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.
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.
💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰
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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............
one of the hardest things to learn as a depressed former Gifted Kid™ is that half-assed is better than nothing. take the 50%, 40%, even 20% job. scrubbing your face is better than not taking a shower at all. picking up your clothes is better than never cleaning. nibbling on some bread is better than starving.
DO THINGS HALFWAY. NOW YOU’RE 100% BETTER OFF THAN YOU WERE BEFORE.
One of my college professors used to say “anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.” I didn’t understand that for years because I didn’t do anything poorly, I couldn’t do anything poorly, I had to Do Everything Perfectly.
But brushing your teeth for 30 seconds is better than not brushing them at all when that 2 minutes seems exhausting. Doing ten minutes of yoga is better than 10 minutes of sitting when 30 minutes of cardio sounds impossible. Changing my clothes is good when a whole shower is impossible. Standing on the porch for a few minutes is worth it after being in the house for three straight days because I don’t have the energy to go anywhere.
Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly… because doing it poorly is better than not doing it.
one of the hardest things to learn as a depressed former Gifted Kid™ is that half-assed is better than nothing. take the 50%, 40%, even 20% job. scrubbing your face is better than not taking a shower at all. picking up your clothes is better than never cleaning. nibbling on some bread is better than starving.
DO THINGS HALFWAY. NOW YOU’RE 100% BETTER OFF THAN YOU WERE BEFORE.
One of my college professors used to say “anything worth doing is worth doing poorly.” I didn’t understand that for years because I didn’t do anything poorly, I couldn’t do anything poorly, I had to Do Everything Perfectly.
But brushing your teeth for 30 seconds is better than not brushing them at all when that 2 minutes seems exhausting. Doing ten minutes of yoga is better than 10 minutes of sitting when 30 minutes of cardio sounds impossible. Changing my clothes is good when a whole shower is impossible. Standing on the porch for a few minutes is worth it after being in the house for three straight days because I don’t have the energy to go anywhere.
Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly… because doing it poorly is better than not doing it.
