Mainly a Clone Wars OC/AU blog, where I'll post my doodles and fanfics of clone trooper/SW OCs and reblog others' lovely OCs. As well as ATLA, The Witcher, and many other fandoms. Disclaimer: I have no life and cussing. 27 and constantly hungover.
it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”
you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.
something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.
you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.
it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.
but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.
at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.
logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.
so, you signed up for solo lessons.
before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.
“is it ok that my english is not so good?”
you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”
a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”
something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.
the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.
at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.
you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.
instead you got könig.
a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.
his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.
out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.
you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.
and then he spoke.
"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.
you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.
“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”
he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”
you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”
his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”
the whole thing went… surprisingly well.
könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.
his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.
“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”
it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.
he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.
it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.
you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”
könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”
the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.
texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.
somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.
könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.
you: rip. gone and forgotten.
könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.
“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”
“the internet.”
immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”
“…the bad part.”
“be more specific.”
“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”
apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”
“…conspiracy theories.”
sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.
“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”
“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”
“it was not like that!!”
his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”
“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”
“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”
“nein!!”
amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”
“…yes.”
“jesus christ.”
“it was fun!! and good english practice!”
“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”
“they were very passionate.”
laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.
every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.
he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”
“is it slander if it’s true?”
“YES.”
somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”
you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.
and then, selfies.
his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.
sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.
yours were much less subtle in comparison.
exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”
you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.
after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”
it was cute. unbearably cute.
but all good things must come to an end.
one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.
könig should have cut you off weeks ago.
“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”
hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.
“i need to beat you first.”
amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.
“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”
arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.
but miracles happen.
it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.
somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.
his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
for a moment, you think you have him.
then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.
a gasp hitches in your throat.
his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.
“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”
air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.
“k-könig-”
he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”
your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.
oh.
his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.
understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.
“that was not supposed to happen.”
no shit.
könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.
he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.
nothing. no one.
he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.
his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.
his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”
the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.
“d-don’t stop.”
he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.
könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”
“we don’t nee-”
“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.
you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.
“are you big?”
his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.
he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.
his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."
heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.
his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."
the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.
könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.
his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.
“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”
clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.
his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.
he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”
words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.
könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.
scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.
your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.
“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.
your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.
“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.
“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.
“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.
a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”
you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.
his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”
könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.
“i have touched myself to you.”
you blink. “what?”
his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”
your face burns.
“oh my god.”
his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”
your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”
his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.
könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.
“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”
you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”
“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”
“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”
he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.
your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.
könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”
you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”
his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”
a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”
he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”
challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”
another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”
heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”
hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”
“i won’t,” you shoot back.
“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”
könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”
“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.
"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."
"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.
könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."
you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.
"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."
your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.
könig’s hips jerk.
"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"
your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.
"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"
you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.
"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”
Cody: I swear on my brother's lives I am a straight man
Bly: HELP I CANT BREATH, TELL AYLA I LOVE HER
Rex: The light...its getting closer...
Fox: MY HEART I THINK ITS FAILING
Wolffe: If I knew I was gonna die today I would've bullied Fox more
That’s actually a great explanation as to why our bad batchers seem to be of different ages despite having been decanted the same day (as per commandos lore).
If this is the case, they could be the same chronological age but not the same biologic age, and honestly that makes a ton of sense seeing how Crosshair looks much older than Tech for example, or even Wrecker, despite both of them having been decanted before him ! And I’m not even talking about the grey hair, their faces have different aging traits.
So yeah, very cool ! Thank you again « Star Wars Republic Commando : True Colours », you’re that toxic friend that knows-it-all and hurts me a lot but who is so mesmerising that I can’t let go 👍🏻
Too many ‘Bail Organa wants to befriend clones’ and not enough of the other way around. Bail is nice to Commander Fox 1 (one) time and suddenly he has troopers all over his office. He always has a personal armed escort home whether he needs one or not. They’re offering him knives and shiny rocks and snacks and Bail just can’t bring himself to say no. He goes home to Alderaan for a week and gets a three dozen ‘priority messages’ that are poorly disguised “we miss you” notes. There’s snipers watching over his apartment 24/7. Bail does the bare minimum ONCE and he has the clones undying loyalty and he does his best to be worthy of that.
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
areudirty
romaincrisis
snowghoul
stormborns
