Okay, since I want to start writing more i guess its time to make an introduction!!
My name is Evan, but you can call me Ev or V im 18 and in a long term permanent relationship. Incase you haven't caut on it love the clone wars and its my longest hyperfixation and I also enjoy the arcane TV show. I have alot of interest tbh and I have a lot of plans for this platform so if you have any requests/suggestions lmk im more than happy to write for you!!
I do have guidelines for writing tho.
Fndoms I write for are rn only the clone wars/the bad batch, the left right game, and arcane, and cowboys
i WILL write
•X male reader•fluff•angst• slight suggestive prolly not smut
i WONT write
•clonecest•insest•xfemale/fem•anything that makes me uncomfy•
Summary: Unable to sleep, Simon finds solace in your presence
A/N: Totally didn't write this while suffering from insomnia myself, then fell asleep halfway through writing it.
CW: Implied PTSD - Insomnia - Fluff
Words: 2.6k
The cold night air didn't just meet Simon's skin—it bit at the exposed areas of his neck and chest. His jacket was a meaningless drape, slung haphazardly over one shoulder as he slipped silently out of the base's main entrance. Sleep was impossible. More accurately, closing his eyes was impossible. The past didn't fade; it simply replayed in his mind, a relentless, looping feed that felt more real than the present.
He couldn't remember the last time his consciousness had truly rested. Perhaps it had been that distant night you first joined Task Force 141, the fresh addition who looked just as exhausted, dull, and lost as Simon himself felt. Or maybe it was the night after a particularly brutal mission, when you had found him awake, unable to sleep yourself, and the two of you had simply slumped together, shoulders touching, and fallen into a few hours of shared, imperfect peace.
Simon didn't know what it was about you that bypassed the defenses built over a lifetime of trauma. He wasn't sure why you, of all people, allowed him to finally let his guard down and close his eyes without immediately reliving the scars seared into the back of his eyelids. Perhaps it was the knowledge that you carried a mirror image of his own hell; you had seen the same unrelenting darkness, gone through the same crucible, and lost the same kind of people. You didn't just sympathize—you understood.
He let out a low, ragged sigh, the warm mist of his breath catching instantly in the sharp, frigid air. His gaze, weary and heavy, drifted across the floodlit compound until it landed on a familiar silhouette. The figure was slumped against the outside base wall, head tilted back toward the distant, indifferent moon.
His breath caught. It was a pose he had seen so many times—relaxed, yet watchful—that it sent a strange, painful jolt through his chest and had his feet moving before his logical mind could intervene. The crunch of his combat boot on the thin gravel broke the silence.
“Lieutenant,” you whispered, the sound a gentle friction against the quiet night. You peered from behind your eyelashes at the man who now towered over you. “Beautiful night, isn't it?”
Simon swallowed hard, the sound loud in the close air. His hands clenched into fists deep inside his jacket pockets. “Beautiful night, Sargent,” he echoed, his voice low, a gravelly hum of exhaustion and relief.
You studied the look in his eyes—not accusatory, but deeply troubled—and saw that he wasn't seeing you here, safe against the wall. He was picturing you on the field, maybe for the last time. You shifted slightly, making space for him as he dropped down beside you. Immediately, he leaned his head back against the wall, following your gaze to the vast, star-strewn sky.
His mask was gone, forgotten on his cot because he hadn't expected anyone to be awake. You traced the line of his profile: the slightly aristocratic dip of his nose, the way his brow jutted out slightly over the heavy shadow of his eyes. You noted the salty bags beneath those eyes, the faint but distinct sign that you hadn't slept either.
“Can't sleep?” you murmured, a small, knowing smile spreading across your lips as he turned his head slowly to look at you.
Simon saw the matching fatigue in your own face: the stubble you hadn't shaved that was steadily evolving into a proper beard, and the same hollow, guarded dullness in your eyes that his held. He knew the silent truth between you.
“No,” he admitted, the word a weary weight. “Can't say I can.”
You leaned slightly, allowing your head to rest back against the rough, cold concrete of the wall, subtly closing the small gap between your shoulders. The contact was minimal—just enough for your jacket sleeves to touch and the tension in the air to ease just a fraction.
“Same here, Lieutenant,” you whispered, the sound immediately absorbed by the vast, open night.
It was quiet for a moment, the steady rhythm of your breathing mingling with Simon’s shallow, tired gasps as the wind brushed past. The cold night air was a constant presence, but in that small, shared space, the chill felt somehow less biting.
His head dipped down, a minimal movement that signaled a monumental surrender. His cheek settled against your hair—a slight friction against the coarse, short strands. You held perfectly still, acutely aware of the unexpected weight and the trust it implied. Simon’s chest rumbled as he let out a low, profound sigh, a deep vibration that resonated through the wall and into your back. His arms crossed over his chest, a final, weary act of self-defense as he allowed his eyes to flutter closed.
He wasn't sleeping yet, you knew. He was simply resting his sight, trusting you to keep the watch for the ghosts that chased him whenever he did. You didn't dare break the silence with a question or a platitude. This was the moment his relentless mind had finally slowed down, the frantic loop of the past reduced to a low, bearable hum.
You subtly shifted your weight, just enough to confirm you were still there, still anchored beside him. The heat radiating from his side was a solid, immovable barrier against the frigid air, grounding you both. You felt the familiar ache of your own exhaustion, the heavy throb behind your eyelids, but watching the hard lines of his profile soften—even slightly—was its own form of relief. You didn't need to ask if he was okay. In this moment, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder under the indifferent moon, the answer was yes. For now, he was safe.
You waited for a while, a long, quiet stretch of minutes measured only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the base’s generators and the steady cadence of Simon’s breathing against your hair. You didn't move a muscle, maintaining the small, sacred silence until his eyes finally opened again. They weren't startled or panicked; they simply blinked, heavy with residual exhaustion, before staring directly at you.
There was no need for a question. The shared look was a conversation in itself: I’m here. I’m rested, for now. Thank you.
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable inside,” you hummed, the sound low and conversational, a gentle suggestion rather than an order. You shifted your position, letting his head slide easily from your shoulder. “I’ll stay with you, Simon.”
The use of his first name—a rarity, reserved only for these quiet, vulnerable moments—made his posture stiffen momentarily before he consciously relaxed it. It wasn't lost on you what kind of impact you had on the Brit. Hell, Price had told you in passing that he couldn’t remember a time Simon wasn't so tense, then you showed up. You were the quiet, reliable center that seemed to anchor the chaos he lived in.
“Can’t ask that of you,” he replied, his voice still rough with sleep and the cold, but already he was standing. His large frame unfolded with a weary efficiency, and he offered you a hand to help you rise.
He didn’t wait for your rebuttal, didn’t argue about the impossibility of sleep in the barracks, or the absurdity of your offer to stand guard against his nightmares. He simply began to move. He tucked the jacket he'd been carrying over your shoulders, the worn, heavy material instantly warming you and smelling faintly of ozone and his cologne. Simon then started silently toward the main entrance, his large shadow leading the way.
You took the jacket firmly in your hands, pulling it close, and followed. The shared decision was the deepest acknowledgment yet of the truth: it wasn't the place that offered him peace; it was you.
Simon pushed open the heavy, metal door to his barracks room. The fluorescent light inside was harsh and sickly, a stark contrast to the vast, indifferent moonlight they’d just left. The room was standard issue: two metal cots, one neatly made, the other currently serving as a repository for discarded tactical gear; a couple of lockers; and a single, rickety chair crammed into the corner.
He didn't need to speak. You moved with the quiet familiarity of someone who’d done this dozens of times, peeling off the heavy jacket he’d draped over your shoulders and folding it over the back of the chair. You set your combat boots down silently next to his own, the ritual of unlacing and removing them a soft thump and slide against the cold linoleum floor. The act of shedding the gear was like shedding a layer of the day's stress, a mutual, unspoken acknowledgment that the fight was over—at least for a few hours.
Simon was already on his cot. He hadn’t bothered with the blankets, simply laying back against the thin, military-issue mattress. He crossed his wrists over his abdomen, a resting pose that somehow managed to look both utterly weary and still slightly guarded.
You sat in the lone chair near the corner of the room. It was hard plastic, but it served its purpose. The moment you settled, the air thickened with a profound, final quiet, broken only by the faint, high-pitched whine of the room’s ventilation system.
He watched you. His eyes, dark and heavy, traced the line of your posture, the deliberate way you folded your hands in your lap. The mask was forgotten, his features exposed to the harsh overhead light—the heavy brow, the lines of exhaustion deeply etched beside his eyes, the slight, aristocratic dip of his nose you’d noticed outside.
It was an impossible intimacy: the highly trained, traumatized Ghost, completely unshielded, simply watching you exist in his private space. You didn't move to join him on the cot; you knew the proximity of the chair was close enough. It was your silent promise of vigilance, the understanding that you were the anchor holding him to the present, ensuring that when the fatigue finally won, it would be a true rest, not a panicked fall.
You met his gaze, offering a small, tired smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Try for a few hours, Lieutenant,” you murmured.
Simon gave a barely perceptible nod, accepting the permission. The exhaustion was a weight too heavy to fight any longer. He closed his eyes, his breathing already deepening into the first fragile stage of sleep.
You must have drifted closer to sleep than you realized, because the change in the room’s atmosphere was what pulled you back. It wasn't a sound, but the sudden absence of the deep, regular breathing that had anchored your attention.
After a while, Simon sat up. He moved with the slow, heavy grace of a large man who has found insufficient rest. He didn't turn on the cot right away, instead looking straight ahead at the opposite wall, the movement of his head a gradual shift. Then, his eyes, still clouded with residual fatigue, turned and looked directly over at you.
He didn't have to say anything. The look was a weary apology for the short duration of the peace, and a quiet request for the comfort he couldn't ask for aloud.
You were awake. The plastic chair had become a hard, aching presence beneath you, and your body gratefully stretched as you stood. You walked over towards him, your movements silent and practiced against the linoleum.
You sat beside him on the cot. The mattress dipped immediately under your added weight, the thin springs squeaking a momentary protest that was loud in the small room. You let out a soft, tired sigh, the sound an acknowledgment of the long night and the persistent ache of exhaustion you both shared.
Simon took your presence as the cue he needed. He simply laid back down, his head coming to rest near your hip. He didn't use a pillow, instead just pressing his temple into the thin mattress. His hand, heavy and scarred, reached out and settled loosely on your thigh—not a demanding grip, but a simple, grounding point of contact.
This proximity was different from the cold wall outside. Here, indoors, the air was still and close. The intimacy was complete, unshielded. You remained upright, a steadfast sentinel in the gloom, but the warmth of his body pressed against your side was a powerful, quiet presence. He wasn't completely asleep, but he was resting, anchored by the knowledge that your breathing was right beside him, and you weren't going anywhere.
You remained sitting for a few moments, the silence stretching into something comfortable rather than tense. Simon was breathing heavily near your hip, but his muscles were still rigid. He was drifting in that half-asleep limbo where the mind remains on guard, easily startled by the slightest sound.
You knew exactly what he needed. The anchor wasn't enough; he needed a distraction from the quiet. You shifted, sliding your body down onto the cot until you were lying beside him, hip-to-hip. The springs groaned once more, a soft, familiar protest.
You turned your head toward his. The air was cool against your ear, but the heat from his body was immediate and enveloping. You started speaking, your voice a low, steady hum, barely above a whisper.
“Price is talking about taking us off rotation for a few days when we get back,” you murmured, your focus on the mundane, the safe. “He wants to run a full physical debrief. Probably means a mountain of paperwork and about three hours of listening to him complain about the coffee machine.”
The topics were deliberately light, simple administrative nonsense that required no emotional input. It was just sound, a rhythmic flow to distract the gears turning in his head.
“He’s got that new patch on his jacket,” you continued, tracing a pattern on the thin mattress with your finger. “The one with the tiny skull, just to be ironic. Swear he found it in a novelty shop in Kandahar.”
Simon’s body relaxed an almost imperceptible degree, the rigidity slowly leaching out of his shoulders.
“Price is an idiot,” he mumbled, the words slightly slurred with sleep and exhaustion, his first direct response.
You smiled, the feeling pulling gently at the corners of your mouth. “Oh, absolutely. But he’s our idiot. And he hasn’t killed us yet, which is a massive bonus.”
“Give him time.”
His breathing was slowing down now, the shallow, fast pattern giving way to something deeper, more sustainable. You fell silent for a few beats, letting the quiet settle in, testing the depths of his descent.
“I hate paperwork,” you whispered, just to ensure he was still tethered.
A long, heavy silence followed. Then, his voice, thick with the pull of sleep, offered one final, simple reply: “Me too.”
That was it. The fight was over. You smiled, settling completely into the cot beside him, your arm tucked close to your side. The hard plastic mattress felt surprisingly soft now that you were sharing the space. You felt the heavy, comfortable weight of true sleep finally claiming him.
Then, slowly, unconsciously, the final barrier fell. Simon’s large, scarred arm moved, pulling away from his side, and he wrapped it loosely around your waist. It was a purely instinctual gesture, a possessive, grounding action born entirely of deep rest. His face shifted, burying slightly into the space where your neck met your shoulder, finding the warmest, most secure spot.
You didn't move. You simply closed your own eyes, the warmth of his heavy, rhythmic presence an impenetrable shield against the cold air and the shadows. The vigilance was finally over. You had brought him home, and now, finally, he was holding you there too.
Anyone else randomly have a fixation on cowboys?? Like I want a big masculine (with slightly internalized homophobia???) man to be all soft and cuddly after being intimate. Then just to get up pull his boots back on and get back to ignoring me untill that night??
Assorted Avatars, Aspects, and Associates of the fourteen Fears! Starting with Jon, we have Jonathan Sims (The Eye), Martin Blackwood (The Lonely), Jane Prentiss (The Corruption), Michael the Distortion (The Spiral), Annabelle Cane (The Web), Oliver Banks (The End), Hezekiah Wakely (The Buried), Manuela Dominguez (The Dark), Nikola Orsinov (The Stranger), Melanie King (The Slaughter), Jared Hopworth (The Flesh), Agnes Montague (The Desolation), Daisy Tonner (The Hunt), and, last but not least, Michael Crew (The Vast)
Okay who will write the Rob J Guthard x Reader fic and when will it be coming out because I need that man carnally. I’d even settle for an x Alice if I have to.
Why are all the 'x reader' fics I see mostly smuts? Don't get me wrong, they're great and all but I barely see any fluff or angst around here. I literally just want to feel things without the character lusting over the reader 😭
sometimes when the 501st/212th have downtime they turn down the artifical gravity on the ship for funsies. yes this is canon actually mr filoni told me himself
