#writing.jag

[doompen]

Incestuous twin sisters, Jo (butch) and Kitty (femme) are both abused by their parents but Jo gets the brunt of the sexual abuse and Kitty less so. Kitty feels the heavy guilt of it, and ends up taking it out on herself through cutting. Whenever he can, Jo climbs into bed with Kitty and kisses all the scars on her body and makes Kitty feel good.

[jaggerwockyy]

day MADE it's so nice to be recognized for my fics and also that thread is so so so good. jedi-clone relationships are so interesting to me and i love that people are still talking about the agency of clones in 2025. mwah mwah mwah to all of you <3

check out my jedi-clone series here if it bugs you that clones get treated not great in canon and fanon

[jaggerwockyy]

P!!

oooh so you did not choose a wip but i'm guessing you're referring to the 911 au one :)

i haven't worked much on this at all and i recently remembered it, lol. but i love it because it's angsty, dark, and truly a different genre. i do have a playlist and moodboard so here ya go:

playlist - does need to be listened to in order

[doompen]

hi. you can call me jack, 21, he/they. i am a tmasc butchdyke who likes writing about deranged butches. cw for dark topics like abuse, incest, rape, explicit sex, self-harm, etc.

my wips rn:

apocalyptic butch biker gang 'verse (#butchpocalypse)

extravagant femme gatsby but on a cruise ship in outer space 'verse (#andromeda)

americana incest parricide-committing twins on the run roadtrip (#sennacherrib wip)

[jaggerwockyy]

ok here's a fox snippet :D

also on ao3

Fox has tea with the Chancellor every day.

Fox quells the hammering in his chest with practiced routine. Formula: apply the remedy—in for five, out for seven. He wills his hands to stop shaking.

How many times has he done this little ritual? How many closed doors has he stood behind, trembling in his armor? He can recall every moment and every door but it doesn’t matter how many ways he tries to come at it. He’ll replay this forever, every time.

He exhales—five, six, seven—and the door to the Chancellor’s office slides open silently.

The room is dimmed in a dragging way, heavy weight to it that reminds him of sleep. The room is carpeted and every sound dampens and disappears to a faraway, hazy other place. This is a room where time stops.

The Chancellor’s sitting calmly, scribbling on a datapad as Fox enters.

He looks up when Fox walks closer to the chair by the desk. “Ah, Fox. Good to see you, son.”

Fox takes the seat across from him and removes his helmet, setting it in his lap. A server droid trundles in behind him, silver skin shimmering smoothly with the orange lighting in the room. It places a broad tea platter on the desk in between them.

The Chancellor serves him. Fox sits there, his hands frozen on his helmet, unsure of what to do with his hands, even though this is more than the tenth time they’ve done this—tea, together. He watches as Palpatine pours sugar and milk into the steaming black liquid, watches as he methodically stirs it and the liquid pales into a light brown. He pushes it in front of Fox.

“Busy day, eh?” Fox musters, an attempt at conversation. The Chancellor rarely has any of his work out when he comes in, but today, he’s putting away the datapad after pouring tea.

“Ah, series of bills, just flimsiwork,” the Chancellor says through a sigh. He shuts the drawer under his desk, and pours himself a generous cup of tea, served black. “Go on, drink up. Force knows I need it,” he says wryly, and drinks.

Fox takes a sip of his tea. It’s milky-sweet and just hot enough to warm him all the way down. All Fett clones have a sweet-tooth, arising from an unconscious, programmed desire for any kind of energy they can get their hands on, handy for battle. Fox isn’t a front-liner, he’s a glorified security guard, he goes offworld so rarely, so it’s wasted on him. Fox takes another sip—slow, small. He rolls the liquid in his mouth till the sugar coats his whole tongue in a disgusting, thick layer.

The Chancellor asked him how he took his tea the first time they sat down like this and never had to ask again. Each time Fox shows up, at the same precise time every day, except weekends, there’s a cup waiting for him. Perfectly creamy and sweet. Fox stomach churns in anticipation; he craves the taste daily.

“Good, isn’t it?” The Chancellor says, smiling. “The leaves are from the royal collection back home, from Naboo. It reminds me of my early years there. Ah, what a time.”

Royal tea, Fox thinks dully. He thinks of his brothers scattered across the stars, in trenches and forest camps, losing blood, making a difference. And here he is, having tea with the Chancellor, reminiscing.

[jaggerwockyy]

love to my darling @urmomsonfire for tagging me in this! :D ik you tagged my top gun acct but uhhhh not a lot is really happening there for me so i'm going with my main.

so sorry but pretty much all of my top gun fic ideas are going into the archive because i really have zero motivation to write hangster these days

on this WIP wednesday we shall be working on:

surfer kix (star wars tcw): my mirjahaal au - after the clone wars, kix and coric (plus a undeployed kamino trooper) head to Amarina, a tropical beach town where they are tasked to fix up a decaying resort. basically, what kix was doing when Jesse was on Saleucami in my Mountain Man Jesse fic

bratasha fic (top gun): oh wait i do have a top gun fic! nsfw dom!nat and sub!bradley letting off some steam after a particular bad hop

broken mind / broken body (911): AU where buck who had to amputate his leg after the firetruck incident and PTSD-ridden eddie move in together in a crappy neighborhood

sennacherrib (original work): twin sisters who murdered their parents go on the run across the U.S. in the summer of 2007, haunted by their ancestral ghosts

send me stufff please i'm kinda begging lol i hate homework rn and want to crawl under a rock 24/7 so:

Send W, I, or P and get the following: W: WORK! Work on your WIP. Tell us how you did. I: IN! Post a snippet of the middle of a sentence or part of the inside of a paragraph. P: PROGRESS! Tell us about your progress, or what you're looking forward to/struggling with!

tagging because i'm curious but no pressure: @lovesicknessyndrome @chameleoncam @samwhump @howdyrat @birdieisnotwriting @rosecarr67

[doompen]

incest parrricide sisters snippet:

Cate's thin shoulders are shaking in the yellow bathroom light, her hair stringy around her face, ribs showing through her wet, translucent top. The spray hits the porcelain tub like a rainstorm, barely loud enough to muffle Cate's small sobs. Steam fogs up the mirror and hangs warm and heavy in the air.

Jo slides the curtain behind herself as she steps into the tub with her sister. The lace trim at the top of Cate's camisole is stained red, like when they were toddlers growing up in Oregon, eating berries sloppily and dripping the juice on their clothes. The tiny ribbon bow at the valley of the neckline that matches the one on her underwear is still pristine, for some reason, and Jo's hands go to it, automatically.

Under the warm spray that's steadily drenching Jo's hair, too, she slides the hem of Cate's camisole over her soft belly and her small, pink breasts, over her head. It takes a moment to untangle the straps from her long hair. Cate's still shaking, but a little less now. Jo lets the camisole fall to the shower floor with a wet plop and brushes her sister's hair out of her face.

For a moment they stand there listening to the water drain badly in a staccato, gurgling rhythm, and Jo smooths rivulets of water over Cate's acne-flecked shoulders, mesmerized by the droplets shimmering on her gold skin in the overhead light that's half-blocked by the shower curtain. Cate's breaths are shaky but evening out, and Jo presses her forehead to her sister's and doesn't need to say anything. Cate breathes with her.

[jaggerwockyy]

1 and 3 for the fic ask game!!

hi birdie! thanks for the ask (from here).

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

honestly, probably anything from my 'star wars the clone wars' systems of equations series. this is an ongoing series of snippets about the relationships between clone commanders and their jedi commanders, and it's very much something i've put a lot of thought into (and they're not very long, but still impactful i think). it's angsty as expected from me but it covers a complicated thing i think isn't super common from the fandom (the complications of power dynamics, etc.).

3. What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?

definitely themes of autonomy/control/choice, guilt/shame regarding that, and interpersonal relationship power dynamics, particularly familial/filial. everything from my e-rated spn fics to my fluffy gen top gun fics kinda covers something from there. boiled down, a lot of it is about love: crossed definitions of it, perversions of it, or whatever honesty about it i can muster.

thanks birdie, love you!

[jaggerwockyy]

please PLEASE IN FOR 911 AU

okay we're getting whumpy today

“You promised me,” Buck says brokenly. “Promised me you’d wrap properly, you’d wear gloves, you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”

yeah so eddie's an illegal street fighter too bc it's the only job he can hold down rn

[jaggerwockyy]

hiiii happy wip wednesday :DD!! i/in for sennacherrib??

this is my favorite wip rn!

sennacherib:

if she looks in the mirror she’ll have Cate’s/Mom’s lipstick all over her face, blood-red makeup disappearing under her shirt. She scrubs at it with the inside of her shirt collar and it does nothing but smear brightly across her skin.

thanks birdie :) my inbox is always open <3

[jaggerwockyy]

🌀 Whatever you got I'd like to hear about it!

hi howdy! here's a summary/teaser of the hangster boarding school au idea 0.0:

(from an ask game a while back)

Jake's always been the wildcard of his family, which is why his father (oil tycoon and holder of the Seresin family fortune) ships him off to a gloomy boys boarding school in rural New England. There, Jake has free reign to cause as much trouble as he wants, and before long he charms the entire school—the football team, the faculty, and the ladies at the girls' school next door. But one obstacle stands in his way—Bradley Bradshaw, one-time arsonist and delinquent scholarship kid. It's rather hard learning how to captain the football team, keep up his grades, explore his love life, and stay on his parents' good side while Bradley seems to find it his life goal to get on every last one of Jake's nerves.

[jaggerwockyy]

apparently i do not know how to stop starting wips. anyway. here's a snippet from piecewise, another entry into my system of equations series (also informally known as the unhelpful-obi-wan-series)

includes my headcanon where clones are used to having "spare parts" ... they're used to having limbs and even whole bodies replaced quite frequently

“Look at yourself,” Cody says, more to himself than Kenobi. For once he has a captive audience. “How dare you risk yourself like that. It wasn’t necessary, General. You’re too valuable for this.” He wants to add, you di’kut. You stupid, stupid Jedi.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cody storms into the medbay, straight into the corner where Obi-Wan Kenobi’s lying in bacta, awake, but eyes shut in pain. There are lacerations all over his fair skin, dark stitches holding his body together. He’s not even in the vertical tank, but one of the precious coffin-shaped horizontal ones that take up more space than they have. Apparently, the general could barely even sit, much less be suspended in a tank.

Cody steps closer and places a gauntlet against the glass. He sweeps Kenobi from head to toe. A smattering of blaster wounds cross his body, one of them through-and-through his torso, too close to his heart for Cody’s comfort. Cody shudders, ice climbing down his spine. He can’t get the sound of Obi-Wan’s gasp out of his mind.

“Look at yourself,” Cody says, more to himself than Kenobi. For once he has a captive audience. “How dare you risk yourself like that. It wasn’t necessary, General. You’re too valuable for this.” He wants to add, you di’kut. You stupid, stupid Jedi.

It will be ages before the nearest Jedi healer gets here, Cody thinks. If Kenobi had done what he was supposed to, they’d be up and running already. Cody’d have a new body, yes, but he’s trained for that, and he even has the option of another body. Kenobi didn’t have any excuses. He had the Extractor with him, he always has it with him. The Extractor---the machine that could keep Cody’s brain alive without the hassle of his body and therefore salvage all the knowledge and skill he has accumulated over the few short months of this war, and the few short years of his life. Yes, it is a bloody option, but it’s quick. Effective. Efficient. Cody’s not afraid for it to be used on him. He’s prepared all his life for this.

After all, there’s only one Obi-Wan Kenobi, but there are 1.2 million clone troopers.

Cody grinds his teeth, something tight in his throat. Kenobi’s eyes snap open, bright blue in the glow of the bacta. There’s a gash splitting his lip from below his nose and across his chin. Yet he opens his mouth anyway.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says through smoke-thick vocal chords. “I did what I needed to do.”

“What you needed to do was use the Extractor,” Cody spits back, and doesn’t even try to tack on sir at the end.

“You’re alive, Cody. I’m alive. We finished the campaign. We completed our mission.”

“And you took damage to a high degree, General. It’s not a win, in my mind. Not when you’re like this.” Cody stands there helplessly, and sets his helmet down on the top lid of the bacta chamber. “What can I do to make you comfortable using the Extractor? This can’t happen again.”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan pleads.

“You need practice,” Cody says, his voice hard and his face harder.

“Practice? For the Extractor?” Obi-Wan looks almost … scared.

“Yes,” Cody says, low. He snatches up his helmet. “The moment the doc says you’re fit for duty, I want you to do a mock-run on me.”

[jaggerwockyy]

thorn + moon song (phoebe bridgers)

(requested by @dino-cattivo for the spotify wrapped ask game)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Again, Thorn?”

Thorn looks up briefly, shutting off the tattoo gun as he does so. Thire stands in the doorway, hands on hips, eyeing the partially-inked wheel on the back of Thorn’s calf.

“Never a bad time for more ink.” He contorts in front of the mirror, trying to get a better angle to illustrate the GAR wheel wrapping around his leg in red and gold. He flexes a little, too, and Thire rolls his eyes at that.

“You’re a nut.”

Thorn smiles widely. “If you want a matching one, just say so. Gotta show those clankers what all this is for.”

Thire rolls his eyes, and Thorn switches the gun back on. There’s haradly an inch left on his skin that isn’t real estate for some kind of Republic symbol. All his battles and all the fleets, companies, teams he’s worked with, planets he’s fought on, and more litter his skin like a graveyard.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don’t meet up much, but when they’re all planetside (usually on Coruscant), they sometimes try to grab dinner, him and Thire and Fox.

They sit around and order takeout on Fox’s dime. Fox always has credits stored somewhere. They don’t ask where it’s from, and he doesn’t tell. No one’s complaining as long as they’re eating good.

Conversation centers around old campaigns and gossip and girls and sometimes, the state of the war, and if Thire’s had a few too many, they get to questions like this.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Thire says, low, hand wrapped snugly around a whole handle of liquor, “what even the point of this war is.”

“Not our job to ask that,” Fox growls, stiffly. He swigs from his own bottle, and stares into it pensively.

They get it wrong, both of them. Thorn sees this a lot: brothers asking too many questions, trying to approach it from convoluted angles, or worse, simply try to forget their purpose all together.

“Boys,” Thorn says, motioning them to come closer and listen in. “This war isn’t about having some complicated higher purpose—leave that to the Jedi, Thire—and this isn’t about blinding following orders.” He points his drink’s neck at Fox. “It’s very simple, we all know it. We all know that our job is very simple, and it’s noble. We were born, we were bred, for a single purpose. It is written in our blood—duty. Honor. Purpose. Glory. We defend the Republic, we protect the Republic, we fight for our brothers and for our collective peace. We preserve freedom and democracy in this system. We uphold peace. We are soldiers of the Republic. Ya hear that? Soldiers! Of the kriffing Republic!”

Thire nods, sleepily, and Fox begins to clap his hands in a steady rhythm. It feels like a minute before Thorn slaps them all on the shoulders, free of pauldrons after this many drinks, and they begin some kind of sloppy chant vaguely reminiscent of something their trainers showed them years ago.

“Glory,” Fox slurs, arm slung around Thorn’s shoulder.

“Rrrepubl-” Thire begins, then promptly belches, and falls into Thorn’s side.

Thorn grins. “Glory to the Republic, my boys,” he says, and before long, he passes out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His name was Phee, he was Thorn’s best lieutenant and best friend, and he was dead.

Gone.

Thorn carried his body the whole way back. In the LAAT/i, as the ship lurched through enemy gunfire in some semblance of an evac, Thorn cradled Phee’s lolling head and limp body in his own arms. Thorn’s armor soon gained a coat of cracking mud: the rust red native dirt of that disgusting hell hole of an assignment mixed with blood and dried hard on his plates.

Thorn doesn’t let things get to him, but now, sitting in the pristine hospital bays of their starcruiser with no evidence of Phee except his helmet with the wing design matching Thorn’s, he thinks he can admit that something finally has.

Phee fought valiantly, went out swinging. Took no poodoo from those clankers and showed them who was boss. Even if he did eventually perish, he took out a good deal of the enemy with him, too. The last thing most of those ocular receptors saw was a flurry of red and good old Republic blasterfire.

Thorn chokes on liquid dripping down the back of his throat. He coughs, and wipes his fatigues sleeve against his nose. His boy died a hero’s death.

It’s the best thing any of them can hope for. The Republic is proud of an ending like that. They don’t really end, anyway, as long as the Wheel keeps turning, as long as there are Fett clones to stand up for the name of the Republic. They keep dying but they keep fighting. Thorn supposes it’s all but poetic.

He stands. There’s work to do, after all: more battles to fight. It’s what he’s made for.

He hopes it’ll be the same for him, too—an ending worthy of the Republic, just like Phee’s.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thorn never holds back.

If he was made for a mission, he’ll finish it with everything he is. If he was made to destroy the enemy, he’ll make sure there’s nothing left standing. If he was made to fight, he’ll do so until he drops.

When the clankers corner him, box him in with no way out, he blasts them with his Hammer. His goal is to take as many with them when he goes out.

The first shot connects with his body, and he feels the energy dissipate warm and hot and wrong in his body. Adrenaline masks the pain, but he’s a little scared. The thought passes through his head at hyperspeed but somehow he’s aware of everything at once: the clankers closing in, the heft and aim of his weapon, the hot pain of each additional blast hitting his skin and sinking into his bones.

He’s a little scared.

It’s just a dark bloom on the edge of his consciousness. Cold and inky.

What’s after this? Will any part of the Republic remember his name?

The ink spreads and pools in the bottom of his head. It sloshes when his knees hit the ground, but he screams in satisfaction and pumped-up battle high as each clanker drops with him.

He goes until he can’t see and he has no ammo left and he can’t hold up his head anymore.

As the ink blots out the rest, he can’t help but feel like he’s missing something, like he’s been cheated out of a promise he never meant to make.

Those are his last thoughts, but his last words are: for the Republic.

It’s true, after all, that all he’s ever been was for the Republic.

[jaggerwockyy]

final chapter of the mountain man jesse fic up rn:

title: for everything there is a season rating: GEN, T chapters: 6/6 word count: 16,625 relationships: Jesse & Kix, Jesse & OC, no romantic relationships summary: Jesse, being the restless one he is, moves to a mountain range near the settlement that the 501st creates for themselves on Saleucami. His goal is to live off the land … and get away from his brothers who have settled down faster than he can handle. Maybe he needs a challenge. Maybe he is trying to escape some part of himself.

[jaggerwockyy]

May I hear more on no. 14 “just a pinch (i expect this to hurt)” WIP please? 🥺

hi!! thanks for asking about just a pinch (i expect this to hurt), it's one of those wips that i have a gentle place for in my heart.

i'll ramble a bit about the idea and then give you a snippet :D

i don't remember how much i shared here but the quick summary is that Oola (slave dancer from the beginning of Return of the Jedi) doesn't get eaten by a rancor but instead gets lost in the desert, gets picked up by jawas, and happens to meet Kix who was frozen in carbonite and found by jawas as well.

they both have no idea where they are, nor do they know anyone else, so they team up together to make sense of the world around them. and well, they end up traveling through space and figuring out life together while they attempt to find any family or relatives. grief and moving on is a HUGE part of this story.

it's just them dealing with trauma and grief and figuring out how to make life their own while dealing with mundane things like shopping for clothes, finding food, earning money, and finding hobbies. finding out that they like certain songs, or certain dances, certain foods, certain fashion styles. and also, maybe, falling in love.

anyway it's sorta slice of life sorta self discovery, a whole bunch of things but it is pretty domestic for a planet-hopping space road trip.

snippet below: Oola meets Kix

Not ten minutes later, [Oola]’s sitting in the cargo hold of the sandcrawler, down a few bracelets, but a pouch of water in hand and passage to Mos Eisley Spaceport. Her stomach unclenched itself at the first sip of water, and now loudly grumbles. She’ll have to wait until she gets to the port. Maybe she can find something to eat.

Every surface of the cargo hold is covered in miscellaneous items. Most of it is junk of varying sizes. She’s careful to avoid the ones with jagged metal edges, but she’s already cut herself twice and it’s hard to avoid. Everything is stacked on top of each other at worrying angles, wobbling at every lurch of the giant vehicle.

There has to be someplace she can sit down, and hopefully sleep a little. She moves aside dead droids, ransacked vehicle parts, most of which appear to be speeders from every model from generations ago to last year. That is, assuming from the wear and tear on the paint jobs. Growing up in Jabba’s palace, despite her curiosity, didn’t lend to much knowledge about mechanics and vehicles.

She swats at an expansive, dusty tapestry that dangles from the ceiling. A tapestry. It’s made of thick woven fabric; could probably protect her from the sharp pointy things around her that want to stab her every few seconds. She tears it down, and drapes it over the clearest space in front of her.

Hisssssshhhh.

She jumps, crashing into a stack of thin metal bowls that pings everywhere. She falls hard on her butt.

Something dull and hard juts against her hip. She hisses in pain.

From behind the tapestry is a block of carbonite, and in the carbonite is a young man, frozen in agony.

Or not so frozen anymore.

She’ll have to check how hurt she is later.

Bright light pierces the dim space, and she shields her eyes.

The next thing she knows, a heavy body clatters onto the tapestry next to her.

The carbonite is just a shell, now, an imprint of someone in armor.

She looks to her side. There’s a man there, in painted stormtrooper armor, except the plates don’t look quite right.

[jaggerwockyy]

hunter and their master dynamics: all i know is how to kill for you. i love you so much i will tear the world apart with my fangs for you. my bloody sword is an offering. you are the only one i will not destroy. i am not a gentle being, but consider my acts of war and murder a peace offering between you and me. will you accept this mouse i killed for you? i hunted it for you, see how i have laid it at your feet?