Welcome to my chaos corner. Right now I am mostly writing for The Bad Batch. I'm a Wrecker simp and love The Bad Batch and all Clones. I'm on a few discord servers and like discussing upcoming Disney+ Star Wars projects. I'm attempting to play Jedi Survivor, but rarely have time.
Yes, I’m over 18. I just don’t like to advertise my age. The profile blurbs appear different on each platform- iphone, ipad, web browser.
I'd like to interact more with other fans so don't be shy. = )
(I'll add more later.)
Headcannon of The Batchers Going Grocery Shopping
HC of cadets on Kamino losing teeth
HC of Omega and her Baby Teeth
HC of a Shiny learning where food comes from
“You mean it has a face?!!”
Short Stories
The Date- from a WIP.
In an alternate universe, Wrecker has just gotten off the phone from asking a young woman on a date. Omega is the first to hear the news. Rated G
First Day
Wrecker x OC College AU
Wrecker's first day at college and he makes a friend.
Redemption part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Wrecker x OC - Just a little angsty short story.
The Nurse
Short story inspired by a pic.
Laundry Day
A Kiss
Meet Cute
Clone X Reader Bingo 2023
Ahsoka
Rex x Reader
Ahsoka plays matchmaker
Reunion
Howzer x Reader
Reader and Howzer are reunited
Surprise
Reader x Omega X Wrecker
Reader is rescued. Mermaid AU
Benediction
Wrecker x Reader
Wrecker has trouble sleeping and ends up at your apartment.
Or, Simon is no longer satisfied with staying on the sidelines when it comes to having you
Masterlist
Ghost knows you won’t text him.
Knows it before you even left the cafe. Knows it when he watched you twist your scarf between your fingers, hesitant, bracing yourself for him to laugh and take it back, say say never mind, don’t worry about it, forget I asked.
You smiled, typed your name in fast, handed it back faster.
That’s what gets him.
The smile.
Not the smile itself, worn soft at the edges- pretty- but the way it was practiced. The expression from someone who's spent a whole life leaving rooms before anyone has to ask her to, so it won't hurt as much if you can tell yourself you left first.
You smiled like you’d already forgiven him for not using the number. Like you’re trying to make his future neglect painless for him, convenient, easy to step around. A little gift wrapped absence. No hard feelings. No expectation. No evidence that you’d hoped, even for a second, to be wanted past the moment where wanting you was convenient.
Ghost saw that smile and felt the dog in his ribs bare its teeth.
You won’t text him first. Not because you don’t want to. He knows wanting when he sees it, and you were sick with it by the end of those three hours. You weren’t loud with your wanting, giggling across the table, leaning in with your mouth soft and your lashes lowered, playing at anything clever enough to call flirting.
Your wanting was uglier than that. Lonelier. It sat underneath your skin, trapped, pressing its face to the bars every time he asked another question and didn’t look away from the answer.
You wanted his attention with the shame of someone who has gone a long time without it being give. Without being fed.
Authors always made hunger pretty in stories. They made it into longing, into hands reaching across moonlit sheets, into mouths opening under rain, into women looking out windows and being tragic in a way that can still be admired.
They don’t talk about the way starvation ruins. They don’t talk about how it hollows the eyes and rots the teeth. How it makes the stomach cramp around even the promise of food. How something can be so empty that being fed feels like a threat, because emptiness at least has been faithful. Emptiness at least never pretended to love you and then sat laughing beside another woman’s ring.
He saw you in the cafe and knew you were starving.
A thing under the porch with its belly flat to the dirt, tail tucked hard, ribs showing through the hide, eyes huge and wet. Something that had learned to live off scraps and then hated itself for salivating when a hand came close. Something that would crawl forward an inch, trembling, nose full of the smell of food, singleminded focus on the pile of meat in the palm of the hand rather than focusing on the person attached to it, never knowing whether that person was coaxing you forward to actually feed it or just wants to watch it want.
Ghost had taken you off guard.
He hadn’t meant to, not at first. The cafe had meant to be a small, controlled reintroduction. Coincident, engineered- even if the path had already been laid beneath your feet before you walked it. He had planned for a cup of tea, ten minutes, a quiet word spoken between you two.
Nothing more than a hand lowered to the ground, palm down, fingers curled in, near enough for the frightened thing to smell him without feeling seized.
Then you sat down.
And you ate.
There was no other word for it. Once you understood he was listening, once you realized he wasn’t waiting for a gap so he could put himself back in the center, something in you split open at the seams and spilled out. You started carefully at first, picking at the edge of conversation, apologizing with your eyes and your curled in shoulders every time you took up more than a mouthful of space. But he kept asking. Kept waiting. Kept his gaze steady, his voice low, greedy for even a scrap of your attention.
After that, you devoured, tearing into his attention like a starving thing with meat, single minded, blood soaking the maw of the need inside you while the rest of you tried to keep your hands clean. His questions became bones cracked open for marrow, redirecting attention back to you became bowls full of steaming food pushed closer, his patience became warmth, and you were so cold you took so much of it before you remembered you were supposed to be civilized.
You talked safe subjects, nothing important, not to you, but Simon took every piece and kept it. Let it settle under his ribs. Let it gather, building a nest inside his chest, taking up space that had previously been empty for so long.
Then you saw the clock and there it was: the flinch after feeding.
He watched the horror move through you. Watched you understand three hours had passed and immediately become sorry for them. Sorry for speaking. Sorry for taking. Sorry for having a need visible enough that someone might recognize the size of it.
You gathered yourself head down, tail tucked, voice gone light and brittle with the scramble to leave before he could change his mind about wanting you there.
He should have let you go.
He asked for your number instead.
Now, sitting in the dark of his car with your contact open on his phone, he can still see the way you looked when he did. Startled, then pleased, then frightened by the pleasure.
You held his phone and he could see you already imagining how this would go: You’d give him your number, spend the next several days looking at your phone every time it chimed, hope blooming so instinctively you never had the chance to crush it. Then you’d see it was only another app notification, another spam email, another weather alert, and quietly swallow the disappointment before it had the chance to embarrass you. By the end of the week, your stomach would churn with hope turned sour almost as soon as your screen lit up.
Still, you typed.
That matters.
(He tells himself that has to matter.)
Now, he sits with your name glowing beneath his thumb and his thoughts drift towards Price.
That’s the bitter root of it, isn’t it? Price. Always Price somewhere under the skin of this. Price with his steady hands and his calm voice and the brutal, useful patience that once got inside Simon Riley the same way he did to you, teaching the dog in his ribs where to lie down.
Ghost remembers being young, though young feels like the wrong word to use. Young implies something soft that could have still been saved. He had been all bone and bristle by the time he met Price, a body full of locked doors, every kindness treated as suspicious, every hand as a possible fist that hadn't swung yet.
He doesn’t remember himself as a boy so much as something that existed wrong in the world. A dog with wire sunk deep around its throat, grown mean from the pull of it, teeth bared at every hand because every hand he'd known came moments before pain.
He had his hackles up at everyone. Soap's noise put his teeth on edge- all that warmth and reckless affection crowding the air until Simon wanted to bare his own just to make him back off. Gaz was worse, quieter, easy in his skin, easy with people, trust that had never once cost him anything to give. It made something starved in Simon snarl before Gaz had done a single thing wrong. Price's attention was the worst of all, because it didn't rush him. Didn't demand his loyalty and trust. Didn't pity him. Didn't give him anything obvious enough to reject.
Price approached like he knew the dog.
That’s what Simon hated first.
(A mug of tea left near his elbow without comment. A plate shoved toward him with a blunt eat before you drop. A cigarette offered after a bad op without mentioning the shake in Simon’s hands. Price never asked for the animal’s belly before he’d earned the right to see its teeth.)
The first time Price touched the back of his neck, Simon nearly broke his wrist.
It hadn’t been much, that was the awful part. Just fingers carding into the short hair at his nape after a mission had gone bad enough that Simon’s vision kept flashing white at the edges. A firm grip, warm and certain, thumb pressing where tension lived like a buried wire. His whole body had gone rigid. (- Teeth. Blood. Movemovemove. Every old alarm screaming at once, every nerve insisting this was the part where the hand became a fist, where the door locked, where the kindness took off its mask and showed the bill due-)
Price didn’t flinch.
He only tightened his fingers enough to hold and said, low, “Easy, lad.”
Easy.
(As if Simon were something that could be calmed without being humiliated. As if the dog in him could be spoken to without making a joke of the muzzle. As if staying still under a hand did not have to mean surrendering to it.)
It worked.
That was the part Simon never quite got over. It worked. Price domesticated the dog by increments, by pressure and food and presence and that damned voice that always sounded like it knew the dog would heel because he’d decided it would.
He taught Simon which hands could be tolerated near the throat. He taught him that a command could be shelter if given by someone willing to stand in the storm with you. He taught him that being fed did not always mean being owned.
(Or maybe it did.
Maybe Simon just learned to love the owner.)
The thought should disgust him more than it does.
Instead, it sits cold and useful in his chest as he looks at your name. Price made a lesson of him. Fine. Ghost can use it better. Ghost can take the thing Price used to pull a snarling, half feral man into loyalty and turn it back on what he was careless enough to lose. There’s a irony there so sharp it feels like mercy if he holds it at the right angle.
Price taught him how to quiet the dog.
Ghost will use the lesson to take Price’s girl.
Not fast or clumsy. You’d bolt. He knows you’d bolt because he knows your fears now, knows the way it presses you low to the ground the moment wanting makes you visible. He can’t come at you head on with sweetness.
Sweetness would make you sick. Price ruined sweetness for you, poured it over lies until even kindness must taste like another woman’s perfume if it gets too warm. You need plain things first. Small things. Dry things. A line of crumbs leading out from under the porch.
So he sends a photograph.
It’s of an old dog outside a laundrette, sitting just outside the spill of yellow shop light. It had made him think of you before he could stop it, the way it held itself apart from the door, close enough to still feel the heat every time someone came out, far enough back not to be kicked.
It was the way it didn’t ask to be let in, didn’t even seem to believe in being let in anymore, and still hadn’t left.
He sends it without a caption.
Then he waits.
Waiting is usually nothing to him. He can empty himself into it. Become breath, pulse, shadow, the patience behind a scope. He can wait through cold, blood loss, hunger, the slow crawl of pain up the spine. He can wait while men lie. Wait while they bleed. Wait while orders change and bodies cool and the world makes its ugly little adjustments around him.
Waiting for you is different because he knows what the silence is doing to you.
He imagines the phone lighting in your hands. Imagines your face going still when you see his name there, surprise catching in you before pleasure can make itself known, before you can shove it back down where it belongs. You wouldn’t have expected him to reach for you first. Wouldn’t have known what to do with the weight of anyone’s attention laid in your lap.
He can see it too clearly, the small panic that must have buzzed beneath your skin, the way you must have froze, start trying to build yourself into something acceptable before you answered, trying to decide what kind of person you’re supposed to be in response. Casual. Funny. Grateful, but not too grateful. Interested, but not hungry. Human, but not so human that the need shows and scares him off.
The message sits delivered.
No answer.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Two.
The dog in his ribs starts to pace.
(He can almost hear Price, years ago, voice dry with that infuriating calm. Patience, lad.)
Ghost’s jaw tightens.
He gives you another thirty seconds, then sends the second text.
Made it home alright?
Nothing elaborate. Nothing that corners you. Just concern shaped like a practical question, societal expectations to ask even for people who just met, something you can answer without needing to expose the whole trembling nerve of yourself. It’s neutral enough to pass for restraint, and it would pain the picture of polite concern, if the tracker hadn’t already told him you were there. (If Simon thinks too long about that, about the fact that he knows the answer before he ever asks the question, the whole thing gets a little harder to call patience instead of hunger.)
Your reply comes fast enough that he knows the first message had you frozen.
Yeah. Sorry, I should’ve texted.
There it is.
The apology lands in him like a match dropped into oil.
Not because he’s angry at you. He doesn’t think he could be, not for this, not for a reflex beaten so deep it moves before your pride can catch it. He’s angry at the invisible boot. At every room that taught you to lower yourself before anyone asked. At every person who made you believe being remembered created a debt. At Price, most of all, because Price knew exactly what it meant to be trusted by a wounded thing and still treated you like something that he expected to still be there when he came back to it after neglecting it.
The image is ugly, but it’s true, and truth has never cared whether it flatters.
Ghost types, You don’t need to apologize
He stares at it, then adds, Just wanted to make sure you got in
A softer man would put a smile after it. A warmer one might add something sweet, something easy, something with a little glow to it. Ghost does neither. He doesn’t want to sound like Price, doesn’t want to lay syrup over the wound and call it comfort while maggots and flies fester around it. You’ve had enough of that. You need the plainness of bread before the body can tolerate anything richer.
The messages go read.
You don’t answer for long enough that he knows you’re retreating into yourself, trying to fold the whole exchange into something manageable, trying to draw on experience of theoretical scenarios you’ve read about, heard talked about, seen on tv- to figure out how to respond next in just the right way to seem interested in the conversation without appearing ravenous and scaring someone off with the force of your hunger.
Finally, you send, I did. Thank you.
Too careful.
Too small.
Manners, then. The old kennel. The place you go when you’re trying to be acceptable enough to keep, distant enough to discard without mess.
Ghost lets the silence sit for a breath.
He could push for more.
He wants to. Christ, he wants to. There’s a hunger in him too, quieter and more disciplined, but it lifts its head at the sight of yours. He wants to put his fingers into the wound and make you tell him who did it. Wants to count every reason and give each one a name, a face, a consequence. Wants to hear you say Price with that broken softness and then teach your mouth to shape someone else’s- his- name afterward.
But pushing now would be greedy.
You take another few seconds, and he imagines you looking at the screen, worrying your bottom lip as you try to find reasons to keep the conversation going- desperate for even a crumb of attention. Maybe the corner of your mouth moves. Maybe it doesn’t. It matters too much to him either way, which is its own warning. He ignores the warning. (He’s good at that too.)
Then you text, Did you get home okay too?
Ghost looks up.
His car is parked beneath the hacked back branches of a sycamore, engine off, rain ticking against the roof. The street is wet and mostly empty, amber black under the lamps, water running in the gutter and gathering around the tires. A car drives past at the corner. Somewhere above him, someone’s television hums through a cracked window. Somewhere lower, a couple argues.
Ghost sits in the dark and looks at your question.
‘Did you get home okay too?’
You’re returning the shape of concern because receiving it without offering something back feels like debt. You’re trying to make the exchange equal so your own need doesn’t show too much. He can almost see you doing it, can almost hear the little startled scramble inside you: ask him too, ask him too, don’t just sit there being cared about like a wound with a mouth.
His thumb moves.
Close enough.
Of course he’s close to home.
Because he is outside your apartment.
He doesn’t let himself dress it up as sentiment. Sentiment is soft, and this isn’t soft, has never been soft, never been the lover standing under a balcony reciting poetry to a swooning maiden. This is the clean, brutal certainty of coordinates fixed beneath his skin. Your building. Your window. The narrow mouth of the alley beside it. The weak spill of light through your curtains when you forget to shut them all the way.
It should feel like surveillance. It does feel like surveillance. But beneath that, uglier and harder to name, is the fact that some part of him has already settled here with you. Already placed itself inside the narrow hallway, beside the lock, under the hum of your living room lamp, in the corner of a life that has not invited him in. Close enough, he’d said, because the honest answer would’ve been worse: he hasn’t gone home in weeks without coming here first.
There’s a pause.
Then you text, Close enough?
It’s the first time you ask for clarification without apologizing for it.
Small. So small it would be nothing to anyone who hadn’t spent three hours watching you ration your own existence. But to him it is movement in the dirt. The creature under the porch lifting its head. A trembling step forward, belly still low, tail tucked.
He writes, Still out.
Another pause.
In this weather?
Had worse.
That comes out natural enough. True enough. He can almost feel your uncertainty through the phone, the way you’re trying to decide whether this is banter or concern or too much. Trying to find the right amount of you to put into the next message.
You settle on, That’s not reassuring.
Wasn’t meant to be.
You answer with, You’re weird.
Ghost’s mouth shifts, barely.
You kept talking to me for three hours.
He knows the second he sends it that it’s too direct.
Direct enough to turn a light on. Direct enough to show you the bowl after you’ve licked it clean. In his mind, he sees the shame come up fast and hot, sees you jerk backward from the memory of yourself sitting in that cafe, devouring his attention until the clock betrayed you. (Like he still wouldn’t be there listening to you speak if you hadn’t looked up and seen the time) He sees your hands tighten on the phone. Sees the animal in you realize there is blood on its mouth.
He sends another text before you can bolt.
Wasn’t a complaint.
Then, after a beat, because the truth is already loose and he doesn’t feel like calling it back:
Best part of my day.
He lets it stand bare.
No joke. No softening. No easy escape hatch where you can pretend he doesn’t mean it.
The silence afterward stretches.
Ghost watches the rain slide down the windscreen and thinks about food after famine. How the body rejects what it needs because it has forgotten the basics of receiving. How the first mouthful can twist the gut. How fullness can feel like sickness when emptiness is the only thing that has stayed. You’re holding those sixteen words somewhere in your flat, and he knows they are too rich. He knows they are turning over in you like cream in a stomach that has only lived on drops of water.
Your reply comes at last.
Oh.
Just that.
“Oh.”
A sound more than a word. A small animal noise, really, translated into text because you have no other way to make it without being seen.
Then:
I had a nice time too.
Then, almost immediately:
Sorry. That sounds weird.
Ghost exhales through his nose.
Again. Always again. The apology running after every honest thing you say, trying to drag it back into the dark before someone punishes you for letting it breathe.
He wants to be upstairs.
The want comes sharp enough to hurt. He wants to be in the room with you, close enough to stop the apologies before they leave your mouth. Not softly. Softness wouldn’t do. Softness would let you wriggle away, would give you too much room to turn fear into politeness and politeness into distance.
He wants his hand at the back of your neck, firm the way Price’s had once been on his, holding you still through the first wild panic of being kept. He wants to press you down out of the wind, out of the open, out of reach of every old voice that taught you wanting was something to be ashamed of. (Wants to feel you fight the comfort because of course you’d fight it, because starving bodies cramp around food, because a kicked dog still snaps when someone kneels too close. He could take the blood. He’d take worse if it meant you learned.)
Easy, he’d tell you.
Easy.
Not a plea. Not a coax. A command with shelter inside it.
He sees it too clearly: you beneath the weight of him, breathing fast, hands braced against his chest like you can push away the thing you’ve crawled toward your whole life. Not hurt. Not trapped. Held down from the panic. Held through it. His voice at your ear until the animal in you exhausts itself against his steadiness and finally- finally learns that staying doesn’t always end in a kick.
Then the quiet after.
You curled beside him because he has made himself the safest place left.
Ghost watches your shadow cross the seam of the curtains.
The thought is intimate enough to be covetous and he knows it.
He is not a good man. That has never been a useful lie to tell himself. Good men have soft hands and clean intentions and the luxury of waiting for permission without needing to stack the world in their favor. (Good men call themselves good while they leave women like you crying at bus stops because goodness, he has noticed, often ends where inconvenience begins.)
Price would be called good by plenty of people.
Price, who made you a home and kept another one behind your back. Price, who let you send tenderness into the dark and never told you it was being filed beside someone else’s garden, someone else’s ring, someone else’s future. Price, who knew how to love damaged things, or claimed he did, and still left you standing in a doorway while laughter closed over your head like water.
(He wonders what Price is doing now. Wonders whether the man has noticed your absence. Whether he’s staring at an unanswered message with that crease in his brow, annoyed that the quiet little place he kept tucked away from the rest of his life has stopped opening on command. Simon hopes it hurts. Not enough. It won’t hurt enough. Men like Price don’t understand the worth of a thing until another man’s hand is already around it.)
No. Ghost is not good.
He is patient.
There are worse things to be.
(And the patience works.
Not quickly. Not all at once. Nothing so crude as a trapdoor snapping shut beneath your feet. It’s slower than that. Meaner, maybe, for something being gentle. A photograph here. A message there. Home yet ? Eat something? Door locked? Little scraps pushed under the porch with two careful fingers, close enough for you to smell, never close enough to make you bare your teeth. He lets you take them and run. Lets you retreat granted, every time, because that’s part of it too: teaching a frightened thing that the food will still be there when it comes crawling back.
Months of it. Months until you text him first about stupid things- the woman in front of you at Tesco buying twelve tins of peaches and nothing else, the rain getting into your shoes, something that happened in the book you’re reading. Nothing important. Everything important. Tiny pieces of your day dropped into his hand like offerings.
Then one night, you call.
Your name fills the screen, and Ghost goes still with the phone in his hand because he knows before he answers. There are sounds the world makes when a thing finally comes to fruition. The low click of a door catching. The wet snap of bone under pressure. The little choked intake of breath on the other end of the line when he says your name and you come apart.
“I didn’t- ” A swallow. A breath that judders so hard he can hear your teeth almost click around it. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
There it is.
Months of crumbs. Months of the hand beneath the porch. Months of letting you creep forward and startle back and creep forward again, belly low, tail tucked, eyes huge with the shame of needing anything at all.
Now you’ve crawled close enough to press your shaking mouth into his palm.
“I think there are two men following me,” you whisper, and the last word breaks ugly, wet in the back of your throat. “They’ve been behind me since the station. I crossed twice and they crossed too. I don’t- I don’t know what to do.”
For one sharp second, he isn’t here.
He’s years back with Price’s hand scruffed firm at the nape of his neck, fingers buried in short hair, holding him still through the first feral snap of panic. Easy, lad. Not a plea. Not comfort, not really. A command with a wall built around it. Something to hide inside until the teeth stopped showing.
Ghost’s hand tightens around the phone.
The dog in his ribs lifts its head, and grins; all blood slick teeth in the dark, delighted, patient no longer.
He steps out into the night, keys biting into his palm, and lets the door swing shut behind him.
notes: the bad batch x fem reader
content warning: explicit, nsfw
hunter: forbidden love, brooding
♥︎ "Don't pretend like you don't know exactly what you're doing to me, m'eshla. Maker, there's no one else like you."
♥︎ he knows it's wrong, and so do you. your love is forbidden and secret - hurried kisses in the Marauder's cockpit, a fleeting brush of your hands whenever you walk his way. "we shouldn't be doing this," he growls as his lips crash into yours, licking slowly into your mouth, his teeth catching your bottom lip as he slots an armored knee between your thighs
♥︎ eye contact. whenever the conversation gets serious and he finds you all shy and bashful, curling in on yourself, his fingertips brush beneath your chin, gently tilting your face until there's nowhere to look but at him. his eyes are pools of rich brown honey that gaze down at you with a tenderness you've never felt before
♥︎ the batch always comments about how he's extra broody whenever he's away from you. and although he's good at concealing your relationship, they quickly put the pieces together. after all, they've never seen their brother blush until you he met you
wrecker: bodyguard, tending to wounds
♥︎ "You are the only thing that matters, do you hear me? I'll always take care of you."
♥︎ knows he's your muscle and isn't afraid to flaunt it. the moment another man gets too close to you, he's there before you even call his name
♥︎ surprisingly gentle for a man his size. when you badly sprain your ankle one night, he kneels by your side, his large hands carefully wrapping the bandage around your swollen ankle with the utmost care before carrying you the entire way back home, bridal style
♥︎ wrecker has always been honest about his feelings for you. he wears his heart on his sleeve, and has never been shy to gush about how much you mean to him
crosshair: enemies to lovers, forced proximity
♥︎ "Hmm, you wanna know I think? I think you missed me. Want me to prove it to you?"
♥︎ crosshair has always been hard to read. sometimes, you swear he hates you more than anyone. he purposely tries to push your buttons, and it's almost like he enjoys riling you up. nothing pisses you off more than when he smirks down at you after an argument and tells you, "too bad" before walking away
♥︎ you often find yourself watching as he thoroughly disassembles and cleans his rifle after a mission - long fingers slowly sliding in and out of the barrel, always precise and controlled, leaving no spot untouched. you wonder if he'd touch you the same way, meticulous and torturously slow, only letting you cum when he finally allows it
♥︎ pretends to be annoyed whenever you're near, dramatically huffing in your presence, but doesn't hesitate to offer a hand when you're climbing the ramp of the Marauder or struggling to lift something heavy. "don't get used to it," he'll tell you
♥︎ tries and fails to hide his jealousy, even when you attempt to call his bluff. when you're talking to another clone at 79s, he'll slide onto the barstool next to them, warning them to "get lost." "what the hell was that?" you ask him, and he merely shrugs, nonchalant as ever. but when you start walking away, you feel a gentle tug. his fingers wrap around your wrist, soft and warm, pulling you closer to him. "not so fast." "crosshair-" you begin, but his expression turns more vulnerable than you've ever seen it. "stay with me."
♥︎ during the rare moments where he loses an argument, he isn't afraid to take things back to the bedroom. there's a sinful, dark glint in his eyes as he lowers his mouth to your ear, his voice low and raspy as he growls, "bend over." you know it's over when he bends you into your favorite position, fucking the imprint of his body against yours until you're nothing more than a whimpering, writhing mess, frantically apologizing and pleading with him until your moans becoming incoherent babbling
tech: fake dating, friends to lovers
♥︎ "Darling, I don't want to pretend anymore. You're the only thing I want."
♥︎ you don't know why tech feels insecure, because you've always been enamored with his goggled brown eyes and intelligence, his wit and humor that comes out in rare moments. you're more than happy to make the suggestion when he confides in you about his lack of experience. you've been friends forever, so fake dating won't mean anything to either of you, right?
♥︎ when he falls, he falls hard. his hand mindlessly searches for yours, intertwining your fingers together while he's nose-deep in his datapad. you don't even think he realizes what he's doing until a subtle pink blush stains his cheeks, but still, he doesn't pull away, his thumb brushing over yours for comfort
♥︎ naturally tries to explain what he feels with data and research, but struggles to put his crush into words. "the data never said anything that compares to this... feeling. I don't fully understand it. my core temperature has spiked every time you walk in the cockpit, but my vitals looks normal, except for my heart rate, that is. although, if you consider my overall oxygen intake, I--" tech pauses, aware that he's rambling now. his face flushes when he finally looks at you, all bashful and uncertain. "may I kiss you?"
echo: hurt/comfort, second chance romance
♥︎ "I know what it feels like to hurt. And I'd never want to do that to you. Ever. I'd get on my knees if you just said the words. Whenever I'm with you, nothing else matters, and I feel like the luckiest man in the world."
♥︎ echo is hesitant to love, but when he loves, he loves deeply
♥︎ you kissed him first. when you told him you cared for him, you could tell in his eyes that he didn't believe you, that he was worried it was some cruel joke. so your hands gently clasp his cheeks, pulling him closer until your lips brush his - soft and tender, letting you know what he means to you without any words
♥︎ your romance isn't a lightning strike, instantaneous and quick to fizzle out, but it's soft and passionate and full of yearning - lazy mornings spent tangled in sheets, tender brushes of fingertips and lips across each other's bodies, gentle kisses that take your breath away and leave you wanting more
Coruscanta a'den mhi, Vode an. - We, the wrath of Coruscant, Brothers all.
Clonetober 2021 Day 29: Command Class
(Fox's tattoo is written in Mandalorian and means "ka'rta tor" or "one heart of justice," which is the title of an ancient Mandalorian war chant. also his hair is grey bc palpatine stresses him tf out.)
The idea of clones having absurd tan lines has been amusing me lately. Just think of a group of guys who grew up indoors without sun exposure and probably had supplements for the vitamins instead of actively getting UV. Their Māori genetics have been itching for any single ray of sunlight. So when they get out, and the only part of themselves they somewhat regularly expose is their face, they tan immediately. Like a dry sponge unfurling at a drop of water. Meanwhile, the rest of their body that’s covered in armor still has a slow way to go
I alway listen to Johnny Cash whenever I feel down
he gets it
But no, fr. His songs just hit different when you’re in a sad mood, he always helps me and I love listening to his songs. He makes it easier for me and brings out my happy again.
Hunter is the oldest of his brothers by the manner of minutes, but that is a fact he cannot forget. He takes this arbitrary responsibility seriously, using his senses and street smarts to protect his family. His Whānau. Thus, the death of their parents weighed on his heart the heaviest. As the son of New Zealand immigrants but born and raised in the Bronx, he struggled to maintain his family’s identity as he took the role of their new leader.
Upon being drafted in 1942 (along with the rest of his brothers), he was forced to leave his baby sister, Omega, behind. She was the person he felt most obligated to protect, and now a forced duty came in between them. His loyalty to his family proved he was the natural fit for Sargent when Captain Rex pulled the four brothers into the 99th OSS, also known as The Bad Batch. They were a specialized team tasked with specialized missions, receiving orders directly from General Skywalker. Hunter lead the team to many successes, but his greatest accomplishment was bringing his brothers home safe when the war ended.
Civilian life was an adjustment after that. With Omega as his priority, he opted for a part time position as a cook at the Copacabana. This allowed him to spend time with his sister by day, and be surrounded by his brothers at night. A part of their team once again.
High quality art images, references, and taglist under the cut! ~
As you struggle through the numb, angry weeks after your rescue, Simon’s attempt to protect you from afar by sending something that only sharpens the truth everyone else already sees: safety means nothing if he refuses to come home.
69. The Dog at the Door
Weeks do not pass cleanly after something like that.
They clot.
They drag.
They blur at the edges and then suddenly hit you all at once when you realize it has been seventeen days since you washed your hair properly or twenty three since you touched the mixer at the bakery or long enough that the sourdough starter in the back of the fridge has gone from neglected to definitely dead.
That one, weirdly, nearly breaks you more than some of the bigger things.
You notice it one afternoon while looking for butter you do not even end up using. The jar sits at the back against the backsplash, greyish at the top, hooch separated, the smell sharp, rancid, and wrong when you crack the lid.
You just stand there in the kitchen in one of Simon's hoodies and fuzzy socks and stare at it.
Your sourdough starter.
The one you named because it's bakers law. The one you have kept alive through moves, holidays, rough weeks, bad flour brands, business owner exhaustion, and one bout of the flu so miserable you thought you were hallucinating.
Dead.
Because you forgot. Because you have not been baking. Because your whole life split open and apparently even the things that used to live because of your hands can die quietly in the dark if you stop looking at them long enough.
You put the lid back on and burst into tears right there in front of the fridge.
It is not graceful.
It is not one dramatic sob and then done.
It is that ugly, exhausted crying where your whole body folds in around the grief of a thousand little things that are not actually about sourdough at all.
The bakery is still closed.
Not permanently, everybody keeps saying. Just for now. Just until you are ready. Just until the systems are in place. Just until the threat assessment changes. Just until.
You hate "just until" almost as much as you hate silence.
You do not bake. You do not even pretend to try most days.
The thought of the kitchen there, with its metal counters and hooks and the back bell that did not ring and your apron left hanging like a skin somebody shed, makes your stomach drop in a way that is immediate and physical.
So you stay home. Or in the house, anyway.
Home is a harder word now.
The mornings are the worst. You wake up with that split second of confusion where your body has not remembered yet, and then it all pours back in. The room without windows. The rescue. The safe house. Simon not coming to bed. Simon not coming home. The shape of his distance like another locked door in the house.
You stop opening the curtains some days.
You stop answering texts unless they are from Price because somehow his check ins feel less like pity and more like something solid you can lean against without collapsing.
He calls every other day at first.
Never too long. Never prying.
Just enough to ask if you ate. If you slept. If the house systems are holding. If you want a security contact adjusted or a car sent if you need to go somewhere.
You begin to realize, in a quiet way that hurts and helps at the same time, that Price is doing what Simon should be doing.
Not in the husband way. Not emotionally.
In the practical, steady, I am not leaving you to float kind of way.
"Any issues at the house," he asks one afternoon while you sit on the floor in the living room with Percy in your lap like he is some kind of emotional support fern.
"No," you say. "Unless we are counting the fact that I have eaten dry cereal for dinner twice this week."
Price is quiet for half a beat.
"That's not dinner, Riley."
"It was in a bowl."
"That does not make it a meal."
You huff a tiny laugh.
"Bossy."
"Yes," he says. "Order something hot. I'll ask again tomorrow."
He hangs up before you can argue and you do order something hot because apparently being told what to do by one stern British man is still enough to move your body when nothing else is.
Johnny and his wife come over twice a week.
Not scheduled. Never announced as help. They just appear with groceries or takeaway or wine or too much energy for your sad little house, and between them they keep it from becoming a tomb.
Johnny sprawls across your couch and talks utter nonsense until you laugh by accident.
His misses cleans your kitchen without making it feel like an indictment. She folds laundry while telling you stories about Johnny being impossible at twenty one and the first time she nearly left him over a fishing trip and how men are dramatic little bastards when they think love means they have to become martyrs.
You do not ask her directly if she means Simon.
She does not say his name directly either. She does not need to.
Once, when Johnny is outside pretending to check the car for something and very obviously giving the two of you privacy, his wife sits beside you at the table and pushes a mug of tea into your hands.
"You're angry," she says.
You blink at the steam curling up.
"I'm a lot of things."
"Yeah," she says gently. "But you're angry too."
You laugh once, sharp.
"He left me after I got home."
Her face tightens in that sympathetic, furious way only another woman can wear without it feeling patronizing.
"I know."
"No," you say, because now that the words are coming they are not stopping. "No, I don't think anybody really gets how insane it feels. I was taken. I was the one in that room. I'm the one who wakes up shaking because a floorboard creaks. I'm the one who cannot even look at pastry dough without feeling sick. And somehow I'm also the one left here while my husband decides from a safe distance that he loves me too much to come home."
Your throat burns.
She reaches across and covers your hand with hers.
"You're allowed to hate that."
The relief of hearing that nearly makes you cry again.
Because yes. Yes!
You love him. You understand pieces of why. You know his fear has logic inside it.
You still hate it!
Kyle starts coming over too.
Always with pizza and bad movies. Always with the kind of energy that says he is trying very hard to be easy company and not another person checking whether you are okay.
It works more than he probably knows.
He sits on the floor with a paper plate balanced on one knee and lets terrible action films scream in the background while you eat three slices of pepperoni pizza in silence and slowly start feeling like a person with a body again.
One night, halfway through a movie so stupid it circles back around to genius, he pauses with a slice halfway to his mouth and looks at you over it.
"You know you're allowed to be furious with him, right?"
You stare at the television.
The hero has just jumped a motorcycle through a greenhouse for reasons that make no narrative sense.
"I know."
Kyle lowers the slice.
"No, I mean really. I fucking am. You don't have to keep making him noble in every sentence."
That one lands.
You pull your knees up under the blanket and rest your chin there.
"I am pissed, but I also know why he's doing it," you say.
"Yeah," Kyle says. "And it's still a crap thing to do."
You let that sit. He does not push after. Just hands you another slice and presses play like that is enough said.
Maybe it is for tonight.
Simon asks Johnny for updates.
At first it is almost subtle. A text here and there.
How is she?
Eating.
Sleeping.
Has she left the house?
The kind of clipped little questions that would almost read as practical concern if Johnny did not know him well enough to hear the desperation pressed flat inside them.
Then it stops being subtle at all.
Johnny is halfway through cleaning his rifle at his kitchen table one evening when Simon appears in his doorway looking like a man who has slept approximately never and has no business pretending otherwise.
Johnny's wife glances up from the stove, takes one look at his face, and says, "You can come in, but I'm not making you tea unless you stop standing there like guilt in human form."
Johnny snorts. Simon steps inside.
There is a bruise yellowing along one side of his ribs still. The cut under his eyebrow has mostly healed. None of it makes him look less tired.
He leans against the counter but does not sit.
"How is she?"
Johnny keeps working on the rifle for another second just to be irritating.
"Oh, your missus? She's fuckin' brilliant," he says. "Opened the bakery, started a sourdough cult, ran a marathon, punched Price in the throat. What d'you think?"
Simon's jaw flexes.
"Johnny."
Johnny's wife sets a mug down in front of him anyway, because she is not heartless.
"She's a fuckin' mess," Johnny says, more serious now. "She's barely eating unless somebody puts food in front of her. She's not baking. She cried over a jar last week. Gaz's gone over twice with pizza because she'll actually eat if he pretends it's just a film night."
Simon closes his eyes for half a second.
Johnny watches him.
"You should go home, Simon."
Simon says nothing.
Johnny puts the rifle part down with a little clack.
"I'm serious," he says. "This is ridiculous."
"It's not safe."
"It's not safe for her to think you've decided she's too damaged to share a bed with, either," Johnny shoots back.
Simon's head comes up fast. "That's not what this is."
"No," Johnny says. "But that's what it feels like to her."
The room goes quiet.
Johnny's wife does not look up, but she is listening to every word.
Simon drags a hand over his face. "She needs protection," he says, voice low and strained. "She needs eyes on the house. She needs someone there if something happens."
"She needs you, Simon," Johnny says.
"That's the fuckin' problem."
Johnny stares at him like he has genuinely never wanted to hit a friend and hug him in equal measure more than this exact second.
"No," he says slowly. "That's the point. She's terrified. She needs to feel protected, not managed from a distance like some asset. She needs affection. Reassurance. Her husband in the house. In the bed. Acting like she survived something and still gets to have him after."
Simon's expression closes again, that horrible controlled thing he has been using like armor.
"If I'm there, I'm the reason the target stays on the house."
Johnny looks like he might start chewing glass. "She's already the target, mate."
Simon flinches.
That lands because it is true. Because nothing he is doing now can rewrite what already happened.
Still, he cannot seem to let it through.
"Protection," he says again, quieter now, like he is trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "She needs to feel safe."
Johnny's wife finally turns from the stove.
"You know what makes a woman feel safe after a man took her from her own life," she says.
Simon looks at her.
"Not being abandoned by the one she came back for."
The room goes dead silent.
Simon takes the hit. You can see it land in the set of his shoulders, the way his mouth tightens. But then that same terrible self punishing logic settles back over him.
Johnny sees it happen and swears softly.
"He's not hearing us."
"No," she says. "He's hearing us. He just hates we're right."
Simon says nothing for a long time. Then, eventually, "I can arrange support."
Johnny stares at him. "Support?"
"Security. Presence. Someone with her."
Johnny opens his mouth and closes it again because there are too many wrong things in that sentence to choose only one.
Johnny's wife shuts her eyes briefly like she is praying for patience she was not born with.
"You're going to send fuckin' support," Johnny says finally, in the tone one might use on a man confessing he plans to fix a marriage with a lawn ornament.
Simon's jaw sets. "If she needs protection."
Johnny laughs, one ugly bark of disbelief. "She doesn't need a guard detail, you idiot. She needs you. Her husband."
Simon looks away. And that is how Johnny knows he has already made the choice.
Three days later, there is a knock at your door just after noon.
You are still in yesterday's leggings and one of Simon's old shirts. Your hair is in a knot that gave up trying hours ago. You were halfway through making toast you did not really want because Price asked if you had eaten and apparently that now means something in your brain.
The knock is firm. Professional. Not a neighbour.
Your stomach twists immediately.
You check the camera first.
A woman in a dark jacket. Another man behind her. And between them, sitting at perfect heel with a level of stillness that catches every breath in your body all at once, is a German Shepherd.
You unlock the door and open it slowly.
The dog lifts his head.
Beautiful. Dark saddle. Intelligent amber brown eyes. Ears pricked. Harness on. Calm in the way only highly trained animals can be.
You know that dog.
Not well. Not from petting and play. But by reputation and a handful of visits to base and the stories the boys tell when they get nostalgic and stupid over old operations.
Riley.
The trainer smiles politely.
"Mrs. Riley?"
That alone nearly makes you slam the door.
"I'm sorry," you say, already confused and raw. "What... what's this?"
The woman glances at a clipboard in her hand.
"I'm Ava. This is Marcus. We've been authorized to transfer K9 asset Riley into temporary personal protection assignment under your care."
You just stare at her. The dog sits there, patient and gorgeous and real.
Your brain catches up in ugly pieces.
Simon.
Of course. Of course he would.
Of course this is how his mind would solve protection. If he cannot come home, then he will send something that can watch the door and hear footsteps and make the house feel occupied. Something loyal. Armed in its own way. Something he trusts because it has worked beside men like him before.
You feel your face change before you can stop it.
Ava clocks it instantly and softens a fraction.
"We can come back at a better time," she says carefully.
"No," you say, because your voice is suddenly too sharp and because if you do not let this absurd little parade in right now you might actually scream on the front path. "No. It's fine. Come in."
Riley enters first on command, moving through your hallway with that smooth, quiet confidence that makes it obvious he has seen stranger places and worse things than your little house with the half dead fern and the too many throw blankets.
He stops in the living room and sits.
Waits.
Watches.
Your stupid traitor heart loves him on sight.
That makes it worse.
Ava walks you through everything in the kitchen.
Commands. Hand signals. Feeding times. Alert behaviours. How he positions himself if he senses someone at the door. What "watch" means versus "guard." How not to issue contradictory commands when you are upset.
You nod because your body knows how to learn a list.
Riley lies on the floor by your feet while she talks, head on his paws, looking like the very definition of safety if safety had fur and military training.
Marcus opens a crate bag and lays out bowls, leash, vest, paperwork.
Paperwork.
Of course there is paperwork. Simon has replaced himself with excellent paperwork and a highly trained dog.
The thought is so ridiculous and so painful you have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.
Ava notices.
"You alright?"
That nearly makes you laugh in her face.
"Did he send you?"
The question comes out flatter than you intended. You clear your throat and try again, "Lieutenant Simon Riley. Did he put in the request?"
She hesitates just enough to answer anyway.
"Yes, ma'am. He did make the request," she says. "Command approved it."
You look at Riley.
At the broad head and the calm eyes and the body built to intervene if the world goes wrong.
Your throat burns.
You hate that some part of you wants to kneel down and bury your face in his neck and cry because he is warm and alive and here and he came from Simon's world with Simon's trust wrapped around his harness.
You hate it because it is not enough.
When the training is done, Ava leaves you with a final packet of instructions and a number to call if anything changes.
Marcus carries the spare crate to the utility room.
Then it is just you and Riley in the sudden quiet.
The dog sits by the kitchen table and looks at you.
You look back.
Then, because apparently this is your life now, you say, "So he'll send a dog but not himself."
Riley blinks.
No opinion.
Good for him.
You sink down onto a chair and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. The tears come fast and hot. Anger this time more than grief.
Because this is thoughtful.
That is what makes it unbearable.
It is thoughtful. Protective. Logically kind.
And underneath all of that, it feels like a knife.
Simon knows you are afraid. Knows you need company. Knows you are not sleeping right and jumping at sounds and checking locks with a shaking hand.
And instead of coming home, instead of being a husband with a body in your bed and a voice in your kitchen, he has sent a brilliant, loyal, professionally trained stand in.
A dog.
A beautiful, innocent dog.
A replacement for his absence with perfect recall and command response.
You laugh once, a horrible sound.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
Riley gets up and comes closer.
He rests his chin on your knee.
That nearly ruins you outright.
You stare down at him, teeth clenched against the fresh wave of tears.
"Don't," you whisper. "You are too cute for me to be mad at you."
His tail gives one quiet thump against the floor.
You scrub a hand over your face and pull your phone from the table.
Your hands shake so hard you mistype his name the first time.
The message field opens.
You stare at it.
Then you type.
You will send a dog but not come home yourself?
You stop. Delete it. Type again.
Really, Simon? A fucking dog?
Delete that too.
Too emotional. Too easy to dismiss as heat.
You want it to land. You want him to feel the shape of what he has done. You type carefully this time.
I'm glad Riley is here. He's beautiful and I know what he's trained for. But if you think sending me a service dog is the same thing as coming home to your wife, you've lost your fucking mind.
You stare at the words.
Then hit send before you can make them smaller.
Riley leans harder into your knee.
You drop the phone on the table and put both hands in his fur because there is no one else here to hold onto and because none of this is his fault and because the house is quiet again except now the quiet breathes beside you.
The message shows delivered.
No reply.
You sit there in Simon's kitchen with Simon's dog at your feet and anger burning clean and bright through the numb places for the first time in weeks.
Good.
Maybe that will keep you alive too.
💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰
✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨
Just drop a “TAG ME” and I’ll make sure you don’t miss a chapter 🖤
protip for everyone, but mostly boys in this case:
when you are on a date, and someone has an interest you don't quite get, instead of saying lol lame, try saying hmm i don't quite get that, please explain that to me, and then listen as the other person talks about why that thing is something they are in to.
you might learn something which recontextualizes the matter, and you will definitely learn something more about your date, which is the entire point of dating.
you don't have to be a superfan by the end, but you will have shown you can be chill and take an interest in stuff, which is much more likely to result in a second date instead of being ditched in a coffee line.
Even if you know the thing and have an established opinion that you don't like it, you don't have to be rude. "That's not really my thing" is a perfectly reasonable response.
My daughter(17) said she cried at this scene. (I’m just old and heartless, so I didn’t cry) but thought it was a bit disturbing he was so little trying to take care of his dad. 🥺
i wanna find fics of wrecker getting his massive head scar and the batch's reaction..... i need to know if there are any......... star wars tumblr help me............
