kemdwrites

[kemdwrites]

I actually love this and have thought about it for so long, I always think about what would their houses look like? Would they live near each other? Neighboring planets, streets, towns, cities? I used to make little apartments up in my head and find furnishings and all these little homey things that I think they would like or just have, I put hours into it. All because I thought (and still do) that they need a home. Not a barracks, I used to imagine the 212th, 501st, 104th and The Bad Batch have cabins up in the mountains in BC in Canada (bc they are SO pretty) they are all pretty close together, but not right beside each other that it's like a camp, it's a getaway, a calm, there's a little stream that runs down the a river that the salmon swim in. I think a few miles away up a trail there's a meadow, filled with wildflowers and deer go there regularly when no one is there, or at night. I think they would picnic together there. Hardcase brought snacks one day and Fives brought a blanket for Echo because he doesn't really like the feeling of the long grass touching him or the sway of it in the warm breeze. Waxer said something about how this would be a great place for a picnic and Rex made it happen.

I love them so much 😭🤍

[My Homework Turned Into a Clone Feelings Spiral: "Where the Caf Is Always Hot and the War Is Over"]

(Aka me losing my sh!t over blueprints of houses and imagining the Clones designing their homes.)

I’m studying interior design. It’s what I love. Textures, space planning, the way light hits a room at different times of day—I could talk about it for hours.

Today I was working on a project. Residential layouts. I was designing living spaces—bedrooms, kitchens, a reading nook with big windows and warm-toned flooring. I was thinking about comfort. About home.

And then out of nowhere—I thought about the clones.

Like. Not even trying to. I was just sketching out a living room and suddenly I was knee-deep in “What kind of house would Rex want?” What would his walls look like? Would Fives want a window seat? Would Cody pick copper fixtures or matte black?

And then it just… spiraled. Because the truth hit me, fast and hard and ugly:

They never got a home. Not really. Not like this. Not a soft, lived-in space that smelled like caf and laundry detergent instead of ozone and medbay. Not a kitchen where they burned toast and laughed about it. Not a hallway lined with pictures. Not somewhere they could say, with their whole chest, “This is mine.” And today, while working on a homework assignment about warm, livable spaces... I just cried. Because I realized I want to build homes for people who never got the chance to dream about them.

People like the clones. People like Rex. Cody. Echo. Wolffe. Jesse. Fives. All of them.

So I made this. Not because I had to. But because I had to. Because somewhere in another galaxy, maybe they’re sitting in those rooms I dreamed up— Feet on the table, coffee in hand, windows wide open— And saying:

"This? This is home."

Those are rambles, you do not have to read them at all, I just wanted them out besties X'D

The clones never had a home. But maybe, maybe… they dreamed of one.

The War Tent Conversations™

You KNOW they talked about it. Not often. Not loud. But during long nights in war tents, huddled under tarp during storms, passing ration bars and swapping stories...

Someone whispers: “If you could live anywhere after the war... where would you go?”

And suddenly it’s quiet. Like the air’s holding its breath. And then the stories start. Not big. Not flashy. But specific.

Rex wants a place with creaky floors and a soft bed.

He’s used to sleeping on permacrete and ships that hum all night. But in his dream house, it’s quiet. He can hear wind through a cracked window. The click of an old kettle. The rustle of a blanket that doesn’t smell like plastoid.

There’s a bookshelf. He doesn’t know what’s on it yet. Just knows he wants one. "Something with... books and framed photos. Might be nice.”

He doesn’t say it, but he dreams of family photos. The ones they never got to take.

Cody wants a kitchen. A big one.

He has no idea how to cook. But he wants to learn. "Seems like a useful skill,” he mumbles. But what he means is: “I want to feed the people I love. I want to make them laugh while stirring soup. I want to be... normal.”

He wants a round table. No sharp corners. No tactical edges. Just something soft. Human.

He wants to wake up without an alarm. Wants to sit. For once in his life, he wants to just sit and not calculate the exit route or enemy angles.

Waxer and Boil dream about a house with a backyard.

Big enough for kids to play. They don’t even say “Numa.” They don’t have to.

There’s a little garden. A bench. A tree. They carve initials into it. Not their own. Names they want to remember.

Waxer wants a porch swing. Boil says that’s “too domestic,” but secretly draws it in his journal later.

They argue about paint colors. But you know they’d end up with matching mugs and a shared dog and an ugly couch they pretend to hate but secretly love.

Fives wants windows.

Big ones. Everywhere. He grew up in the sterile white of Kamino. He wants light. Sunbeams on hardwood. Shadows on his face. He wants to lie on the floor at 3pm and feel the warmth seep into his skin and just exist.

Maybe he wants a rooftop. So he can sit under stars he isn’t chasing in battle. Maybe he just wants to know he can sleep there again tomorrow.

Echo wants a little house with tech built into the walls.

Not because he wants to be connected—because he wants to control it. A house that listens to him, not the other way around. A space where he chooses when the lights come on. When the door opens. When he feels safe.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks about it: A safe room. A panic button. Emergency protocols. Just in case.

And then… A soft rug. A mug warmer. A real bed, with flannel sheets. He never says it. But he dreams of being tucked in.

Wolffe wants something quiet. Secluded.

Near a cliff. Maybe a lake. A place where no one expects him to talk. Where silence is not a punishment, but a gift.

The furniture’s all hand-carved. The kind that creaks with age and memory. There’s a chair no one else sits in. It’s his.

He wants space to grieve. Space to heal. And maybe—one day—he’ll put a second chair next to the first.

Tup wants a loft with a huge art wall.

He doesn’t care if it’s messy. He wants it messy. He’ll hang half-finished sketches and smudged paintboards and postcards he’ll never send.

He says he wants a house where he can leave a mess and no one will come clean it up. Where he can walk into the kitchen with paint on his hands and no one yells about protocols. Where the art stays. Because he stays.

Hardcase wants a houseboat.

Because of course he does.

He wants to fall asleep with waves rocking the walls. Wants music playing all the time. Wants beaded curtains and loud wallpaper and mismatched chairs that all have names.

He wants it weird. He wants it his. And if anyone says it’s “too much,” he’ll just say: “Then get your own boat, brother.”

Jesse wants a balcony.

So he can feel the sun. So he can sit with someone else. Maybe not talk. Maybe just watch.

He wants something simple. A couch. A soft blanket. A place to be held. Because he spent his whole life holding others. And maybe now it’s his turn.

I'm literally at my desk, pen in hand, sketches in front of me. And my hands are shaking. Because I'm there—I'm designing/writing homes for ghosts. Filling little imaginary rooms with love, and music, and memories they never got to have. And I wish they could see it. I wish they could be there. I wish they lived.

So yeah. My homework is stained with tears now. But that’s okay. Because somewhere in the Force… The clones are sitting in their living rooms, with caf in hand, looking out windows they chose, And whispering:

“We made it.”

.

..

...

WELL BACK TO IT I GUESS?????? (Rex is getting throw pillows whether he likes it or not.)

[kemdwrites]

Hi!! Could you please write a Reader/Captain Rex fic where Reader has a nightmare and Rex find them panicking and then he calms them down? shipping if possible?

Thank you sm and no worries if you don't want to write it!!!<3

"Stay with Me", a Reader/Captain Rex ficlet

Hi Anon!!!

Of course I could write this — thank you so much for trusting me with such a soft and emotional idea!!!💙 I had way too many feelings about it (Rex my beloved) and I hope you enjoy this little piece of comfort!!!

Sending you the biggest hugs and a very small, very loyal squad of clone troopers to protect your dreams 😌✨

Title: "Stay With Me" Pairing: Captain Rex/Reader Prompt/Tags: Nightmare / Panic Attack, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Fluff)

The first thing you register is the cold.

It sinks into your bones, wraps around your lungs like wire, makes it impossible to draw a full breath. Cold sweat clings to your skin, your shirt sticking uncomfortably to your back. Cold air burns every shaky gasp you drag into your chest. Your hands won’t stop trembling, fingers clawing uselessly at the tabletop you’d slumped over hours ago.

The world around you is all wrong — too loud, too sharp, tilting dangerously like a ship about to capsize.

And it hits you all at once.

The terror.

The blind, clawing panic tearing its way up your throat, hollowing you out from the inside. Your heart hammers against your ribs, too fast, too hard, and you can’t catch up. You can't slow it down. You can’t—

You don’t even realize you’re gasping, half-choking on thin air, until someone says your name.

It cuts through the rising storm in your head — distant, urgent — but the words don’t make sense at first. Everything’s muffled, underwater.

Then again, sharper this time. Closer.

“—’ey, cyare. Hey. Look at me.”

Fingers — warm, steady — wrap around your wrist. Not yanking. Not hurting. Just anchoring. Holding.

You flinch, a strangled sound scraping from your throat.

“Hey, hey, easy,” the voice says, low and steady, trying to meet you wherever you’ve fallen. “You’re alright. You’re safe. I got you.”

You blink, or maybe you don’t — your vision swims either way — and suddenly there’s a face in front of you, close enough that you can see the way the worry creases the corners of his mouth.

It’s Rex.

Of course it’s Rex.

You’re not sure when you started needing him this badly. Maybe it was the late nights in the barracks, the way he always found you when the walls felt like they were closing in. Maybe it was the soft way he said your name when you forgot how to breathe.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your palms into them until you see stars. You're still half in the nightmare — trapped in the awful dark — the mission gone wrong, the blasterfire too loud, blood pooling too fast for your hands to stop it—

Something shatters inside your chest, a tidal wave of relief and shame and helplessness crashing down all at once.

“I— I can’t—” you choke out, words broken and useless. Your whole body is shaking like a speeder at top speed about to fall apart.

Rex moves instantly, pushing your scattered datapads and notes aside with a sweep of his hand. He crouches in front of you, putting himself right in your line of sight, like he’s trying to block out the rest of the spinning, punishing world.

“Focus on me, cyare,” he says, voice firm but so gentle it hurts. “Just me.”

You blink again, and this time a tear slips loose, sliding hot and miserable down your cheek.

You hate this. You hate being weak.

But Rex just shifts closer, so close you could fall right into him, and taps his forehead against yours.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking slow, steady circles against your skin. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

His voice is low and rough, still wrecked from sleep. “You're safe. You’re right here with me.”

Your breath stutters again, shallow and panicked.

The table you'd been working at is littered with datapads, half-finished reports, the cold dregs of a cup of caf. You must have dozed off right there — nodded off without meaning to, without Rex around to nudge you to bed — and the nightmares had grabbed you in their claws the second your guard was down.

“Can you give me your hand?” he asks, soft but firm.

You shake your head, squeezing your fists tighter into your eyes. It's too much. You're trembling too hard. He can't want to touch you, not like this.

But Rex just hums low in his chest — a patient sound — and waits.

After a moment, you peel one hand away from your face, shaking like a leaf.

Rex catches it in his gloved one, warm and sure.

He presses your palm flat against the rough plates of his chest armor.

“Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s real. I'm here. You're not alone.”

Your fingers flex helplessly against him. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your hand — solid, grounding.

You cling to it like a lifeline.

“Deep breath, cyare,” he says, so gently it wrecks you. “With me. In… and out.”

You try. You fail. You try again.

Rex doesn’t let go.

He keeps murmuring encouragements, rocking on the balls of his feet like he’s settling a scared tooka kit.

When you finally, finally drag in a breath that doesn't feel like broken glass, you sag forward, boneless and exhausted.

Without hesitating, Rex catches you.

He tugs you down into his lap, wrapping you up in his arms like it's the most natural thing in the galaxy. His armor digs into your skin in places, but you don't care. You're too busy anchoring yourself to the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Got you,” he says, rumbling low against your hair. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

You whimper, tiny and wrecked, and Rex just holds you tighter.

The room hums around you — the faint buzz of the lights, the distant roar of Coruscant traffic. You bury your face against the crook of his neck, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of him: leather, metal polish, soap.

Safe. Alive. Here.

After a while, your shudders slow. Your fists unclench. Your heartbeat, once frantic, starts to sync with his.

“You didn't have to—” you start, voice cracking apart on the first word.

“Shh,” Rex says, thumbing gently along the back of your neck. “None of that.”

You let yourself fall silent, too wrung-out to argue.

For a long time, the two of you just stay like that, tangled up together in the half-dark. Then Rex tilts his head, brushing his nose lightly against your temple.

“You scare me when you don’t come to bed,” he murmurs, a confession barely louder than a breath. “Don’t like waking up without you.”

You blink blearily against him.

“…Didn't mean to,” you rasp.

“I know.” His hand finds yours again, threading your fingers together. His thumb rubs slow, soothing circles into your knuckles. “You’re allowed to need help, cyare.”

You press your forehead against the cool curve of his armor.

“I don’t wanna be a burden,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says fiercely. “Never.”

You close your eyes, feeling the world finally, finally start to settle around you.

Rex shifts a little, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

“You’re stuck with me, mesh’la,” he says, voice rough and fond. “Nightmares and all.”

You manage a tiny, broken laugh against his throat.

“Good,” you whisper. “You’re stuck with me too.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.”

When your breathing finally evens out against his throat, Rex lets himself relax a little.

Only a little.

You're curled into him like you were made to fit there, but the stiff chair and the cluttered table, the cold armor plates pressed awkwardly against you — it’s no good. Not for someone who deserves to sleep soft and safe.

He huffs a breath into your hair, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“You stubborn thing,” he murmurs, low and fond. “Tryin’ to pass out on a damn workbench.”

You make a tiny noise — half a sigh, half a whimper — but you don’t wake fully.

Rex shifts carefully, keeping one hand steady behind your shoulders, the other braced under your knees. In one smooth, practiced motion, he scoops you up against his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

You let out a soft, breathy whine at the movement but nuzzle closer without waking, instinctively seeking out his warmth.

Rex’s heart damn near stops.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you,” he says under his breath, a helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t leave you to drool all over the paperwork, now, can I?”

He makes his way toward the bunks, his boots thudding quietly against the floor.

It’s slow going — not because you’re heavy, never that — but because he can’t bring himself to jostle you too much. You deserve better than being startled awake after a night like this.

The door to your shared quarters hisses open.

Rex nudges it shut behind him with his foot and crosses the room in a few strides.

He’s careful lowering you onto the bed — slow, steady — peeling your arms from around his neck like untangling vines.

You mumble something incoherent, fingers clenching weakly in his sleeve.

Rex leans in close, letting his forehead brush against yours.

“Still here, cyare,” he whispers. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

You settle again with a soft, shuddery sigh.

But when Rex moves to back away, your hand finds his gauntlet, tugging weakly.

He glances down at his armor, grimacing.

“Not sleepin’ in full kit, mesh’la,” he says, teasing low, as he starts peeling off the chestplate. “Might be part durasteel, but you’re not. You deserve better than cuddlin' cold plastoid.”

Bit by bit, he sheds the armor, setting each piece aside with quiet, careful movements.

When he’s finally down to the blacks, he slides into bed beside you, gathering you close again.

This time, when you curl against him, it's all warm fabric and steady heartbeat and the sure, safe weight of his arms around you.

Rex presses a kiss to the crown of your head — featherlight.

“You’re safe,” he breathes against your hair.

You don’t answer — not out loud. But your hand fists weakly in the front of his blacks, anchoring yourself there, and that's answer enough.

He stays awake a little longer, listening to the soft hitch of your breaths smoothing out into real sleep.

Only when he’s sure you’re deep under — nightmare-free, finally at peace — does Rex let his eyes drift closed too, his hand never once letting go of yours.

And if he wakes up sore and cramped because he refused to shift and risk waking you?

Well. He figures that’s a small price to pay for keeping you safe through the night.

[kemdwrites]

"I did it for you" has gotta be my favorite form of betrayal. You gave me a gift I never asked for, and now I have to look around at the world you destroyed with the knowledge that it was gift wrapped and addressed to me.

[kemdwrites]

Chubs: I hate to say ‘I told you so’-

Liam: No, you don’t. You would marry ‘I told you so’ and have a baby with it and buy adjoining burial plots.

[kemdwrites]

🌧️|| Downpour (Captain Rex x Reader)

Rex's pov: The captain watches you spin in the rain, and realises he's falling. W: None. Just pure yearning from Rex. AN: Hello there! General Rae here, posting a short one-shot from my Wattpad works. I've been inspired from all the fanfics here on Tumblr and decided to give posting here a shot. Proofread by the demon inside me, enjoy! Wordcount: 348 words or so

___________________________

It all starts like most things in his life do.

Unexpected. Loud. Impossible to look away from.

The downpour crashes down over the Temple courtyard, pounding the permacrete in sheets of silver. It's too much- too fast -for the city's usual drainage systems. Most beings are running for cover. Civilians scramble beneath canopies, clones duck into transports, even the Jedi start hurrying their steps.

But not you.

You're out there, in the middle of it. Laughing. Arms wide. Head thrown back as if the sky whispered some private joke just to you.

Rex stares from the archway, already soaked from escorting a Jedi to their shuttle, helmet under one arm, now frozen in place like he's watching a dream walk past him.

You're spinning.

Not like a dancer on a stage. No practiced grace. Just wild, joyful, chaotic movement like you've been set free from gravity and reason. Rain clings to your clothes, your hair, dripping from your eyelashes. You're radiant. Ethereal. A glitch in the simulation of this endless war.

And he's never seen you like this.

He's seen you laugh, sure- you've smile at him when you pass him on your way to meetings, tease him when he's being too serious on a particular briefing. But not like this. Not uncontained, uninhibited, like the galaxy doesn't have any weight on your shoulders. His vod has been calling you his girl for a while now. Rex denies it every chance he gets- he isn't used to being loved, doesn't want to admit he's (possibly) gone soft. Love was a foreign thing to him, something he strongly believed he didn't deserve and shouldn't want.

But he does. With every fiber of his being, he wants to run out there and grab you. To spin you around the potentially slippery ground, not caring if you both fall on top of each other. To lovingly tuck your soaked form into his arms, forehead to forehead, like you're the only clear thing in a blurred world. He wants to ask what makes you glow like that in the rain. He wants to ask what it would take to make you smile like that for him.

He doesn't move.

He just watches. Breath caught. Heart pounding. A man designed for war- silently, helplessly falling in love.

The rain keeps falling.

So does he.

___________________________

Wattpad <-

Taglist & Feedback Form <- Anyways, I think I can do requests? Just ask, thank you!

[kemdwrites]

Rex won't stand by that bs

Consider joining Patreon for extra content!

[kemdwrites]

Bly: What's the worst thing your generals done to you

Wolffe: Told me he's disappointed in me

Cody: Drop his lightsaber

Rex: Throw me off a bridge

[kemdwrites]

One of my favourite tropes in fanfic is the clones trying to get their Jedi to wear some armour. My friend however, suggested a very fun solution to the clones their issue.

Paint ball guns.

The clones start carrying around paint ball guns and try to hit their General’s and Jedi Commanders wherever they are exposed.

But just imagine they are in the middle of a meeting, and one of the clones just whips out a paint ball gun and tries to shoot their commanding officer.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you were wearing armour, sir.”

[kemdwrites]

One of my favorite pieces of canon continuity is that clones cannot lie for shit

[kemdwrites]

when in doubt, use your sibling as a blunt object

[kemdwrites]

Something I found very cute that made me extremely happy is Cody’s reactions to the Bad Batch and how he’s looking at Rex like “see aren’t they fantastic?” And I love that we see him smiling here while Tech is infodumping, it just makes it better.

Either that or he’s like “haha buckle up you’re in for a wild ride” but I still thinks it’s a great shot

[kemdwrites]

AU where the clones and the droids unionize and collectively go on strike and stand threateningly around important government buildings until they get their rights 

[kemdwrites]

“Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two” Sansa III, A Game of Thrones

[kemdwrites]

to me the starklings each have their own wolf name. we all know Robb is the Young Wolf, but as for the others; Jon is the White Wolf (because of Ghost, but hopefully his hair turns white if he survives), Sansa is the Lady Wolf (self explanatory), Arya is the Night Wolf, Bran is the Winged Wolf (these two are in the text) and Rickon is the Wild Wolf (don't know what else to call him).

[kemdwrites]

You don't have to force yourself to bounce back so quickly. I read something recently that said "when you come in from a rainstorm, you don't expect yourself to be dry and warm right away", and it really resonated with me. It's okay to take time to dry off and warm up. Take the time you need to process what happened to you.

[kemdwrites]

🌹 a flower for everyone not feeling their best today

[kemdwrites]

a comic about fix-it fanfics