 20 years old, which had originally been posted on the author's personal website and which she added to AO3 a few years ago. She listed her email address with the fic, so after I finished reading, I sent her an email saying how much I enjoyed the story, how much I appreciated the work and effort she obviously put into it, and thanked her for uploading it to AO3. She responded the next day and thanked me for my message, then said she had a few more stories in the same series that she hadn't gotten around to uploading. I checked this morning--she added a 35,000 word novella and thanked me in the summary.
The prologue of my new fic, Silence in the Ghost, is now on AO3! I’ve been working on this one on and off for nearly a year, so I’m so excited to finally get this sci-fi/romance/thriller out into the world! Updates weekly.
Summary: Nothing in nineteen-year-old Hera's life is simple. Not her work with the rebellion, not her feelings for her handsome new copilot haunted by a mysterious past, and certainly not their current mission: tracking down a Corellian freighter that no one has seen or heard from in weeks. When their investigation leads them to a mysterious ghost ship drifting through space with no power, Hera and Kanan's relationship will be put to the test as they race to find answers before the air runs out.
turning the safety catch on and off like i'm clicking a pen until everyone gets really mad at the noise but no one says anything because i have a gun and they don't
do you ever think about how lonely Echo is. how he felt so alone when he was rescued from Skako. how he can't be alone and spends all of him time with someone and following the batch around but probably aches for more but doesn't know what that is. can't place why his skin feels fuzzy and his bones feel empty and he just feels hungry. or how no one can ever truly understand what it is that he has gone through and how it haunts him every single day. how he won't talk about his feelings and keeps those locked down so tight no one can pry them away from him but then he just feels more isolated than before.
I think a lot about it. Even if I can make much sense of my thought about it.
Mostly when he is clearly stating to Omega that :
And then After plan 99, he stays alone in the Marauder to monitor the airway. Sure
Not at all hidding from the other and mourn somewhere no one could see him being...weak? Sad?
Look at this face.
That a man that try to not be broken by yet another terrible lost and yet fully feel the emptiness adding to the one he already feels.
The people he could maybe open up are either gone or have already so much on there plate. He can't add to that. He had to keep carrying on. Because giving up would be easy, but he never learns how and down want now.
Sorry if I am rambling
A/N: This came to me after writing a smutty one-shot, and since it didn't exactly fit the scenario in that one, I decided to write this one. It's very short and a bit of my headcanon about how Maul would react to you saying you love him. Anyway, sorry the requests are taking so long. I promise I'm working on them, my finals are just very draining.
Warnings: Implied sex before the story (you're having post-sex cuddles) but nothing too explicit, a bit of a mental breakdown, Maul is not mentally stable at all, that's probably not how the Force works but idc, not proofread, no beta we die like everyone in this damn show, my terrible writing, ‼️personal opinions‼️
Content warnings: gender neutral Reader as always; Maul has massive trust issues; probably a little ooc Maul?; this is pretty short, just one scene; it also assumes that you've already been in a relationship for a long time, and Maul trusts you enough to let his guard down, at least partially
Word count: 668
Summary: You tell Maul you love him for the first time. For him, it's the first time those words were ever directed at him.
Reblogs are very appreciated, since it helps my posts reach more people, and motivates me to continue writing 🫶
You lower yourself gently to lie on top of him, wrapping your legs around him and panting quietly as you bury your face in his neck. His arm comes up instinctively to wrap around your naked frame, pulling you closer to him. You seem so fragile like this, so precious, and so completely at his mercy. He supposes he's in a similar position, although to his surprise, the feeling doesn't trigger a fight or flight reflex in him. It feels good, in a way. He almost feels safe. It's not like he could ever reach the state of feeling fully safe and at peace — he doesn't think so — but these quiet moments with you — when you're pressed against him, and his brain is still foggy from his orgasm — are the closest he'll ever get to it. He feels a small, involuntary smile spread across his lips when he feels your face press against his neck. You leave a small kiss there, and he can feel your sleepy smile on his skin. He truly could stay like this-
"I love you." You murmur against his neck, and it is as if his brain short-circuits. He immediately goes still, and even his breathing seems to stop for a moment after hitching in his throat as if he had just been hit. He remains still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open. Then his hand tightens on your back before he tries to shove you away.
"Liar." He growls, moving frantically in order to get away from you.
"Maul. Maul!" You say softly, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes. He stills again, and you press your forehead against his, taking your mental shields down and letting him in.
You feel his sharp intake of breath, and then the shuddering exhale that sounds suspiciously like something between a manic laugh and a suppressed sob. His arms tighten around you, almost crushing you against him, as if he's afraid you'll vanish. His hearts hammer against his chest, feeling as if they could jump out at any moment.
"You are a fool." His voice is strained, thick with emotions he's trying to suppress.
"I hate you." He growls, but it sounds more defensive and desperate than aggressive, as if he's trying to convince himself rather than you. "I hate what you're doing to me. I hate how you look at me. I hate how you make me feel. You make me soft." He spits the words out like they burn. "You should run. I will bring you harm. I will. I should have killed you when I had the chance. I should have."
He's sounding borderline crazy at this point, and you can feel his whole body shake beneath you. You know him well enough not to interrupt yet, though. And you are proven correct, for he soon stops talking, and the only sound that can be heard in the room is his uneven breathing.
You drop your mind shields completely, ensuring that you specifically direct the feelings of love and trust you have for Maul towards him. He makes another choked sound and buries his face in your hair. You soon feel wetness spread where his face is pressed against you, but you make no indication of it, knowing it would quickly snap him out of his vulnerable state. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, one of them coming around his neck and splaying across the back of his head, scratching softly against his scalp, just the way you know he secretly loves it.
"I love you." You repeat, voice just above a whisper, and his arms tighten around you in response. You don't need him to say it back, not now. You know how much he values you. All that matters now is that he knows how much you love him. And you'll make sure to remind him of it as often as possible, until it's not something shocking to him anymore.
baby Ahsoka called Maul an ugly jabroni - the sequel (x)
“Lord Maul, are your horns hurt? Lord Maul, why are you red? Lord Maul, why are you always growling? Lord Maul, can you teach me how to growl?” this could go on for ages but I couldn’t fit all of her stupid questions and Maul half arse reply in one pic.
Rare selfie, taken by Tech. He didn't realize until later that he'd been photo bombed by Ahsoka. (And, he's still not sure why that furry Mandalorian insists on carrying a hammer everywhere. Bo Katan Kryze keeps assuring him it is cultural and nothing to be concerned about.)
Warnings: first periods, overprotective dad batch, sex ed on Kamino is severely lacking (tech lives AU too I guess) | notes: reader has periods and an IUD (referred to as they), PoV second person, present tense
I remember talking about this scenario with @madameminor a while back and finally found time to get it down! And no, I couldn’t come up with a better title.
(No pairings, it’s all platonic)
After the hell that was life during and immediately after the war, things on Pabu are about as different as they can be. It’s calm, quiet, and routine.
So, when you’re abruptly awakened by Hunter shouting your name before sunrise, you can’t help but panic. The rush of adrenaline rockets you to full consciousness, and you stumble out of your bedroom to find almost everyone else already awake in the main area of the house. Omega is nowhere to be seen and your stomach drops.
“What’s happened, where’s Omega?” you ask, and Hunter speaks first.
“She’s in the refresher, but she’s locked the door and refusing to come out,” he says, fruitlessly trying to get the door open.
“By the Force Hunter, I thought she’d been taken again, don’t scare me like that!” you say, shaking your head as you try to relax.
“You don’t understand,” he says, crossing the room and taking you by the wrist. “Something is wrong!” he continues, pulling you in front of the door with him. His voice drops, and his next few words are quiet, though just as frantic; “I smell blood in there!”
“I’m about to break down the damn door,” Wrecker says, pacing restlessly.
A sudden, relieved laugh from you grabs everyone’s attention and their heads all snap in your direction.
“What the hell is funny about this?” Crosshair hisses, staring you down.
“You don’t know!” you say, somewhere between incredulous and amused. “Well of course you don’t, there’s no need for you to know.”
“Know what?” Tech says, agitated.
“Yeah, fill us in at any time,” Echo says, staring you down. You take a few deep breaths, settling yourself back down, then look at each of the men in the room.
“I can promise you, she’s just fine, and you’re all overreacting. Let me try talking to her,” you say, then softly knock at the refresher door.
“Go away!” comes from the other side, muffled by the closed off room.
“It’s me, Omega, it’s okay,” you say. After a few seconds with no response, Wrecker growls and readies himself outside of the door, but you hold him back by raising a hand.
“Just you?” Omega asks, cautious.
You glance over your shoulder at everyone gathered around and make a shooing motion at them. They all hesitate, but when you repeat the gesture they move outside onto the back deck. Once the glass door slides shut, you return to the refresher door.
“It is now,” you say, and after a few seconds, the lock clicks and the door cracks open.
“Promise?” Omega says, looking at the glass door.
You do the same and are annoyed, but not surprised, to see the guys all huddled around it on the other side. Hunter has his head cocked, clearly listening in. You shoot him a glare and he backs away, doing a poor job of acting casual. You sigh heavily and return your attention to Omega.
“May I come in?” you ask, and when she nods, you slip inside the refresher, shutting the door behind you.
—
The moment the refresher door shuts, Hunter is standing with his ear against the side of the cottage.
“Well?” Wrecker asks, fidgeting. Hunter huffs and moves away from the wall.
“They turned the shower on, I can’t hear anything,” he says. He restlessly paces around with a scowl on his face.
Echo suddenly makes a sound of understanding, and everyone looks expectantly at him.
“How old is Omega now?” he asks.
“Fourteen,” Tech pipes up.
“Yep, so was Commander Tano,” Echo says thoughtfully, then laughs a little. “They’re right, we are overreacting. Omega’s just menstruating.”
The others stare blankly at him, aside from Tech, already tapping away at his datapad.
“Here we are,” he says, then reads off whatever he’s found. “‘Menstruation, more commonly known as a period, is a normal biological function that happens to mammalian females once they-‘,” he abruptly stops. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Crosshair repeats.
Tech clears his throat.
“‘Once they reach sexual maturity,’” he says quietly. Everyone looks over at Hunter, who is standing near the door with an expression of deep mortification before he hides his face behind his hands.
—
Back inside, you’ve just finished explaining the same thing to Omega, and the two of you are sitting opposite each other on the floor.
“Sex,” she says, sounding oddly clinical, “how people have kids.” You nod at her and ask how she knows that. She blushes a little. “Nala Se told me about it once I was old enough to ask where nat-born babies come from. She didn’t tell me all this other stuff though,” she says.
“Well, I guess if you’re old enough to ask, you’re old enough to know,” you say. Omega shrugs at you, then winces, holding her hands over her lower abdomen.
“Does it always hurt like this?” she asks.
“Not every single time, but unfortunately more often than not. Although,” you say, getting to your feet, “they make medicines for that, so it’s manageable. A hot compress helps too.”
“Oh!” Omega says as she also stands back up. “Phee said something about a hot spring on the other side of the island, would that help?”
“It would,” you say, reaching over and shutting the shower off. “Why don’t I comm her and see if she’ll take you? And maybe Lyana, if Shep is okay with it,” you say.
“Okay! Thanks for not freaking out about it,” she says, rolling her eyes. You chuckle and pat her back.
—
After about an hour, Phee and Lyana are waiting for Omega at the front door. You walk with the three of them but stop at the garden gate.
“Oh, you’re not coming?” Omega asks, a little disappointed. You shake your head with a soft smile.
“Not this time. I need to go have the same talk with them,” you say, gesturing over your shoulder with your thumb at Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, and Crosshair, clustered around the open front door. Phee laughs.
“You have fun with that,” she says, then leads the girls away. Once they’re out of your sight line, you take a deep breath and return inside.
You’re barely through the door before the four of them are hounding you with questions.
“Why don’t I ever smell it on you?” is the first coherent thing you hear out of Hunter, his voice accusing. You hold back a sigh.
“I don’t get them anymore, not since I’ve had my implant placed,” you say.
“What’s that?”
“How is that related?”
“How’s that work?”
“What’s it for?”
You glance around for Echo, hoping for backup, and find him leaning against the kitchen counter with a caf in his hand, looking amused as he shakes his head at you. This is going to take a lot longer than you hoped.
Edit: I lost my original tag list, sorry if I missed anyone!
