clonewarswritings

[clonewarswritings]

✉️ Letters from across the multiverse! 📬

Imagine for a moment that you are going about your day while traversing everyday stressors—maybe you’re focusing on difficult classes or are dealing with a lot of responsibilities at work, or perhaps its simply a bunch of small things that altogether can be exhausting.

Now imagine that you get an alert that you have a letter waiting for you—a letter that is customized and designed specifically from a beloved comfort character! Perhaps it’s encouragement to get through your studies, or a casual conversation to take your mind off of work; who wouldn’t want to have something like that to brighten their day?

To many people, a comfort character is a fictional character that someone uses to cope with difficult life experiences. They may be used as an escape from reality, or to help work through periods of stress and uncertainty. Sometimes a comfort character is simply a person’s favorite in a work of fiction, or it is a character that they feel a personal and genuine connection to.

My name is Daniel, and I have been writing for well over a decade across original and fandom-based content—and most of that has been for a style of writing most commonly called reader-insert, which allows the reader to immerse themselves in the world of the writing itself. I have always enjoyed exploring a variety of characters and how they resonate with people across the world, and have myself found comfort in the safety of fiction during stressful periods of my life.

With the Multiverse Postal Service, I’m offering my skills and experience to craft you, your self-insert, an OC or a loved one (because who doesn’t love a gift?) a customized letter from your favorite characters!

For more information, or if you are curious to see some of the traditional content I have written, check out the links below!

Etsy Shop | FAQ | Available Universes

AO3 | Main Blog

[clonewarswritings]

STAR WARS WRITING RESOURCES

PLEASE REBLOG AND ADD ANY OTHERS YOU MIGHT KNOW OF <3 <3

WOOKIEEPEDIA. The source of anything and everything you want to know related to Star Wars. Good for fact-checking, character history, or simply killing time. There is also, of course, the official Star Wars Databank! STAR WARS GALAXY MAP. A fantastic project that maps the Star Wars galaxy as we know it. Consider donating ( if you can! ) to help keep the site up and running! Also check out W.R. van Hage’s map and the Star Wars Atlas Online Companion. TIMELINE. While hosted on Wookieepedia, this is nevertheless deserving of its own bullet point. This page provides an approximate timeline with dates of all canon material. You can also filter items, so that it displays only TV episodes, for example, or only books, or only movies! Find the Legends timeline here. STAR WARS SLANG AND PHRASES. A collection I’ve been keeping of phases, slang, idioms, insults, and more from the Star Wars universe. This also contains a glossary of frequently used terms, such as “refresher” in place of “restroom”. Please feel free to use/share! 

STAR WARS NAME GENERATOR. This is a fun one AND a life saver. You can generate up to 100 Star Wars-sounding names ( first and last! ) with a click. 

OTHER GENERATORS: 

Spaceship names as well as spaceship type/models

Earth-like alien planets for any alien planet you don’t have info on

Random landscapes, see above

Technobabble generator for when you need a reason for a red alert

Alien plant/herb/flower name generator. Also: mineral/metal/gemstone names, material names, medication names, and descriptions of alien substances

Scifi tool names for gadgets and gizmos

OTHER WEBSITES:

Jeff Russell’s Starship Dimensions, Dirk Loechel’s Sci-fi Spaceship Size Comparisons, and other Star Wars Deckplans

Star Wars Post 

Star Wars News Net

TheForce.net

[clonewarswritings]

Only vaguely related to my new mission of making people realize that Count Dooku is hot actually, I started listening to a audio drama that had apparently been released a few years ago called ‘Dooku: Jedi Lost’. It recounts much of the count’s early life and his relationship with the Jedi Order and members of his birth family.

I had originally started listening to it for an entirely different reason to better understand him and Ventress as characters—and it’s actually really interesting! If your library has it or you’re able to listen to it otherwise, it’s a very well-scripted and voiced work!

[clonewarswritings]

The Squadron’s Spouse

Rookies of Rishi (1/2)

Series Summary: An AU where clone squads are sometimes assigned an Emotional Support Partner who is equal parts counselor, mediator (and spouse) in order to keep morale and loyalty as high as possible—somebody gets a job and at least several fairly loyal not-on-paper-but-you-know husbands, while the squadron of clones are less inclined to do things that, you know, make accidental babies happen.

Featured Clones: Domino Squad (Hevy & Cutup)

Rating: Explicit

It’s… quiet. Almost. Even with the sound of the music echoing from the command deck and the boys in various states of jokes and bickering, it’s somehow still… quiet, in a fashion.

Though you want to use it, peaceful isn’t really the right word—the Rishi moon outpost exists solely as an early warning system in the case of Separatist invasion, so you suppose that life on it can never quite be truly ‘peaceful’ by the most traditional of definitions. Always waiting for an attack, always worried that you’d wake up to the sound of blaring alarms and blaster shots; the anxiety never quite left the back of your thoughts.

Of course, you literally signed up for a life like this; the officers handling your papers in the Companion Program had been very overt in what would be expected if you decided to be with Domino Squad. Their assignment to the outpost arrived quickly after graduating from Kamino, and your arrival was all but scarcely afterwards.

That had been a while ago, and you had long-since lost track of the days when it became apparent that the Rishi Moon Outpost was… less than active, which is technically a good thing. The boys call it boring—or, most of them do. Hevy and Cutup tend to be the first to grumble whenever someone brought it up, but Echo never seems bothered.

You’re always catching him with a holopad in his hands and, without fail, he wants to ramble to you about some obscure regulation or rule that you’d never realized existed. His current policy obsession seems to be the Companion Program, and you do have to admit he helped you figure out quite a lot in just the first few weeks of knowing him. The man’s ability to memorize information was fantastic.

“Did you know that, technically, you are part of the chain of command?” he had asked one day over dinner, a bland mix of rations and shipped fresh goods that only came once a month.

You of course didn’t know such information, but Echo had been ecstatic to tell you about it. He shot off immediately into a ramble about various details of the program you doubted anyone else would find even a quarter as interesting.

But that was several days ago, though the memory still felt fresh enough with how little did genuinely seem to happen from one day to the next—and today you are ‘helping’ to keep an eye on the security cameras with Hevy and Cutup. ‘Helping’ of course is in the loosest sense of the word, given the fact that you technically have no obligation to do the same job as any clone in your assigned squadron. But, like many spouses in a similar position outside of the front-lines, you try to do so anyway… even if the job is as entertaining as watching grass grow.

”At least the meteor showers break things up,” you offer, waving a hand towards the console, “So you can’t say there’s nothing that happens here.”

The next wave of raining rocks would be in an hour of course, though the only thing different to do for the two men manning the station is press the button to activate the facility’s shields.

Hevy rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he says, voice almost cooing the pet name he’d started calling you, “you’re starting to sound like Echo.”

You glance at him for a moment as your lips curl into a smile.

“So what if I am?”

”Then that means I should start callin’ you Echo-2.”

”Maybe jus’ ‘Two’,” Cutup offers with a chuckle. “It’ll stick much better that way.”

”You’re right,” Hevy agrees with a nod of his head and a smirk on his lips. “And then we’ll hafta tell Echo himself when he wakes up.”

In almost any other situation, you’d be touched to get a nickname from your squad. Names were a precious thing, after all, and earning a nickname as a spouse is no less important than a clone earning their own—it’s not something you’d expect an outsider to understand the subtleties of.

But, as much as you’d be touched otherwise, their teasing is obvious. You feel your cheeks go red-hot as the two clones laugh, but Hevy’s gentle hand on your shoulder keeps the feelings of embarrassment from getting too sharp against your thoughts.

”We’re not really gonna start callin’ you that, baby.”

”It would be the silliest nickname ever,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Even Droidbait’s name sounds like it has a better story behind it.”

”Not really!” comes a call from across the room, where the namesake clone sits at another monitoring station.

The three of you laugh together with Droidbait’s answer, a moment of gentle absurdity breaking up the otherwise dull hours of the shift at the consoles. If nothing else, your presence seems to be offering entertainment to Hevy and Cutup both, which are particularly bothered by the concept of boredom.

A few minutes pass without a word to break up the silence, just the gentle beeping of the monitoring station and the occasional song humming through the outer-rim broadcast that Droidbait has playing from one of the speakers.

It’s… quiet again, as it always is in the background of things. There’s scarcely a thing to do but stare at the empty screen and feel a gentle lull of drowsiness start to tug at your eyes—so you shouldn’t have been surprised when Hevy started to get handsy.

He’s had a hand on your shoulders since the moment you decided to sit down with him and lean into his side, so you don’t notice when that hand shifts from idly stroking the back of your neck and instead starts curling around your body so that his fingertips are at your throat, then slipping beneath the collar of your shirt to stroke your collarbone, then sternum, then-

Your body jumps almost instinctively when his fingertips pinch one of your nipples.

”Hm?” Hevy says, acting as if totally unaware. “Something wrong?”

You stiffen your back and reach a hand up to touch where his is /clearly/ still half in your shirt, eyes locked with his.

”Hevy,” you say, expression mixed between surprise and embarrassment while you try not to think about how he keeps teasing you between a thumb and forefinger, “you are actively on a shift.”

”Really? I haven’t noticed,” he turns his gaze momentarily to a screen showing the empty swath of the moon’s landscape, pockmarked by previous meteor showers. Afterwards his eyes turn back to you.

They are absolutely mischievous.

You are desperate not to let his touch break your firm expression—not of non-consent, just flushed-face judgement.

”I swear, if sergeant O’niner catches you…”

”He’s busy on the other side of the outpost with Fives,” Hevy purrs, his hand getting bolder as he gropes at your chest with open interest. “Besides, if he really gets mad then I’ll take all the blame.”

There's a gentle couch beside both of you, and your eyes quickly turn to see Cutup watching with eager interest. He raises a brow and chuckles.

”If I take half of th’blame, can I get in on half the action?”

”Fuck yeah,” Hevy answers before you can even open your mouth. “Last I checked, sharing is quite the virtue—wouldn’t you agree babydoll?”

”I didn’t-“ you fumble for words, warm face growing even hotter as the man turns so that both hands are actively trying to remove your shirt. “This is a horrible idea. Why /here/?”

”You said it y’self,” Cutup coos, his voice suddenly much closer to your ear, “We’re on duty. Can’t leave the console ‘cause someone’s gotta keep an eye on it.”

”Well, if only one of us needs to be looking…” Hevy‘s words trail off, but you can imagine that he and Cutup are sharing a look with one another—a horrible, dreadful, mischievous look.

It doesn’t take them more than a minute, tops, in order to get your shirt off. It’s lined with an anti-blaster material, but offers just as much resistance as you do in slipping it over your head: absolutely none. For all you protest, there really isn’t a sizeable part of you that doesn’t want to give into the clone’s hormonal urge. There is something a bit hot in getting fucked like this admittedly, in the open of the command room. You can feel Cutup’s eyes watching every motion as he sits back in his chair, glancing only occasionally at the observation feed from outside while Hevy continues to run his hands over your naked chest and purr in your ear.

”You must really wanna get fucked like this if you’re not stoppin’ me, baby.”

The petname sounds positively lascivious when he says it like that, voice so low that it’s nearly a growl. His hands roam further down, until they’re playing at the top hem of your pants and slowly undoing the belt holding them up—the joy of clothes for spouses often being too small or too large, simply depending on what was available.

While Hevy is messing with that, Cutup leans forward in his chair and props his chin on the heel of his palm.

”C’mon, sweetheart, give us an answer.”

”… please…”

“What’s that?” Hevy asks, lips brushing the back of your ear. “Thought I heard somethin’.” And just to make a point, he pulls his hands away from where they’ve practically undone your pants, just one movement shy of stripping your body of clothes from the stifling heat.

The soft noise of dismay you make must have been arousing, because both men stare at you like starving animals, pupils blown wide and their breathing quick. They look at one another as if confirming that to be a positive answer before you finally whine and pull Hevy’s hand back towards your pants.

”Yes,” you whisper, mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Please, take me like this. Here.”

”The man seems all too eager to remove the last bit of clothing from your body, leaving the layers in a pool of cloth at the base of the consoles and chairs. Before you can even breath you’re sitting on Hevy’s lap, his strong arms tugging you so that your back is to his chest and your hips precariously grinding back into a hard shape swiftly realized to be his cock. When the man had the time to undress you, remove the plastoid plate between his thighs and undue the fasteners, you’re not quite sure—and at this point, you’re just grateful to feel his naked flesh against your own.

”C’mere, baby,” the man coos in your ear, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other is out of sight—you’re not sure what he’s doing with it until he brings bare, gloveless fingers tips to your lips. “Why don’t you get these wet?”

You allow them with silent consent between your lips and against your tongue, sucking on Hevy’s fingers albeit sloppily as he purred dirty, half-heard whispers in your ear while grinding his cock between your thighs. The ache in your belly has twisted into something truly horrible, a need so strong that the mere debauchery of the moment is enough to make your nerves feel raw. Your tongue presses between the two fingers in your mouth, trying desperately to make them split-slick enough to meet the man’s satisfaction; it doesn’t take more than a minute before he’s gently pulling them back out, gleaming wet with saliva.

”Good job,” he murmurs, appreciatively. “Wanna make sure we get you wet enough for me, babydoll.”

His words send a shiver down your spine—for all his rugged personality, Hevy was never anything but a gentleman to you, even in moments like this. He seems to know all the buttons to push to make you need him all the more.

Still with one arm wrapped around you, his other moves down between your legs, fingertips prodding gently at your entrance. The spit may have not been entirely necessary in terms of lubricant, but it certainly did help in terms of arousal; you need him so much, want him so dearly, it’s hard not to shiver when Hevy finally dips his fingers inside of your body and harder still not to moan his name too loudly.

”Would’ja look at that,” Cutup says, his voice bringing you back into the moment. Your eyes shoot open (not realizing they were closed) and upon a glance to the other side of the console chairs, you find the man equally disrobed as Hevy—cock out and wrapped in a gloveless hand. He’s stroking it over carefully as his eyes linger over your body, hungry like a predator.

He smirks even wider when he sees you looking. “Don’tcha you worry now, sweetheart, you’ll get your turn on me soon enough.”

Oh. Oh. You had known somewhere in the back of your head that you would wind up taking care of both Hevy AND Cutup—it simply came with the territory of being in a polyamorous relationship with several men under a lot of stress—but you didn’t think about the /how/. Somehow, the idea of being passed between them, used and watched like a toy and show, it only made you more aroused. Your skin prickled with nervous desire, your heart racing and your belly hot and twisting with eagerness that only grows the longer you watch Cutup stroke himself while watching you.

You smile at him as best you can, face hot but body knowing exactly what to do in the moment as Hevy’s careful fingers ease your body open.

”You good, baby?” He asks gently. You nod, arms reaching so that you’re almost hugging yourself where his arm is around you already. Hevy breaths out, and then growls, “Good. Need t’ make sure you’re ready to take my cock—don’t wanna be breaking our precious little spouse now.”

He slides in with relative ease. Though the working of his wet fingers had helped a little, it’s mostly your arousal and need that helps him slide balls deep within the aching grip of your body.

Hevy wastes no time to start thrusting; the motions are hard, slow, and deep, angled so that they are almost perfectly striking what feels like a deep bundle of nerves desperate for stimulation. As if that isn’t enough, his free hand reaches down between your thighs and reminds you, keenly, of how deftly those fingers are with the many weapons he likes to train with.

You moan, words a garbled mess of need, and hold his arm around you in a desperate need to be anchored.

”Yeah, yeah—hold onto me, babydoll…” Hevy purrs, voice straining. “Tell me how much you want me.”

”… Hevy…” the sound of his name is a whisper. You’re getting closer, closer—and then, suddenly, the man stops moving. His cock sits inside of you.

”Say it louder,” he growls. The words are firm, a command. You’re hesitant to speak much louder if only out of embarrassment, not wanting to draw attention towards the carnal act of desperation you are partaking in with Hevy and Cutup—but the need to orgasm outweighs the nervousness.

”Hevy,” you whine, “Please, Hevy, make me cum—“ lungs burn with a need for air, your breathing too quick and shallow. “Hevy, Hevy, Hevyyy-!”

”Perfect,” he murmurs, then immediately begins moving his hips again—so fast and hard that it makes the chair squeak beneath the weight of both of you. No more than ten seconds pass before both of you are cresting over orgasm, the sweet blossom of heat coming unfurled with a shout into the cold air of the outpost.

The man growls as he presses inside you one last time, deep and possessive, and fills you with his seed that you don’t need to think twice about for one reason or another and enjoy the messy warmth all the same. Hevy takes a few moments to press a kiss to the nape of your neck, then carefully helps to lift your hips enough that his cock slips out from you.

You’re not able to take more than a moment to think before Cutup, who has pushed his chair closer to you, reaches out a hand and carefully takes your chin in his hand.

”Doin’ alright?” He asks, tone delicate with concern. The nod of your head confirms that you’re alright, simply tired from the orgasm and settled in the sweet afterglow.

With one hand still stroking his cock over, Cutup smirks and pulls your face towards his so that he can kiss you—it’s deep and needy. “Lil’ sweetheart lookin’ all tuckered out. Don’t worry then, I’ll do all the work for you.”

It doesn’t take much for the two men to shift you from one lap into another. You’ve seen their strength firsthand, their bodies perfected physically and biologically to handle gear and weapons that must have weight as much or more as you do. Cutup positions you comfortably astride his hips, and it doesn’t take much effort for his cock to slip inside you, your orgasm leaving muscles lax and Hevy’s orgasm leaving you dripping wet.

He was honest about doing all the work; Cutup’s hands hold your hips firm, but gentle, lifting you just enough so that his own body can close the gap between you over and over again as he races towards his own orgasm. You don’t think that you’ll be able to cum again, but there’s a satisfaction in feeling the man inside you and knowing that you are making him feel so good.

”Cutup,” you lean forward and whisper in his ear, voice low and sweet. “Oh, Cutup—please—won’t you cum inside me too?”

The poor thing must have been so pent-up watching you and Hevy fuck, because that’s all it takes for him to find release. You feel his grip tense on your skin, his motions go stiff and desperate, and the telltale warmth of his orgasm flooding your channel. It drips down your thighs in thick pearly droplets when you shakily pull yourself off of him, a dopey smile on both of your faces all the while.

“Well,” Hevy says, “that’s always a good way to waste some time n’ take the edge off.”

”You turn to look at him, and he’s already seemed to compose himself again—plastoid plate back in its spot, gloves on and even your clothes collected and laying in his lap as neatly as he could gather them up.

The smile on your lips is fueled a bit by the afterglow, but you laugh and raise a brow, “I think you should give me more credit than that.”

”I can say you always make my shifts at observation a helluva lot more interesting.”

A moment passes in silence before, suddenly, a forgotten fourth party in the room finally speaks up.

”So uh,” Droidbait says evenly from his faithful spot at another console, “you guys are done… right?”

[clonewarswritings]

The Squadron’s Spouse

Rookies of Rishi (1/2)

Series Summary: An AU where clone squads are sometimes assigned an Emotional Support Partner who is equal parts counselor, mediator (and spouse) in order to keep morale and loyalty as high as possible—somebody gets a job and at least several fairly loyal not-on-paper-but-you-know husbands, while the squadron of clones are less inclined to do things that, you know, make accidental babies happen.

Featured Clones: Domino Squad (Hevy & Cutup)

Rating: Explicit

It’s… quiet. Almost. Even with the sound of the music echoing from the command deck and the boys in various states of jokes and bickering, it’s somehow still… quiet, in a fashion.

Though you want to use it, peaceful isn’t really the right word—the Rishi moon outpost exists solely as an early warning system in the case of Separatist invasion, so you suppose that life on it can never quite be truly ‘peaceful’ by the most traditional of definitions. Always waiting for an attack, always worried that you’d wake up to the sound of blaring alarms and blaster shots; the anxiety never quite left the back of your thoughts.

Of course, you literally signed up for a life like this; the officers handling your papers in the Companion Program had been very overt in what would be expected if you decided to be with Domino Squad. Their assignment to the outpost arrived quickly after graduating from Kamino, and your arrival was all but scarcely afterwards.

That had been a while ago, and you had long-since lost track of the days when it became apparent that the Rishi Moon Outpost was… less than active, which is technically a good thing. The boys call it boring—or, most of them do. Hevy and Cutup tend to be the first to grumble whenever someone brought it up, but Echo never seems bothered.

You’re always catching him with a holopad in his hands and, without fail, he wants to ramble to you about some obscure regulation or rule that you’d never realized existed. His current policy obsession seems to be the Companion Program, and you do have to admit he helped you figure out quite a lot in just the first few weeks of knowing him. The man’s ability to memorize information was fantastic.

“Did you know that, technically, you are part of the chain of command?” he had asked one day over dinner, a bland mix of rations and shipped fresh goods that only came once a month.

You of course didn’t know such information, but Echo had been ecstatic to tell you about it. He shot off immediately into a ramble about various details of the program you doubted anyone else would find even a quarter as interesting.

But that was several days ago, though the memory still felt fresh enough with how little did genuinely seem to happen from one day to the next—and today you are ‘helping’ to keep an eye on the security cameras with Hevy and Cutup. ‘Helping’ of course is in the loosest sense of the word, given the fact that you technically have no obligation to do the same job as any clone in your assigned squadron. But, like many spouses in a similar position outside of the front-lines, you try to do so anyway… even if the job is as entertaining as watching grass grow.

”At least the meteor showers break things up,” you offer, waving a hand towards the console, “So you can’t say there’s nothing that happens here.”

The next wave of raining rocks would be in an hour of course, though the only thing different to do for the two men manning the station is press the button to activate the facility’s shields.

Hevy rolls his eyes. “Baby,” he says, voice almost cooing the pet name he’d started calling you, “you’re starting to sound like Echo.”

You glance at him for a moment as your lips curl into a smile.

“So what if I am?”

”Then that means I should start callin’ you Echo-2.”

”Maybe jus’ ‘Two’,” Cutup offers with a chuckle. “It’ll stick much better that way.”

”You’re right,” Hevy agrees with a nod of his head and a smirk on his lips. “And then we’ll hafta tell Echo himself when he wakes up.”

In almost any other situation, you’d be touched to get a nickname from your squad. Names were a precious thing, after all, and earning a nickname as a spouse is no less important than a clone earning their own—it’s not something you’d expect an outsider to understand the subtleties of.

But, as much as you’d be touched otherwise, their teasing is obvious. You feel your cheeks go red-hot as the two clones laugh, but Hevy’s gentle hand on your shoulder keeps the feelings of embarrassment from getting too sharp against your thoughts.

”We’re not really gonna start callin’ you that, baby.”

”It would be the silliest nickname ever,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Even Droidbait’s name sounds like it has a better story behind it.”

”Not really!” comes a call from across the room, where the namesake clone sits at another monitoring station.

The three of you laugh together with Droidbait’s answer, a moment of gentle absurdity breaking up the otherwise dull hours of the shift at the consoles. If nothing else, your presence seems to be offering entertainment to Hevy and Cutup both, which are particularly bothered by the concept of boredom.

A few minutes pass without a word to break up the silence, just the gentle beeping of the monitoring station and the occasional song humming through the outer-rim broadcast that Droidbait has playing from one of the speakers.

It’s… quiet again, as it always is in the background of things. There’s scarcely a thing to do but stare at the empty screen and feel a gentle lull of drowsiness start to tug at your eyes—so you shouldn’t have been surprised when Hevy started to get handsy.

He’s had a hand on your shoulders since the moment you decided to sit down with him and lean into his side, so you don’t notice when that hand shifts from idly stroking the back of your neck and instead starts curling around your body so that his fingertips are at your throat, then slipping beneath the collar of your shirt to stroke your collarbone, then sternum, then-

Your body jumps almost instinctively when his fingertips pinch one of your nipples.

”Hm?” Hevy says, acting as if totally unaware. “Something wrong?”

You stiffen your back and reach a hand up to touch where his is /clearly/ still half in your shirt, eyes locked with his.

”Hevy,” you say, expression mixed between surprise and embarrassment while you try not to think about how he keeps teasing you between a thumb and forefinger, “you are actively on a shift.”

”Really? I haven’t noticed,” he turns his gaze momentarily to a screen showing the empty swath of the moon’s landscape, pockmarked by previous meteor showers. Afterwards his eyes turn back to you.

They are absolutely mischievous.

You are desperate not to let his touch break your firm expression—not of non-consent, just flushed-face judgement.

”I swear, if sergeant O’niner catches you…”

”He’s busy on the other side of the outpost with Fives,” Hevy purrs, his hand getting bolder as he gropes at your chest with open interest. “Besides, if he really gets mad then I’ll take all the blame.”

There's a gentle couch beside both of you, and your eyes quickly turn to see Cutup watching with eager interest. He raises a brow and chuckles.

”If I take half of th’blame, can I get in on half the action?”

”Fuck yeah,” Hevy answers before you can even open your mouth. “Last I checked, sharing is quite the virtue—wouldn’t you agree babydoll?”

”I didn’t-“ you fumble for words, warm face growing even hotter as the man turns so that both hands are actively trying to remove your shirt. “This is a horrible idea. Why /here/?”

”You said it y’self,” Cutup coos, his voice suddenly much closer to your ear, “We’re on duty. Can’t leave the console ‘cause someone’s gotta keep an eye on it.”

”Well, if only one of us needs to be looking…” Hevy‘s words trail off, but you can imagine that he and Cutup are sharing a look with one another—a horrible, dreadful, mischievous look.

It doesn’t take them more than a minute, tops, in order to get your shirt off. It’s lined with an anti-blaster material, but offers just as much resistance as you do in slipping it over your head: absolutely none. For all you protest, there really isn’t a sizeable part of you that doesn’t want to give into the clone’s hormonal urge. There is something a bit hot in getting fucked like this admittedly, in the open of the command room. You can feel Cutup’s eyes watching every motion as he sits back in his chair, glancing only occasionally at the observation feed from outside while Hevy continues to run his hands over your naked chest and purr in your ear.

”You must really wanna get fucked like this if you’re not stoppin’ me, baby.”

The petname sounds positively lascivious when he says it like that, voice so low that it’s nearly a growl. His hands roam further down, until they’re playing at the top hem of your pants and slowly undoing the belt holding them up—the joy of clothes for spouses often being too small or too large, simply depending on what was available.

While Hevy is messing with that, Cutup leans forward in his chair and props his chin on the heel of his palm.

”C’mon, sweetheart, give us an answer.”

”… please…”

“What’s that?” Hevy asks, lips brushing the back of your ear. “Thought I heard somethin’.” And just to make a point, he pulls his hands away from where they’ve practically undone your pants, just one movement shy of stripping your body of clothes from the stifling heat.

The soft noise of dismay you make must have been arousing, because both men stare at you like starving animals, pupils blown wide and their breathing quick. They look at one another as if confirming that to be a positive answer before you finally whine and pull Hevy’s hand back towards your pants.

”Yes,” you whisper, mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Please, take me like this. Here.”

”The man seems all too eager to remove the last bit of clothing from your body, leaving the layers in a pool of cloth at the base of the consoles and chairs. Before you can even breath you’re sitting on Hevy’s lap, his strong arms tugging you so that your back is to his chest and your hips precariously grinding back into a hard shape swiftly realized to be his cock. When the man had the time to undress you, remove the plastoid plate between his thighs and undue the fasteners, you’re not quite sure—and at this point, you’re just grateful to feel his naked flesh against your own.

”C’mere, baby,” the man coos in your ear, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other is out of sight—you’re not sure what he’s doing with it until he brings bare, gloveless fingers tips to your lips. “Why don’t you get these wet?”

You allow them with silent consent between your lips and against your tongue, sucking on Hevy’s fingers albeit sloppily as he purred dirty, half-heard whispers in your ear while grinding his cock between your thighs. The ache in your belly has twisted into something truly horrible, a need so strong that the mere debauchery of the moment is enough to make your nerves feel raw. Your tongue presses between the two fingers in your mouth, trying desperately to make them split-slick enough to meet the man’s satisfaction; it doesn’t take more than a minute before he’s gently pulling them back out, gleaming wet with saliva.

”Good job,” he murmurs, appreciatively. “Wanna make sure we get you wet enough for me, babydoll.”

His words send a shiver down your spine—for all his rugged personality, Hevy was never anything but a gentleman to you, even in moments like this. He seems to know all the buttons to push to make you need him all the more.

Still with one arm wrapped around you, his other moves down between your legs, fingertips prodding gently at your entrance. The spit may have not been entirely necessary in terms of lubricant, but it certainly did help in terms of arousal; you need him so much, want him so dearly, it’s hard not to shiver when Hevy finally dips his fingers inside of your body and harder still not to moan his name too loudly.

”Would’ja look at that,” Cutup says, his voice bringing you back into the moment. Your eyes shoot open (not realizing they were closed) and upon a glance to the other side of the console chairs, you find the man equally disrobed as Hevy—cock out and wrapped in a gloveless hand. He’s stroking it over carefully as his eyes linger over your body, hungry like a predator.

He smirks even wider when he sees you looking. “Don’tcha you worry now, sweetheart, you’ll get your turn on me soon enough.”

Oh. Oh. You had known somewhere in the back of your head that you would wind up taking care of both Hevy AND Cutup—it simply came with the territory of being in a polyamorous relationship with several men under a lot of stress—but you didn’t think about the /how/. Somehow, the idea of being passed between them, used and watched like a toy and show, it only made you more aroused. Your skin prickled with nervous desire, your heart racing and your belly hot and twisting with eagerness that only grows the longer you watch Cutup stroke himself while watching you.

You smile at him as best you can, face hot but body knowing exactly what to do in the moment as Hevy’s careful fingers ease your body open.

”You good, baby?” He asks gently. You nod, arms reaching so that you’re almost hugging yourself where his arm is around you already. Hevy breaths out, and then growls, “Good. Need t’ make sure you’re ready to take my cock—don’t wanna be breaking our precious little spouse now.”

He slides in with relative ease. Though the working of his wet fingers had helped a little, it’s mostly your arousal and need that helps him slide balls deep within the aching grip of your body.

Hevy wastes no time to start thrusting; the motions are hard, slow, and deep, angled so that they are almost perfectly striking what feels like a deep bundle of nerves desperate for stimulation. As if that isn’t enough, his free hand reaches down between your thighs and reminds you, keenly, of how deftly those fingers are with the many weapons he likes to train with.

You moan, words a garbled mess of need, and hold his arm around you in a desperate need to be anchored.

”Yeah, yeah—hold onto me, babydoll…” Hevy purrs, voice straining. “Tell me how much you want me.”

”… Hevy…” the sound of his name is a whisper. You’re getting closer, closer—and then, suddenly, the man stops moving. His cock sits inside of you.

”Say it louder,” he growls. The words are firm, a command. You’re hesitant to speak much louder if only out of embarrassment, not wanting to draw attention towards the carnal act of desperation you are partaking in with Hevy and Cutup—but the need to orgasm outweighs the nervousness.

”Hevy,” you whine, “Please, Hevy, make me cum—“ lungs burn with a need for air, your breathing too quick and shallow. “Hevy, Hevy, Hevyyy-!”

”Perfect,” he murmurs, then immediately begins moving his hips again—so fast and hard that it makes the chair squeak beneath the weight of both of you. No more than ten seconds pass before both of you are cresting over orgasm, the sweet blossom of heat coming unfurled with a shout into the cold air of the outpost.

The man growls as he presses inside you one last time, deep and possessive, and fills you with his seed that you don’t need to think twice about for one reason or another and enjoy the messy warmth all the same. Hevy takes a few moments to press a kiss to the nape of your neck, then carefully helps to lift your hips enough that his cock slips out from you.

You’re not able to take more than a moment to think before Cutup, who has pushed his chair closer to you, reaches out a hand and carefully takes your chin in his hand.

”Doin’ alright?” He asks, tone delicate with concern. The nod of your head confirms that you’re alright, simply tired from the orgasm and settled in the sweet afterglow.

With one hand still stroking his cock over, Cutup smirks and pulls your face towards his so that he can kiss you—it’s deep and needy. “Lil’ sweetheart lookin’ all tuckered out. Don’t worry then, I’ll do all the work for you.”

It doesn’t take much for the two men to shift you from one lap into another. You’ve seen their strength firsthand, their bodies perfected physically and biologically to handle gear and weapons that must have weight as much or more as you do. Cutup positions you comfortably astride his hips, and it doesn’t take much effort for his cock to slip inside you, your orgasm leaving muscles lax and Hevy’s orgasm leaving you dripping wet.

He was honest about doing all the work; Cutup’s hands hold your hips firm, but gentle, lifting you just enough so that his own body can close the gap between you over and over again as he races towards his own orgasm. You don’t think that you’ll be able to cum again, but there’s a satisfaction in feeling the man inside you and knowing that you are making him feel so good.

”Cutup,” you lean forward and whisper in his ear, voice low and sweet. “Oh, Cutup—please—won’t you cum inside me too?”

The poor thing must have been so pent-up watching you and Hevy fuck, because that’s all it takes for him to find release. You feel his grip tense on your skin, his motions go stiff and desperate, and the telltale warmth of his orgasm flooding your channel. It drips down your thighs in thick pearly droplets when you shakily pull yourself off of him, a dopey smile on both of your faces all the while.

“Well,” Hevy says, “that’s always a good way to waste some time n’ take the edge off.”

”You turn to look at him, and he’s already seemed to compose himself again—plastoid plate back in its spot, gloves on and even your clothes collected and laying in his lap as neatly as he could gather them up.

The smile on your lips is fueled a bit by the afterglow, but you laugh and raise a brow, “I think you should give me more credit than that.”

”I can say you always make my shifts at observation a helluva lot more interesting.”

A moment passes in silence before, suddenly, a forgotten fourth party in the room finally speaks up.

”So uh,” Droidbait says evenly from his faithful spot at another console, “you guys are done… right?”

[clonewarswritings]

That's it, I gotta write something now. Guys, gimme some ideas for Count Dooku or else I'm gonna come up with something myself and that's a THREAT

the context to my url is that i had a random breakdown last month on discord and then decided to own it . 👍 my friends thought i was losing it lmao

[clonewarswritings]

You are ABSOLUTELY the target audience of this post and you get an instant follow from me thank you for being a person of taste

Me, offhandedly to my wife: You wanna know something?

My wife, already expecting something cursed: ...yes?

Me: Darth Vader is kinda hot.

My wife: No.

Me: And honestly, Count Dooku could really get it-

My wife: I want a divorce.

[clonewarswritings]

Because you gave me a modicum of an excuse, please take some headcanons (facts? Canon?) about Umbra Squad:

Pinpoint is 90% mute by choice, opting only to speak when absolutely necessary and often instead with a version of sign language or signaling otherwise used in combat scenarios where communications are limited. Dreadnaught can understand him best, and the two are very close because of that—Dreadnaught is often a bit overprotective of his brothers, especially with Pinpoint and Screwloose.

Speaking of, Screwloose is probably one of the biggest sweethearts you’ll ever meet. He got his name because he’s gotten knocked out over a dozen times from explosives or some such accidents, and he gets headaches often because of it (though nobody can really figure out how he’s getting them).

Screwloose would also make an excellent father because he adores children, and if asked, all he wants to do after the war is over is to raise a family to call his own, maybe even open up a home for whatever young clone cadets are still on Kamino.

If you’re looking for a bad boy with a heart of gold, then Icepick is your man. So named because his words are sharp and his wit sharper still, he doesn’t mince words and will always give information straight—he thinks it’s pointless to beat around the bush.

That said, you will not find a better person to keep a secret; Icepick can lie for you like a used speeder salesman and has absolutely no moral issues doing so if he cares about or is loyal to you.

I don’t know how gender is accepted in the Clone Army, but if it’s a Thing in any capacity then Ratchet is absolutely non-binary using he/him pronouns.

Scorch or Screwloose is the most romantic and would take you on a date first, but Dreadnaught or Icepick is likely to fuck you in the car on your way to the date.

So I’ve known for a while that the leader of my original clone squad (Umbra) just so happens to share his name with a certain clone commando, and I’ve always wondered if I should change my clone’s nickname to be something else—something just changed enough to differentiate him from the canonical character. Gotten some great options too!

But on the OTHER hand I find it almost hilarious that he would have to constantly tell people “My name’s Scorch. No wait—not that one, not the cool commando one, but the Scorch who got his name ‘cause he was an idiot that got toasted by a blast on Geonosis.” That is entirely on-brand for his form of vaguely self-depreciating humor to see himself as the “Perfectly good Scorch we have at home” as opposed to anything else.

Like Scorch, buddy, clones can share names, and also please go to therapy.

[clonewarswritings]

So I’ve known for a while that the leader of my original clone squad (Umbra) just so happens to share his name with a certain clone commando, and I’ve always wondered if I should change my clone’s nickname to be something else—something just changed enough to differentiate him from the canonical character. Gotten some great options too!

But on the OTHER hand I find it almost hilarious that he would have to constantly tell people “My name’s Scorch. No wait—not that one, not the cool commando one, but the Scorch who got his name ‘cause he was an idiot that got toasted by a blast on Geonosis.” That is entirely on-brand for his form of vaguely self-depreciating humor to see himself as the “Perfectly good Scorch we have at home” as opposed to anything else.

Like Scorch, buddy, clones can share names, and also please go to therapy.

[clonewarswritings]

Me, offhandedly to my wife: You wanna know something?

My wife, already expecting something cursed: ...yes?

Me: Darth Vader is kinda hot.

My wife: No.

Me: And honestly, Count Dooku could really get it-

My wife: I want a divorce.

[clonewarswritings]

Don't suppose anyone knows about any Star Wars discord servers out there, specifically one about the Clone Wars/clones? I have a whole squadron of mine I'd like to ramble about mercilessly and likewise would love to learn about other people's ocs and whatnot in the Clone Wars fandom community!

God I feel old and the fact this show was technically almost 15 years running isn't heLPING

[clonewarswritings]

Ooh, and for the AU prompt -- how about a royalty au? No specific characters in mind!

This AU would take place in an ambiguously late medieval/early modern time period, wherein the Republic is in fact just a section of the government and is in fact ruled by the Chancellor—who is elected as normal—and a king or queen born into power through their family line. Both sides of the government are under the protection of the Je'daii, a powerful sect of knights whom follow an unwavering code in order to protect those who rule a large portion of the world.

The separatists are the members of countries who have, as in canon, found fault and corruption in the Republic’s politics, and want to rule themselves. They argue that the might of the republic barely stretches beyond their inner-most cities and Talley together beneath Count Dooku, an ex-Jedi knight and secretly the apprentice of Darth Sideous, who himself seeks to overthrow the Republic and murder the royal family in order to take total control.

I argue that there is some level of steampunk technomagic, as the force still exists to some degree even in this sort of AU. The battle droids of the Separatists are steam-powered automatons, for example, and the clones of the clone wars are created by the enigmatic magic-using Kaminoans who reside far into the ocean and find dealing with humans particularly loathsome.

Perhaps to some degree, lightsaber still exist, but are seen as very powerful and very rare pieces of technology powered only by the force--so only the highest rank of Jedi are able and allowed to wield them, as it takes extreme skill in the force to be able to activate it. This keeps lightsabers out of untrained hands, but also creates a wall of unknowns around the Je'daii order...

If this AU was featured in a fic, then the current heir to the throne would be the reader, who themselves are constantly having to worry about assassination from some group or another. Lots of people would love to see the royal family change, as it's otherwise been ruling for many long generations, always protected by the Je'daii.

send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it

[clonewarswritings]

The Squadron’s Spouse

Introductions (Umbra Squad)

Series Summary: An AU where clone squads are sometimes assigned an Emotional Support Partner who is equal parts counselor, mediator (and spouse) in order to keep morale and loyalty as high as possible—somebody gets a job and at least several fairly loyal not-on-paper-but-you-know husbands, while the squadron of clones are less inclined to do things that, you know, make accidental babies happen.

Featured Clones: Umbra Squad (OCs)

Rating: Teen

Read on AO3

To call the moment nerve-wracking is an understatement. It would be like calling a new star warm or a vast ocean wet—completely blindsiding with the immense weight of reality. You had expected to be introduced to the squadron properly, yes, but not… like this.

Not all of them at once.

Maybe Scorch, the squad leader, had misinterpreted your demeanor as excitement or contentedness. Maybe he didn’t think about how your nerves were tugging at your tongue and softening your words, or how he was plenty familiar with his brothers-in-arms already while you had just scarcely been introduced to the man himself.

Nevertheless, the entirety of the squadron piles into the rec room like a herd of excited puppies, all laying curious eyes on you the moment they hurry inside, until there are nine more people in the room with you—nine more people you barely know, and yet were told that you match up perfectly for.

“Uh…” you try to find the words somewhere in the back of your head. “Hello… there…” You reach up and wave slightly, just a little gesture of a hand.

Scorch introduces you by name with a respectful bow of his head and a gesture towards you. Even in the ten minutes or so of being able to speak to him privately, you can tell he is genuinely a good man; a little energetic and overly humorous about his own shortcomings, though you figure that must be due in part due to the huge burn scar that covers one side of his face. He had explained it had come from the first battle of Geonosis, the fire from an explosion had caught him without the helmet offering much help, apparently.

Ironic name aside, Scorch seems overjoyed at the thought of he and his squadron being matched in the Companion program.

The rest of his squad? It’s hard to tell. Their expressions aren’t nearly as readable, and each one holding a different look in their eyes—one of them was still wearing their helmet and was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed. You think for a moment that they’re entirely unmoved by the situation until they wave a hand and chuckle.

”So if you’re s’pose to be our uh, spouse-“

”Technically the right term is ‘companion’, Icepick.”

”Fuck that.” The faceless trooper huffs, then turns so you can clearly see your reflection in the darkness of the visor and says, “But does that mean we gotta call you things like ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’?”

”Well, I mean—“ you swallow down the rock in your throat. “You can just call me whatever you like! My name is a good starting point, though I mean… a nickname could work. My friends used to call me-“

”Around these parts, you earn a nickname,” Icepick says, as sharp as his name. “And if you do somethin’ stupid or badass enough, then you’ll get one. Until then, you’re just a Civi.”

”Civi…?”

”He means ‘civilian’,” this time, one of the other clones reply—the one who had tried to correct Icepick before. He doesn’t have any tattoos or markings to differentiate himself, but his hair is long, all the way down to his shoulders and pulled back into a ponytail. He offers a smile all the same and says, “Please forgive Icepick, he’s a bit… unfriendly to new people. But I’m Ratchet.”

Scorch, Icepick, and Ratchet. You try to start pushing the names into the depth of your memory as the other clones in Umbra Squadron start to introduce themselves, one by one.

Doc identifies himself as the squadron medic, or as close as he can be as he wasn’t born and trained as one. He claims to be very knowledgeable about field medicine, and seems perfectly happy to start telling a story about one time that he had to patch up Ratchet from a rather gruesome blaster shot to the stomach—but luckily he’s interrupted with the next introduction.

Screwloose seems more comfortable to talk about the weapon he prefers to carry than about himself.

“The uh, DC-15A carbine is a really good and reliable weapon,” he says, never quite able to meet your gaze with his as he speaks. It almost sounds like he’s reciting facts and, after a moment, you realize he’s wringing his hands as he talks. “Standard issue, minimal kickback, and there’s more than a dozen mods to use depending on the situation…”

”He gets nervous ‘round new faces,” another clone says from beside him, arms crossed and posture nonplussed about the entire situation. “Name’s Dread, short for Dreadnaught. I handle the big guns and the bigger clankers.” He laughs after a moment, and the man’s body language finally loosens as he wraps an arm around the shoulder of the next clone to introduce.

Pinpoint isn’t just quiet, he’s entirely mute, or he is at least to you. Dread explains that Pinpoint is their sniper, and he just… doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t really talk to anyone outside of other clones, and even then what he says is curt and to the point—a no-nonsense kinda guy. Pinpoint does at least offer you something of a half-smile and a quiet wave, and you offer it in kind.

Next is Knick and Knack, a pair of clones who apparently earned their names not only for being nearly inseparable from one another, but also because they had a bad habit of picking up countless useless bits from missions—a shiny rock, a pretty bead, something or another that wasn’t against the regulations.

Last but certainly not least was Trigger—he stood beside Scorch when everyone came into the rec room, and called himself the second-in-command of the squad. He seemed a bit more tense than most of the rest, a bit less inclined to meet your eyes or offer much information about himself.

But that was all of them. You look at each of the clones one by one, committing each name to memory as best as you can in the short time you had been given them. Even if you were assigned to an entire squad, your work was certainly cut out for you; keep an eye on these boys.

“Well, we’re not the fanciest lot in the army,” Scorch jokes, “but Umbra squad isn’t short on good men fighting for the Republic.”

”I can see that,” you reply, trying to keep the smile on your lips when your heart is beating rapidly within your chest. All of their eyes are on you, watching, waiting; what will you do next? What will you ask? It’s weird to think that this is the first day to an entire relationship with each of these soldiers—one that very well may dive deeper than mere companionship, given the fact that you had indicated comfort for it on your application.

You take in a breath, then start speaking.

”Well, you already know my name, but let me tell you a little more about myself. I’m from Coruscant, born and raised there-“

”Is it true that the city goes all the way down to the core?” Dreadnaught asks. Pinpoint’s expression beside the man grows curious in tandem.

”Well, I suppose? I don’t… know, exactly. See, I was born just a few layers beneath the surface, and down there it’s like…”

[clonewarswritings]

You can also specify character/s if desired!

send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it

[clonewarswritings]

Okay, sorry if this is, like, too soon for your worldbuilding in the Squad Spouse AU but I NEED to know how Palpy’s Plot gets ruined by the Spouses™️

I don't think it's too soon at all! The Squadron Spouse AU is likely one that I'll explore non-chronologically, so I have no issue in talking about how it's going to royally FUCK with the canon of Order 66 ahead of writing anything about it specifically in a fic.

This post is also a LONG boy so it's going under a readmore, but I promise it's worth the perusal!

The problem begins with the fact that the Companion Program was created and approved by the Galactic Senate entirely without intervention from Palatine himself. It's a rogue variable, a completely unplanned part of the war, but the most dangerous thing is that Palpatine completely disregards it as being completely beneath him and his grand scheme.

So, how does it get through the Galactic Senate? In this AU, the senate and larger public eye has a semblance of sympathy for the clones even at the start of the war--maybe it's because of a rogue journalist, or maybe its just because the clones are seen as the military slaves they honestly are in the existing canon to begin with.

"Companionship is the right of any sentient being," one senator perhaps had argued, "And as long as there are people willing to make use of their skills in medicine, psychology, emergency first aid and so on, then there is no reason they can't be an asset to the Republic and a companion to its army."

The Companion Program is shuffled through the senate one way or another, and soon it becomes apparent that a large number of civilians are plenty happy to join--largely those from less wealthy or safe-guarded planets, though there's a multitude from Coruscant that apply to be part of the program as well. The applicants that make it through are those who are fairly well-prepared to deal with the fact that they are the equivalent of deployed military dependents, but it is that exact same situation that makes them a prominent culture of people within the Grand Army of the Republic.

Stress can do a lot of things to people, but in the case of war and armies, it often builds a sense of camaraderie that is impossible to develop elsewhere. Members of the Companion Program (soon casually called 'spouses') often get to know one another very well--and an entire network of relationships between spouses and the clones they're assigned to is woven from loose threads into an entire, intricate tapestry that stretches from one side of the galaxy to the other.

And it was this very network that Palpatine didn't expect--a group of people that cared about one another and the clones they had been with (for some spouses, since the start of the war), and it didn't take long before a rumor would come rumbling through: there's something wrong, stories of nightmares weaving with the offhand report of a clone who had gone berserk and tried to kill a Jedi, one spouse going missing when they tried to investigate the cause of a strange recurring headache a member of their squadron was experiencing.

It's one little piece of the puzzle after another, coming together until the conglomerate of the Companion Program--which was filled with admittedly experienced civilians across all walks of life, not to be underestimated by any means--learned the secret. The horrible, atrocious secret that was Order 66 and the implant of a control chip inside every clone that came out of Kamino; this discovery would be entirely hushed, kept to only the few who could be trusted with it while general knowledge continue to grow in what they could do to try and stop this from happening.

Spouses with medical knowledge and training enough to be allowed to operate the surgical wards started organizing secret operations to remove chips, while others passed on information they had gathered from the chips itself--going back to Kamino, to a dark plot, an order yet to be given by the very Chancellor himself.

Not every clone is able to be saved when it comes time for Palpatine to send out the call for Order 66. But, by that time in the war, when so many had done so much work in order to stop it, it means that scarcely any Jedi are killed, the clones in majority are spared from their waking nightmare, and Darth Sideous himself is exposed and tried for his crimes against the Republic.

What does this mean for the world afterwards? Who knows! I'd like to say that Anakin doesn't ever betray the order and instead goes on to try and reform some of their doctrine with backing from many others of his peers. The clones are slowly merged into the civilian populace, though not without plenty of challenges to be explored. It's not a perfect ending, but it's at least a better one!

[clonewarswritings]

I have to admit the most fun part of the Squadron Spouse AU is not the potential for crazy worldbuilding or spicy shenanigans, it's not just because I'm stubborn about taking crack-fic ideas and making them work.

It's because I have never seen a force quite as stubborn, willful, and completely ready to kill a man as a military dependant, especially a spouse.

I am not joking for a single moment when I say that taking the equivalent of military spouses and putting them in the clone wars setting will single-handedly decimate Order 66 and make Palpatine personally strangle whatever senate member was the first one to offer the companion program as a legitimate policy.

[clonewarswritings]

Links & Information Post

This blog, while primarily for Clone Wars era characters and content, is open to the greater Star Wars universe for requests and conversation. I cannot pretend that I do not perceive and think about the Mandalorian series and the namesake character on a regular basis.

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