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the-bjd-community-confess · 4 years ago

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More Divaz confos

Mod: Round two of these, previously: link. There’s some interesting customer reviews in this batch (5 and 8) which may be useful to readers.

1.Vic3mage "the secret bjdivaz vip group is just pictures of boxes coming in and going out". Yeah, between the bitching about d0llshe, asking people to post on doa for them, dunking on ex-customers, posting pics of random doll parts that they can't identify which doll they're supposed to go with, whining about how little money they make, whining when ppl e-mail them, whining. Yeah, other than that it's just boxes, and alpacas u can buy off amazon anyway lol.

~Anonymous

2.The butthurt users crying and guilttripping under every Divaz confession who have never been seen before elsewhere on this blog are extremely unsuspicious and unproblematic and definitely unconnected to Divaz and unbiased in every possible way

~Anonymous

3.idk shit abt bjd1vas but v1cemage i can absolutely tell you the shit about ch0o is 100% accurate, fucker's got a long, long history of being an awful little man that stretches well beyond his involvement in the doll community. between the two i'd still trust bjd1vas over ch00 ch00 the fool any day!

~Anonymous

4.The Z3st and Div4s thing is really silly and both entities were being shady but did they really have to take the DZ waiting room down with them? :( He had even made a separate thread about it......

~Anonymous

5. RE: BJD Divaz

I’ve been a customer of BJD Divaz since they first started, when it was only run by Chart3rline. I even contacted other BJD companies trying to persuade them to work with Divaz as their US representative. Most declined because they didnt like D's commission fee, but I was able to persuade a few of them.

I asked them to purchase a doll off DOA because I couldnt afford the asking price, and while they did, I found out later that instead of agreeing to purchase the seller's price, they negotiated the price to be lower. This significantly cheaper price was not passed down to me. I paid the full price +the commission fee based on that full price. I am disappointed I was not told this. This is when I stopped viewing them as a "friend" and instead, as a business. I dont hold this against them, it’s context to what Im going to say later.

I’ve stopped purchasing from D after my recent order from them. This company usually takes 3 or less months to make a doll. I’ve ordered the doll from D and it took 11 months. They let me know it arrived to them in March and that it will be shipped soon, except it only shipped on July, and only after I sent them several "reminder" emails. Before people in the comments try to put the blame on me for not sending a reminder soon, please keep in mind that I acknowledged the email in March and confirmed everything and they keep stressing to not send them emails because they are busy, I’ve emailed once every month since. I’ve since switched to ACBJD and Ive been happy with communication and the dolls ordered. I imagine ACBJD gets the same amount of emails, but they dont berate their customers if they email more than once.

I regret when people wanted a D0llshe, but not deal with him, I always recommended D. I would warn people of ordering directly and instead go through D. They assured buyers they would be handling communication and all the efforts so they wouldnt worry, except they didn’t. A person that I’ve recommended D to, who surpassed 2 years, keeps messaging me for help because D wouldnt reply to their emails. She is respectful, sweet and a timid person, not a Karen. This person, emailed D without a reply so would email a week later, only to be told that their email would be pushed down to the bottom if emailed again. No response, so she goes to FB and IG, who both tell her to email because they arent the person running orders. Finally got a response that they would get their refund, after D0llshe sends D's payment, but minus the PP fees. 3 months later and theres no refund, only a promise of them getting it later. Why is the customer missing out on fees when they have no doll? Customer emails d0llshe and he says he cant offer refund, because they didn’t order through them, which is understandable, but when all options are out for a customer, do you blame them for chargebacks?

If anyone files a chargeback, D will be blacklisting them from every company they rep, as in blacklisting you from buying direct from those companies. I urge everyone who has negative experiences with D to email the companies they rep instead of venting on confession blogs, and writing your experiences on social media. Make it count and send letters to the companies they represent, and please provide proof because they will try to make you out to be a liar.

Speaking of, they made vague posts on cl0ver singing for charging paypal fees, and that they offer guarantees as an official dealer, except when offering refunds, to non delivered products I might add, they are keeping the fees, and offered no help with d0llshe, even before they ended their dealership with them. Someone on DOA was told to not email them unless the wait time surpassed 1.5 years. They are even so petty that they post screenshots with the full name and address (dox) of the customer on purpose and then delete it out a day later as if they just realized their "mistake".

Before you try to make excuses for them about the fires, keep in mind, I am dealing with a business. The lower price negotiation with the DOA sale, I am in no way obligated to give them a pass or treat them as a friend when they made it clear that our relationship is strictly business. Their issues, are not my issues. D0lk got dragged for not shipping in time, others, including artisans, got dragged for being so late with communication and sending back refunds for cancelled orders. Why does D get to be exempt?

The supporters are the worst part of this, because of instead of being honest so D can improve, they support them for being "real". For example, look how micemage words it, to make it seem like this criticism is from one person, when there are people on addicts who didn’t have good experience. Check the bjd dealers tag here, you will see the supporters in the comments going off on any and all criticism of D. Some have sane comments, but the majority are cult like and try to identify the person venting as if it’s one person. Addicts deletes threads with criticism asking people to instead direct it to their feedback group; which lets be honest, no one is going to do because its "not that bad", and most dont want to join a new group, which is mostly dead.

This is my first and last confession on D, I’ve emailed each company they rep and told them my experience as well as contacting the 3 month wait company, with screenshots of my order, how they handled it, and the excuse they used to put blame on the company for being so late (package arrived march to D, 4 months to be shipped is on D, not the company). I’m not using company or order details because I know they are petty enough to try to identify me and publicly shame me like they have to others. This and the threat of suing is why not many people like to go public with their experience. They just keep feedback neutral, move on and never deal with again.

~Anonymous

6. Listen, I can't take you seriously in regards to BJD!vas because you're posting on a confession blog. If you were serious, you would have posted in buyer beware groups, DoA reviews or the board to get things resolved, or you would have made a complaint to the BBB. And your language makes you come off more as someone with an agenda rather than someone who is trying to warn people. If shipping is the issue, stop buying with standard shipping and pay the extra price for express shipping. I saw one of you complain that it sat with them for 20 days; that's probably because you're not the only one and they more than likely have a queue to check and then ship out. Do mistakes happen? Yes, because we're human. I've been in this hobby for a few years now and it seems like most people know you're going to have to wait, sometimes even outside the expected wait time. And shipping something as big as a doll is a timely endeavor. I shouldn't have to say that.

My point is simply to stop complaining on an confession board and either take it to the places previously mentioned. Posting here behind the anonymous mask makes you sound like a petulant child who didn't get their way right away.

~Anonymous

7.My only issue with BJD Divaz is how I never get any updates. Every email, they tell me to join their facebook page for status updates. I dont have a FB and I dont want to create one. I bought my doll through their website, updates should be posted on their website, or they could send me an email. That isnt asking much.

~Anonymous

8. Since there seems to be a lot of either "completely negative everything sucks" or "everything was sunshine and rainbows" confessions about bjd!vaz I thought I'd chime in with a neutral review.

PROS

-They were always polite and professional in their emails, and gave me very detailed answers to my questions.

-I got exactly what I ordered, so no mix ups or missing parts or anything like that.

-I think them being forthcoming about personal issues (only one person on staff, illness, the flooding isue etc.) on social media is good, since it keeps customers updated as to why there might be delays.

-If you live in the US their shipping is very reasonable.

CONS

-Reply times were varied. Sometimes it could take over a week, sometimes a couple hours.

-My order took about 10mo which, when comparing to other people who ordered through the same company around the same time, was about 3x as long as if I bought it direct and 2x as long if I had gone through a different dealer. I get some of the waiting time is out of their control, but it was kind of ridiculous.

-They dont necessarily ship the same day they send you a tracking number. I wish they said something like, "Here's your tracking number, our pickup is Xday so it should start moving after that" just so I could be aware.

All in all no major complaints. I got my doll and all that. Their lone employee is clearly overwhelmed. I hope they hire another person, if only to give the one a break.

Truthfully, I most likely won't buy through them again. I'd rather pay the international shipping and go direct, than deal with the extensive wait time. I'd still recommend them to someone looking for a very long layaway, though. I paid in full, but if I had a 12mo layaway I would've never known they weren't ready to ship my doll until month 10.

~Anonymous

#BJD #ABJD #BJD Confessions #TrueBJDConfessions #BJD Dealers

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orangez3st · 15 days ago

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LET HIM TALK TO HIS CHEESECAKE IN PEACE 🗣️🗣️🗣️

How Delta Squad boys confess their feelings for you

Delta Squad x GN!Reader

This one's in a different format than usual—it's in bullet points! Respect to the people who are more talented in writing bullets points/headcanons style bcs it's more difficult that I thought 🤝🏼 (as you can tell this is a little messy)

Enjoy this one, vode! 💛

Also this is for the talented @i-willstealyourtoes 🫶🏼

For @deltasquadweek | Alt. Prompt Day 7: "I Love You."

Boss

You and Boss are running on a really casual relationship.

Everything's just been really nice in your own pace, and you don't want to pressure him into anything he's not ready for yet.

It's like you're the literal embodiment of patience and he loves you for it, he can't ever have enough thanking you.

You know what this relationship eventually entails—because honestly, he's just a soldier of the Republic, and both of you know well what that means.

And you never seem to mind that, every time you two meet to catch up you always have that smile and your eyes are sparkling at all times.

It'd be cruel, but Boss is a leader; he worries about every kind of scenario and he has to be ready for it, including the ones that scream every kind of ‘what if?’ in the back of his mind.

“You know that I could die out there, right?” he then asks you.

“I know,” you say with a smile, “But I don't want you to go out there with that kind of mindset, Boss.”

It's like his own nature of being an expendable soldier gnaws at his conscience, enough to make him realize that maybe he's not ready to die at all.

“Careful,” Fixer warns him, not hostile, but reminding him of what's drilled into them; that attachment could be weakness. In the corner, Sev is just shrugging and Scorch is examining his fingernails.

Boss keeps that in mind.

But he can't keep it anymore (his brothers aren't stopping him anyway).

He decides he's not going to die any time soon, and for the sake of fairness, he vows to be a better soldier, covering his squad more often on the field so no one's dying in the future.

And so he could come back home to you.

This is all happening inside his mind, so when he comes up to your door before the shuttle that’d take him to deployment leaves, you're surprised that he's there as he pulls you into his chest.

Your forehead bonks against the plastoid armor but you don't mind, laughing it off and your arms snaking around his huge frame upon instinct.

“Listen, cyare.” He can't be long, but he's using all his time by looking into your eyes, and you swear you can see the stars in the dark honey desert color of his own. “Can I make a promise to you?’

“I… Of course. What is it?”

“I’ll try. I promise I'll try,” Boss says, gently taking your hands in his gloved ones. “I’ll try not to die out there. I'll always make it home to you. Come back for you. I'd understand if that's some lesser thing for you to worry about because I'm the best kind of cannon fodder, but… I just want you to know. Think about it, perhaps. It should be something that you can’t possibly ignore when you're dating someone like me. I promise. You'll always have me back with you mission after mission. Okay?”

There's sincerity in his words. You've formed your own opinion about this matter some time ago, but Boss' promise to you scrambles what you've got, what once was standing firm in your grasp as a belief now bends to his promise—his declaration—to you.

“Okay,” you nod, eyes stinging with tears that obviously aren't out of misery. Your smile is shaky. “I heard you.”

Boss sighs softly. “Good.” The moment he hugs you tight, his armored arms wrapping around your form just as your limbs around his neck… everything becomes so clear to you like some divine revelation. You really don't want to lose him.

“Can't promise that I won't come back without scars, though,” he mutters close to your ear.

“That's fine,” you huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to his hair above his ear. “Just as long as you're alive. I'll be waiting until you're back home safe.”

Home. Safe.

Yes, that sounds about right. That sounds like he deserves that. Comfort. Quiet moments. Hugs, just like this. Everything that you've got to offer to each other in these trying times; your love.

Fixer

Everyone knows Fixer worships regulations.

I mean, he calls his brothers by their numbers over the comms during active ops because a) as it should be and b) it's their real name.

But hey, he's melted a long time ago and resorted to call them by their nicknames when there's no officers around that he needs to worry about.

So yeah, everyone knows that, and so are you.

And you? You're the worst match ever for Fixer.

You break rules for fun, but enough not to cause permanent harm, and really, it's not big stuff like vandalism or something else that would end your day in Republic penitentiary, but still.

They're all harmless. Hiding one's jacket. Changing their ringtones. Talking to someone long enough while they're dipping their cookies so it would fall off. Turning off the light while someone's in the bathroom.

Fixer pretends not to acknowledge whatever the hell you've been doing because he's been trying to ignore that troublemaker trait of you so much (how did he end up with you?).

(Honestly, good question. No one knows.)

“Cyare, would you please stop?”

“That should violate about 28 rules, cyare.”

“No one's ever done that because they have brains and you're not.”

Oh he loves to bully you alright, but 100% out of affection. He really would hide a body for you if you've ever accidentally killed someone.

Also no, you don't know what cyare means. It sounds like a language he'd picked up, or taught

Fixer calls you that only because he doesn't know what to call you besides your name.

It just… came out.

You've tried to ask Scorch what it means but all he did was giggling and the next thing you know he was practically gossipping with Sev.

It has to mean something… mean.

Whatever it is, it's consuming your thoughts in the worst ways. They're making fun out of you. So one day when you're being particularly sulky and salty to everyone you know, Fixer's concerns take the best of him and steps in to inquire about your behavior.

“Cyare, wanna tell me what's wrong?”

“Don't call me that!” you snap.

Fixer’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean,” you mock, “What I meant is everybody and I mean everybody in your kriffing squad seems to make fun of me.” You roughly jab a finger into his chest. “Including you.”

“Make fun of you?”

“Are you deaf or something?”

“No,” he answers firmly, his teeth gritting. You don't even notice that his fists are clenching. “Tell me who made fun of you. What did they do?”

“It’s Scorch.” You don't waste time. Your eyes sting from unshed tears and when you wipe them with the back of your hand it's like popping water balloons—they stream down your face. “I just asked about that word you say often and he just laughed in my face like he's won candies or something.”

It's quiet for a while and you both stand there, Fixer's thoughts are growing louder. “What word?”

“One that you use to call me.”

He tilts his head. “‘Cyare’?”

You nod weakly, your tears still spilling out.

There's quiet, and Fixer bites his tongue to prevent a snort. Then he exhales instead, pulling himself together not to laugh and make worse of your overthinking.

“That chakaar,” you hear him mutter, stepping closer into your space and tenderly pulling you into his chest, as if you're a fragile piece of vase. “He could've answered it and you wouldn't have to shed dumb tears like this.”

And just like that you're broken. You're confused as kark that you're caught between snapping yet again, your mouth parted, and your hands firm on his chest to angrily push him away.

“What?” is all you can manage.

“It means…” Fixer’s gaze drift away from you, but you can see his neck and cheeks darkening with color. “It means darling. Beloved.”

“....Oh…”

“Yeah,” Fixer dismisses, looking rather shy with his eyes constantly glancing away from you as the colors in his cheeks make him look even more flushed. “So please don't fuss over it?”

“Say it,” you challenge.

“Say what?”

“The word.”

“I adore you.”

“No, I mean not—hhhggggghh…” You're cut off as Fixer squeezes you so tightly that your lungs probably shrink. You kick his foot.

Yeah. You know what he means. He'll come around with the balls to actually say it.

Scorch

You're not the first to discover that Scorch loves to talk.

And I mean, that man loves to talk.

He's always the first to engage in a conversation as if a dictionary of conversation starters was programmed into him when he'd been in the tube.

He's probably the most expressive person you've ever met and you adore him dearly for it.

Especially when he just leans on the kitchen counter, chin in palm, looking at you with the biggest heart eyes ever.

You know he's just teasing.

He always makes time to come by your home and stay over.

And you as a host are always ready to cook some hearty meal for him—when you learned the fact that they don't eat anything but protein sludge and plain carbohydrate blocks you couldn't take it.

Scorch doesn't want to make you fuss all over just for him, but you insist.

One day he's thinking about it. Does that mean something?

He knows he's been hiding his feelings for a bit too long—even Boss sternly reprimanded him once when Scorch was unable to focus during an op.

He's been thinking about you.

And now as he eats dinner with you, he's lost in his own thoughts and good food.

And by the time dessert comes in, he melts entirely at your great efforts to make him comfortable.

As he enjoys dessert he doesn't even realize that he says, “You know I love you, right?”

It hits you like a damn speeder that you lock gaze with him, Scorch is seemingly as surprised as you are.

“Y-you do?”

“I—I mean,” Scorch deflects, a wave of heat sliding into his cheeks. “I was… talking to the cheesecake.”

That was TERRIBLE.

To be fair it's a really great strawberry cheesecake.

“Oh,” you sulk, forcing a smile to your lips as you pick up your fork again, “Thought I misheard.”

If only you could hear Scorch's heart breaking in that exact moment.

“No, you didn't misheard,” Scorch hurriedly says. He takes your hand without thinking, and the heat in his stomach is bubbling over as he looks into your eyes. “It's um… You know that I've liked you for a really long time, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, and it shows.” Smiling a bit, you lace your fingers with his. “Consistently.”

“Yeah,” he huffs a chuckle. “And now I just really really really like you and everything you've done for me. I know it's just dinner but all this… it means a lot to me.”

Before you can say anything, he scoots his chair closer to you. It scrapes across the floor noisily in the midst of the silence of your home. He plops back down, his thigh touching yours.

“One question though,” Scorch cheekily says, “Did you put love potion in this thing?”

Your giggles are everything to him. “What for?”

“Uh-huh, that's right,” he grins widely, gently cupping your face. “You don't need to put love potion inside your finely-cooked dinner. I'm already in love with you.”

Scorch’s eyes map all over your face, his warm brown eyes glimmering in the romantic candlelight. “You have a strawberry jam in the corner of your mouth, though.”

“No I don't,” you chuckle.

“Mm, wanna prove it? If I kiss you right here,” he boops the spot, “And I taste strawberry jam, you owe me an actual kiss.”

“And if you're wrong?”

“I still get that kiss. I'm trying to woo you here, baby. Wanna appreciate my efforts?”

Eventually he throws the strawberry jam motive out of the airlock and places a cheeky yet long-awaited kiss on your lips. You can feel his smile, even.

Sev

Your relationship with Sev started quite strangely.

The two of you met in some rundown speakeasy in the lower levels of Coruscant, and both claim the ale that everybody says taste like gundark piss your favorite.

And then the talk spans to your favorite Huttese heavy metal band—his favorite too.

Your favorite limmie team—which is also his favorite (he also mentioned that he often played limmie when he was a cadet and he was a mean forward).

There's too many similarities between you already.

Okay well yes, besides breathing gore thriller holofilms, you have nothing else to compare against his dark sadistic humor.

But there's this new thriller movie you really wanna see already in theaters and instinctively, you ask Sev if he's down.

Naturally, with the duties of a soldier and the oftentimes-unexpected demands that entails, he turned down your offer.

You withdraw. Yeah, it was silly anyway.

But at least he insisted walking you home afterward.

Sev could see your disappointment. Days later it's gnawing at him, and Scorch that cheeky bastard notices.

“So you wanna tell me what's going on or would you like me to shove Fixer to have a go at you?”

“Don't drag me into this,” Fixer sighs from the other side of the room.

Scorch grins. “No, you said you wanted to know, so I'm extracting the intel straight from the source.”

“I didn't say that.”

Scorch turns back to Sev. “Now tell us or I'm betting your entire tenday stipend if Fixer pins you down next spar. We'll split, Fix. Don't worry.”

“Fine. I'm in.”

Sev grunts, already losing it. “Should I feel guilty for rejecting a date?”

“You fekking what?” Boss pipes in, this time.

Scorch claps loudly. “Alright vode, it's time for flash training for our psycho brother here, welcome to Dating 101. Guest lecturer Null-7 isn't available at the moment so you should feel lucky, Oh-Seven.”

He gave it all out.

Your shared favorites, things you have in common, stories traded over ales and a few things stronger—both of you were at that bar for five hours just talking.

Sev isn't sure if Scorch's been drilling the term ‘love at first sight’ too often and too much that it's eating him alive, but he's sure that's how he feels about you.

So he comms you, asking if you’ve watched that movie yet.

“Actually, yeah,” you answer, hope surging inside your chest. “But um, I've got loads of thriller holos, if you wanna come by. We could have a movie night, if you're up for it.”

By the time you've finished talking, Scorch smacks him in the back a couple of times, Boss pushes him towards the door, and Fixer is already tossing Sev his go bag.

That night, two days before his leave ends, Sev is settled with you on your couch, the glow from the holoscreen reflecting on your faces.

You notice Sev is sitting so stiff, so you nudge his elbow asking if he's okay.

He looks at you longer than he should��he’d be lying if he's not feeling everything so intensely all at once, especially when you're nearly pressed up against his side.

He’s attentive. He knows it's not casual. It's intentional from you. You want to be close to him, but without a little booze encouragement, he isn't sure how to proceed.

Then he remembers what Scorch said and decides to execute (with a little alteration).

Sev moves his arm up, but he's not looking at you (he tries to cover his blushing cheeks, okay, give him time).

You take his invitation and lean heavily against him to absorb his warmth.

Sev smells like fresh aftershave and something else (it's blaster cleaning solution) tried to be covered by modest convenience store perfume.

You commit that scent to memory and snuggle even closer to him. The tip of your finger is tracing the fabric lining on his shirt, and soon your focus is no longer on the movie.

“Do you let anyone you just met be this close?” you ask, curious about his change of mind.

“No,” Sev replies firmly.

“Then what changes?”

Sev takes a deep breath. “Couldn't stop thinking about you,” he mumbles lowly into your hair, movie be damned. “Felt bad for turning down when you asked. Truth to be told, it felt like I'm leaving someone behind in a crossfire.”

“But…” You raise your head to meet his intense gaze. “We've only just met.”

“Yeah,” Sev says carefully, “But we have a lot in common, it feels like I've known you a long time, too.”

You don't hesitate—you raise further to cup the side of his face and pull him down so you can press your lips against his. Sev's reflex kicks in rapidly, kissing you as well while grabbing you closer to his body.

It isn't said, but whatever it is, whatever you're feeling; it's blossoming, too.

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika @hellfiresky @leiopython-rat

Dividers by yours truly!

#so happy you loved it vod HAHAHHA #z3st replies

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orangez3st · 18 days ago

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Same for me!! I really would ditch anything I'm working on just to lie down with any of the clones 😭 and then just fall asleep... It'd be really nice 💛

Thanks for reading, Carol! Glad you like it 💛🤩

Sitrep: Caffeinated

Sergeant Hunter × GN!Reader

✧ Summary: It's really really late but you're still awake working, and Hunter isn't too pleased about it.

✧ Tags & Warnings: established relationship, fluff, why are you still awake fic, eepyfic (somewhat?), omg zest is writing tbb, no warnings! just hunter’s girldad concerns™

✧ Word Count: 1.0k

✧ A/N: OKAY idk what came over me to do Hunter for this one 🤔🤞🏼 this is based on my experience (again lol, and here's a similar one with Cody). I think it's only fair that I'm finally trying to write something about CF99, since I don't have the balls enough to write about the Omegas yet (trust me this was almost my sweetie baby Darman 😆). Anyway, enjoy this one! ❤️

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Hunter divider by @snotbuggle

Hunter's startled awake to a cold side of the bed next to him.

Deep breath fills his lungs as he stretches, the pleasant buzz coursing from the top of his head down to the tip of his toes underneath the covers. Eyes still adjusting in the dark, he thrusts his hand forward again, to your side of the bed. He pats it just to make sure. Still cold. You're really not there.

Then almost on autopilot, he gathers his focus, or whatever 0300 consciousness can trust him with. He's not even trying, but he can feel your presence a little far from your shared bedroom. Your study. But you've padded the walls with soundproof mats so you wouldn't disturb his sleep when you work late into midnight while blasting your altpop playlist. Quite an effort, but still. Not that Hunter dislikes it, but it's 3 in the morning, for gods’ sake. You should've been asleep.

So he makes the effort, too; to pull on his sweatpants and make his way out of your bedroom, a little more than barely awake. The corridor's lights are off to minimize the electricity hum so Hunter could sleep. Barefooted and releasing a slow sigh that might come from slight disappointment, your boyfriend pads toward your study at the end of the corridor. And as expected, the door slides open.

What he doesn't expect, though, is how quiet it is. Well, not entirely. The steady machinery hum coming from your holocomputer is buzzing in his ears—he’s just awakened and his control isn't at 100% so pardon him, please—and yet among the softest of noises including your breath, there isn't any music blasting from your speakers.

“Sweetheart.”

You whip your head around so fast that Hunter develops a new fear of you accidentally breaking your neck right there on the spot. Okay, he won't do that again.

“Hunter.” For a split second it looks like you're about to smile, but realization washes over your face and turns your expression into worry. “Oh. Oh, gods. Did I wake you? It's so late, though—really late. Did one of these soundproof mats fall off or something?”

“It's really late,” Hunter presses on, almost interjecting you and his voice a little raspy from waking up so suddenly, his arms folded across his bare, half-inked chest. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yep!” you cheerfully quip from your chair, looking around the room for the chrono—which is to your left and up on the wall—but you end up finding the one in your holocomputer instead. “Um. It says 0328 here.”

“Exactly,” he sighs, opting for a gentler approach. And well, there he approaches you, his nose alerting him of a smell of caf that just grows stronger each step he takes. Ah. No wonder you're really jittery. But it really wouldn't come as a total shock. You always surprise him but, sure; that's what makes your relationship so colorful and never boring.

But for the love of the divine cosmos, you can be so stubborn at times.

Standing in front of your seated form now, Hunter caresses your face softly to show just how much he's worried about you and your health, but your caffeinated self merely smiles so tightly at him, so innocently, your lips stretching end to end.

He sighs. “You're going to hurt… yourself one day.”

“It's just one caf.”

“One,” Hunter deadpans, his eyebrow arching at you pointedly. “Then why do I smell that you've had four already? You intending to sleep or not? For the next 48 hours?”

“It's just—” you resist a groan, swivelling between your work on the screen and your boyfriend's puppy dog eyes. “Okay, I've got deadlines. And my brain's at its full creativity capacity when it's past 2200 and I just don't wanna miss it by getting sleepy in that hour so I took caf.”

“I understand your problems. I really do.” Hunter gently takes your hands, and kneels in front of you between your legs. “But still. You didn't need to take that much, and you need your sleep.”

“I can always take afternoon naps.”

He shakes his head. “Day naps aren't always good for your circadian rhythm, sweetheart. Okay?” His hands are squeezing yours, adding to his level of affection and concern for you. “You take that too often, it's affecting your health too. You sleep too late too often; obviously it does, too.”

Mentally, you're trying to hold onto your ever-charged streams of ideas and paragraph openings and real excellent bridges, but accidentally waking up Hunter only makes you extra guilty. Your boyfriend needs all the peace and quiet to rest, and the last thing he needs is you and your pigheaded tendencies sprouting out even more concern that add to his current running list of anxieties.

“Okay,” you relent, reaching to brush a strand of his brown locks behind his ear. “Really sorry that I woke you up, though.”

A small smile of relief on his lips is such a welcomed sight—for a moment there, you feel lucky. Fortunate. Not every person out there would give so much concern for their significant other's wellbeing, but you've earned yourself Hunter—a leader whose job is to make sure everyone's in tip top condition. You wonder if this is similar to one of his duties, but then again, he is a soldier. And you love him for his insistence.

“It's fine,” your beloved says, leaning forward to give you a peck on the cheek, and another to the corner of your mouth. He eyes your empty water glass, and makes that the next to-do in his mental list. “Five minutes. That's all I can give you. Then you're gonna lie down with me.”

The idea of lying down next to Hunter and encased in his strong arms is enticing that the caf in your body is banished away almost immediately, and fatigue begins to take over. Your body would buzz uncomfortably and once you wake up complaining about it Hunter would put in the I told you so smug face the whole day. It's like magic. It's familiar, it's welcomed, and ironically what makes your relationship feels alive, despite the complaints and all. It's a certain kind of beauty.

A soft chuckle escapes you, and already, you're fighting a yawn. “Copy that, Sarge.”

Bottom divider by @/enchanthings

Author rant: As I was finishing this up it was 0329 and I actually took a sachet coffee at 2300 to work on my internship report with the necessary Writing Big Brain™ and oh sweet God it’s a heckin bad idea I need more sleep 🛌🏽

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @msmeredithrose @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#z3st replies #tbb hunter #tbb hunter x reader

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

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CARBON you're too kind 😭 waking up to this feels glorious 💛 thanks for reading, so glad you enjoyed it!

Ough yeah I should add Wolffe Needs A Hug in the tag too 🫂🫂🫂

I Know Who I Married

Commander Wolffe × F!Reader

✧ Summary: Wolffe, a commander of his men and your husband, finds himself trapped between two conflicts. And yet, the ending involves you being your forgiving self, followed by good news.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pregnant reader, songfic, forbidden marriage, a little angsty, domestic fluff, words of affirmation, one (1) mention of sex, maybe inaccurate pregnancy things, oops look at that word count my hand slipped, PLO'BUIR

✧ Word Count: 6.8k

✧ A/N: Please accept this angsty-wholesome (and finally non-Delta!) fic bcs it'd be the last one for now! Delta Squad Week is drawing closer and I wanna focus on that, and then I'll get through the piling fic requests. Enjoy this one! (Also did I accidentally lorebuild the 104th and make a new clone OC out of this? Yes.)

Masterlist | Read on AO3

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘

— That Would Be Enough - Philippa Soo, Lin-Manuel Miranda [X]

Wolffe swallows heavily as his footsteps, heavy, carry him to the war room. The grey of the venator’s hallways are neverending and ever gloomy as the distance between him and his destination draws closer. The overbearing burden as a leader has never felt so great after the recent campaign. He's lost so many men over false intel that neither he or his captains bothered to reassess.

His fault. He called the shots, even reassured his general that the campaign would run smoothly as planned. As usual. Then he became reckless. He wants to scream until his throat is scratchy and punch the wall until he crushes his knuckles. The warmth of the blood and the pain that'd occur and scratch along his skin would be worth it. Or maybe not even close—to the lives lost.

So many of his men. Wolffe is still able to recall their screams and desperate call for help over the comms as they were ambushed from all sides—and every time, he blinked and breathed through it as he covered the others in his radius to retreat. To fight for another day.

Until then, he must face whatever awaits him, his boots steadily and almost rhythmically resound across durasteel flooring of the ship, as if nothing's different. As if it's just the usual. Oh how he wishes it's the usual.

Two of his men adorned in 104th grey who guard the entrance to the war room spares him a glance, and a nod of respect about a second too late. Hesitance. Hesitance over his authority. Over his competence to lead. Fighting not to tilt his helmet away, Wolffe manages to tilt his focus away instead. He's lost so many men, but never because of his recklessness.

“Commander,” one of them greets, either with the usual respect or to defuse the disregarded tension. Wolffe bets on the latter as he strides past them, taking off his helmet in the process, and into the center of the room.

The holotable glows with field schematics of their next campaign. Wolffe has expected the Admiral, but now the man is nowhere around. Plo Koon always carries a strong presence in the room with his wisdom and perseverance, standing on one side of the table. The High Jedi General is trading a quiet discussion with someone—Wolffe notices the unmistakable ARC get-up and extra belt pouches, said attributes in 104th grey, with a marshal commander rank plaque on his left chest.

Wolffe snaps into attention, his helmet tucked under his arm. “General Plo Koon. Marshal Commander Brontes.” He's managed to quench his shock about three seconds before he spoke. What Brontes is doing here doubles and triples his anxiousness. Steeling himself still even after the Generals waves at ease, he swallows again, tipping his chin a little higher. “You summoned me, General?”

“Yes, Commander,” addresses Plo Koon, turning away from the holotable to face Wolffe. Blue light reflects on his features and his mask. “I wish not to waste your time. We'll be discussing the aftermath of our latest campaign.”

Shit. Direct reprimand. His worst nightmare. In front of Brontes, technically and structurally highest in command, only second after Plo Koon in the 14th Storm Corps? Even worse—much worse. He'd rather have a broken arm. At least he can still put up a fight equally well with the other one. But this? This is a fight he's never going to win in any time, in any scenario.

The General is waiting for him to speak.

“I…” Wolffe can't quite find his own words. Chaos that ensued in the comms a little over one rotation ago still haunts his mind, leaving it blank.

“Sir.” Brontes steps in. “Permission for a private talk with Commander Wolffe for a minute.”

Plo Koon trades a long look with the clone marshal commander that grows softer over time. Wolffe swears he can spot a slightest slump of the Kel Dor’s shoulders, and maybe a sigh that's rattling quietly out of his mask. “Granted.”

And with that, the Jedi marches away to the furthest viewport in the room, hands behind his back, watching the blur of hyperspace in uncharacteristically stiff posture that just settles more self-hatred inside Wolffe.

“Vod.” Brontes' voice next to him pulls him out of his stupor. Wolffe turns to the marshal commander with a look of dread that he doesn't realize himself wearing, until Brontes’ countenance visibly softens. “Wolffe, talk to me. As brothers. I know you're upset.”

“Seems like word travels fast, doesn't it?”

“Wolffe.” A look of warning. “Don’t deflect. You know better than that.”

“Everything that happened is purely my fault, Brontes. M’not even gonna defend myself. I'm ready to take the beating out of this.”

“Are you, really?” Brontes' scarred eyebrow lifts skeptically as he crosses his arms. “Because you look like you're about to burst off at the seams, vod.”

“Oh I didn't know that,” Wolffe grits his teeth.

Brontes sighs. “Save your shebs from blurting emotional and uncontrollable nonsense to the General by talking to me first.” He steps closer, voice lowered and mismatched brown and blue eyes sharp. “What the hell happened? You've never done reckless shit like this. You're always careful. I know you, ner vod. We ran into each other Kamino so many times that I actually lost count.”

Wolffe has come prepared for the speech. “I wasn't careful,” he relents with a sigh, “The war. It never ends. I just…”

Your luminous smile slips to the forefront of his mind. Then your sweet giggle, at something he said. An image where you are truly happy. The sun behind your head makes you glow and grants you a divine halo—an image committed to his memory while you glide through a warm and colorful meadow of beautiful Nabooian flowers. And yet, next to this graceful dance you commence for him, is your steadfast presence in his life. Your beautiful friendship with him, your kindness, and last but never the least, your loyalty.

Once upon a time it led to a secret ceremony of the bonding of two living souls. Marriage. It was done by Mandalorian customs. After uttering the riduurok and trading a kiss as husband and wife, you took him on this quirky yet meaningful idea to get inked around the base of both of your left ring fingers to mimic a wedding ring. Wolffe has your name on his, and you have his. It was perfect. A newfound bliss with a newfound meaning—this world now belongs to you both, and you will do anything to find yourself back in each other's arms despite the circumstances.

After all, you're a civilian. Wolffe is a soldier. His true duty is someplace else and anywhere else at the same time—anywhere in the galaxy where conflict breaks and harms like glass.

“...I just wish this'll be over soon,” Wolffe says somberly, longing for you terribly all of a sudden following those thoughts, that he has to keep the dam from overflowing.

But Brontes stares at him, all deadpan and unamused. “So you thought maybe you'd just chuck a live det in the dark and charge head on even though you know you're probably blasting at an absolute unit of a mutated rancor, which puts all your trigger-happy efforts as useless.”

Wolffe slowly closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was false intel.”

“That you failed to reassess!” Brontes hisses, “Our comms and intelligence are perfectly capable—they literally kill time by reassessing intel over and over again because that's what they do, but you didn't give the word! It was fatal, Wolffe!”

“We all know we shouldn't trust intel!”

“Doesn't mean to go completely ignored!” Brontes scrubs both hands down his face. “Prime help me. You sure we decanted in the same batch? And neighbors?”

“Wish we weren't, Three-Five.”

“The hell you meant by that, Three-Six?”

Wolffe looks down. “You're a lot more capable in various different fields including emotional control than I am, Marshal.”

The man snorts. “That your best attempt at I don't deserve it this week? Bantha shit. And you take that back.” Brontes points at him. Wolffe says nothing, his gaze secured on his boots still. Brontes sighs, firmly grabbing the other's shoulders. “Wolffe, vod, you're a good man. If you want this war to end as quickly as you prefer it to be, then do things the right way—the way you've always done it. Careful, methodical. Branch out your thoughts, make backups for backup, and most importantly; think about your men. They're your brothers. Cuun vode. They want this war to be over soon, like you do, too.”

He knows how to do it, goddamn it. He was only distracted by the thought of you. Actually no; the thought of sweeping the field as swiftly as possible in that fateful campaign—which was somewhat of a nuisance at the time than you are, occupying his mind—resulted in his apparent recklessness.

“And what are you doing here?” Wolffe asks.

Brontes shrugs. Wolffe quietly, defeatedly, observes the look of guilt in the other's eyes that slips through. “The General requested for me himself. So I took a fighter with me, left my battalion somewhere in Derilyn, and hit hyperspace the next hour.”

“Commander Wolffe,” Plo Koon’s voice booms in the midst of their sudden silence, “May I have a word with you, please.”

Both clones trade a look. Wordlessly, Brontes pats Wolffe in the back, even offering a barely-there smile, before marching to the door. When Wolffe makes his way up to the platform to meet his General, Brontes is already gone, leaving his mind once again preoccupied with haunting errors, along with the cries of his men that had echoed in the comms.

Wolffe lets out a breath. “General Koon,” he begins, “I am fully aware of my tactical incompetence in our last campaign. I'll be very careful that there will be no repetition. The party to blame is no one else but me, and I’m ready to receive punishment.”

The Kel Dor turns to face him. Nearly every time, his expression is completely unreadable. Though over time since Abregado, Wolffe finds comfort in both that—helps with his brutal objectiveness—and the constant presence of his reassurance.

“I’ve been aware of the uneasiness that’s been inside you for so long, Wolffe. Even now.” The sudden sidestep off the topic baffles the commander. Not even a direct nudge about the campaign. This is personal. “You're thinking about the future. About what, or who, awaits back home—awaits you.”

Your smile flits past his mind again.

“Yes, General,” Wolffe confesses, “But my sole focus is on this war.”

Your smile again. This time it's bittersweet, a little somber, but with immeasurable patience full to the brim in your eyes, your lips uttering how much you believe in him that he'll come home. Bidding your goodbyes as early as 0200 before he left for deployment in two hours. Your husband can only imagine you solemnly trying to catch your sleep again without worrying too much about him. He's a commander after all—surely he knows how to avoid death and ensure the best strategy applied in his battles.

“I don't doubt you, son—I never do.” Plo Koon places a gentle hand on Wolffe's shoulder, the weight only reminds him of the unnecessary death of his men. “And yet you let your inner turmoil overtook your judgement, and your actions afterward.”

Following such words, a hushed whisper ghosts his ear in your voice, “And look at the cost.”

Nearly flinching, Wolffe shakes it away. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, his eyes holding so much shame, “I won't deny it.”

The General quietly watches him. “How long has it been since you last saw your dear wife?”

“It was during our last shore leave, sir.” Wolffe steels himself, trying not to crumble in the face of reality that feels heavier than mere moments ago. “Three months.”

The other man hums. “Then three months is enough.”

Wolffe's mismatched eyes snap up. “Sir?”

“I’m certain she longs for you very much. You need to be there for your wife.” Plo Koon turns around, facing the viewport once more, as if unable to bear the weight of the incoming decision. The azure lights of hyperspace make his earthy complexion shine in contrast. “You are granted one month of shore leave and will board a shuttle back to Coruscant.”

“What?” Wolffe can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Panic. Fright. There's nothing more that scares him than being sidebenched officially under order. “One month—?!”

“Take your mind off the battlefield, son. Recuperate, and reevaluate. You will be reinstated back on duty in exactly one month.”

Wolffe lets the silence slowly kill him. When no other words come from the Jedi, he takes a deep breath and gambles his chances. “General, with all due respect, my duty as commanding officer of the 104th—”

“Will be temporarily taken over by Marshal Commander Brontes per my request. That is why he's here.”

“But sir, please, my duty—”

He closes his mouth when the General raises a hand.

“Your duty now,” Plo Koon says, with a gentleness of a parent, “is to be with your family. You have a home that's waiting for you. A wife who's waiting for you to return home. The decision is final, Commander Wolffe, and the approval is already given directly from me. I issued the order myself. As soon as we leave hyperspace, you will be boarding the shuttle.”

It feels numb afterwards.

It feels like being stripped of everything he's known. His ranks, his purpose, his life. The thought of desertion has never even once crossed his mind. Battlefield is his home.

But… you are his home, too.

“Cease fighting today. Your wife needs you alive, son. She needs your care. She needs your presence.”

Marching out of the room with a new direction that is his quarters, he refrains saying a thing to Brontes. His helmet hides his expression as he merely nods in respectful greeting, but seemingly isn't enough—Brontes gives him a look that he despises so much. Pity. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anybody else reminding him of his faults. It's embarrassing enough.

What would he tell you?

That he'd had his own men killed? His own brothers? Because he was distracted… by you?

No. He can't say that.

That he'd failed? Faulted, condemned, punished… blamed? His own men looked at him as if he's someone else. The respect remains—visible to the naked eye, stripped to merely ranks—and yet the reverence…

You'd see him as a failure too. The fear has a good, relentless grip on his heart. It aches. It aches to tell you. It aches to be confused.

“I find no comfort if one day I have to be the one knocking on her door to deliver the news that her beloved husband had perished on the battlefield.”

The ride to Coruscant is as quiet as it can be, save for the hum of hyperdrive. A squad of his men escorts him. Wolffe deems the space beyond the confines of his helmet lethal, as if the recycled air of the transport shuttle would destroy his airway and leave his lungs rotten by the time they arrive planetside. His own breath is hot with shame, his fists clenched, failure failure failure repeatedly ringing in his own ears, loud.

Everything makes him feel like a prisoner. A criminal on parole. The feeling worsens when the shuttle breaches atmo.

One month away from the war. A small part of him rejoices to see your smile again, to feel the reunion that would leave his body buzzing from pure happiness to day's end.

The circumstances, however…

“It’ll destroy her,” he’d said, unable to bear the thought of you mourning him. The thought of him leaving you, all alone.

Then the cab ride is just as quiet. The droid driver doesn't bother him—good. The state of the city around him beyond the filmed glass windows is the exact opposite. It's loud. Wolffe sits back, his helmet still on, his fear and utter shame still have a hold on him that if he takes it off it would become real. Too real for him to accept.

He brings nothing with him but armor on his back. He didn't even get to change, but at least he'd spent hours himself mourning in his flagship quarters while mindlessly rubbing over the same spot on his shin plate over and over again.

Just like how they cried over and over again in the comms.

“Love is a powerful motivation to one's spirit—to move them in a certain direction. If one takes it away, that person will never be the same again.”

Before your marriage, Wolffe spares his downtime growing stress lines on his face. He knew he had to provide for you but alas; he is what he is. His weekly stipend barely covers your daily meal, and that's just the sad truth. And yet the other side of such truth is a bright world filled with hope and everlasting joy where you truly want him—to be with him.

So you put your foot down; “This is my own dwelling, I have a steady job where people are constantly dependent on my industry, I love you and I want to be with you, so let's get married.”

It wasn't impatience. It was the fruit of his labor and yours working the relationship through regardless of any differences, the big one is of him being a clone—oftentimes looked down upon, deemed as nothing but patriotic wet droids that die for the people of a republic of nations they never personally know. But not you. Never you.

“Let's get married,” you'd said again—a soft smile, almost pleading and demanding for him to say yes, on your face. “With your customs, if you don't mind. I think I'd love that.”

Wolffe was dumbstruck by your flash decisions. “Are you sure?”

Your smile brightened. “Yes I'm sure.”

Something comes over him as the door of your—and his—dwelling comes into view.

A little different from the typical housing in Coruscant topside, the apartment is tucked away behind a series of office buildings and skyscraper shopping centers. It's a suitable place—perfect, even—for a couple married in secret, and that's all Wolffe would say if someone asks him. Not that he'd rat his own marriage out.

But.

Home.

“And I'm sure you love her very much—and she, you. Dedicate your time for your family, son. Just as much as you do, for the war.”

This place is where you and him make your pleasant memories. Some of them are first-times, some involving hot screaming matches. But you and Wolffe always make it through. Your patience and his resilience. It leads you, him, to all this.

He knows the key code. But he hasn't been home for a very long time, and all your work is done from home.

And now it just strikes him how much pain you're in, living in the void around you. The other side of your bed empty, the other dining chair empty, and even the little space in the shower stall where you take morning showers—empty.

“Because you have one to go home to.”

He rings the bell.

He waits, hands behind his back in a parade rest to formally accept your lash-outs. Your piling frustrations in the form of solid angry hits to his chest, and your tears. Three months is a long time, after all.

No answer. You usually don't take a long time to answer the door. You always refuse to wear earplugs when you're working, so that's not the case. His hand instinctively flies to his pistol.

He rings again.

“One moment!” Your voice. Oh, your voice. You're safe. You're inside.

The door finally slides open.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting—” You look up to be met with his gaze—or at least, his visor. But he's certain you’re piercing right through, and gone are his anxieties as if someone is pulling up the blinds. You always do, even since you first met each other.

You stand there just behind the doorway. Wolffe has already expected a slap to the face or hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

But you're… you're radiant. Always are. Your lips widen and stretch into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen—one of the reasons he let himself fall in love with you, willing to sacrifice his all and split his focus on you and the war efforts.

“Wolffe,” you breathe a laugh, stepping over the threshold to relieve him of the soldier's stance. “You’re home.”

It's when you grunt as you stretch your back before placing your hand over your belly briefly that he notices.

Your… inflated… huge belly.

Before he can get any word out, you embrace him, wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing his scent.

Your husband reeks of sweat, fuel, and exhaustion, but the smell is intoxicating and tickling some parts of your brain. It's giving happy sensations for you, but the pregnancy hormones make the sight of him finally home and in your arms irks you greatly.

“Get this blasted helmet off your head, Wolffe,” you seethe, slapping his chest in the process. The mood shifts so quickly it makes him flinch. He quickly obliges, his head nods almost frantic, his defensive walls crumble and sink to the bottom of his stomach.

And now the reality is out to get him. It's all becoming real.

His misery and grief don't even get the chance to surface again the moment you rip his bucket out of his grasp. He catches a glimpse of you biting your lip as you chuck the blasted plastoid piece somewhere behind you before suddenly a sharp, burning pain erupts on the side of his face. His cheek. You just slapped him.

“You were taking too long,” you grit out. Wolffe can feel his heart shattering even more as he listens to your broken voice lashing out at him. “Forgot you're married and have a wife at home?!”

“I'm sorry,” he immediately says, looking away in shame. The shame, the guilt, the pain—it’s all gaining on him again.

“Doesn't cut it,” you hiss, tears brimming in your eyes. “Three months. Every time I called you, you always had the perfect reason to end it early—”

“I’ve always been occupied aboard the fleet—”

“It was just a single holocall!”

“Intragalactic transmission during a period of war campaigns for private fulfillment is supposedly forbidden—”

“YOUR GENERAL ALLOWED IT!” you shout at him, letting a single sob come out but as a strong woman that you are in his eyes, you hold on, taking deep breaths and wiping your fallen tears away. “He covered for you and you know it.”

You're right. He does know.

More added to the blame, and he only gets to hang on this far. He wonders when the dam would break, but… you can't see it. You're in too much pain already because of him. In this state, with such many burdens, he'd prefer grief in quiet.

“Cyare.” He tries—he wants to try. He has to win you back, even though you're still angry at him. “I know it doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear again with the back of your hand before taking his hand in yours. His knees almost buckle at your soft touch, even so since he's still wearing his gloves. “Come inside. You can explain yourself then.”

The warmth of your home engulfs him like a snug blanket and makes him want to sink right there on the couch in the living area. He could ask you to join him there, or in the shower. Domesticity and love call for him as if this place, with you in it, is the only place he should've belonged, not the battlefield.

Alas.

“I… was too ambitious.” He doesn't wait until you've sat down. Wolffe ignores your invitation—a single, loud, demanding pat of the hand on the other side of the couch—and lets his fumes run dry as he desperately tries to still the anxious soldier inside him. This is worse than being confronted by his general.

“There’s always an end to a war and we’re only doing everything we can to erase the distance between us and that ending. I put my dedication and time in that war room with my superiors to ensure our future.”

“Apparently too much time.” You scoff. “Don't be a soldier, Wolffe,” you say almost boredly, glancing away from his rapid-fire reasoning. “You’re home. Be a husband.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I stand by what I said. It's the truth. I know it's been three months and sometimes… sometimes I ignored that. I've been ignoring you.” His voice cracks. Your heart breaks a little more at that, your fists scrunching the fabric of your loose sweater. “But I'm here now, cyare,” Wolffe says again, “They sent me home because I made a fatal decision.”

You sigh shakily, pushing your forehead to the heel of your hand. “Good.”

Wolffe freezes. “Good?”

“When all means of good communication with you became outrageously impossible, I turned to your general instead,” you glower at him. Wolffe’s eyes shut, his chest heavy—blame blame blame. “I messaged him, begging him to send you home because I needed you here, Wolffe. Seems like he's found a way how to, and I'm thankful for that.”

Wolffe looks at you in disbelief, another fault added to his plate. Plo Koon might care greatly about his commander's secret relationship, but the fact you directly contacted his general without telling him first… you've crossed a line. There's a chain of command one is supposed to go through first, and you’re in violation of that.

“You did what?!”

“I'M NOT SORRY, WOLFFE!”

He watches you, eyes widened. Your hand falls to your belly again, taking deep breaths to steady yourself.

“I needed you, but you were so far away,” you mourn, tears brimming in your eyes again, “I needed you and you weren't responding to my needs, and so I had to do something. I'm your wife.” Wolffe flinches at the way you say the word as your voice cracks with emotion. You take a faltering breath—your gaze, sharp and deadly, and yet hopeful for him to understand under such scrutiny. “And you're a commander in the army. You're driven, you're ambitious—as you said—and that's good. Really,” you continue, cadence growing mournful and sarcastic and disappointed the longer you go. “But you'll always fight until the war is done.”

Wolffe sighs. “The war’s not done—”

“And yet, here you are,” you cut him off, swallowing your mood swing again.

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows. “It's a punishment.”

There's silence at first before your surprised tone, almost guilty, cuts through the tension. “What?”

“Plo Koon sent me away from the war.” He doesn't want to open his eyes. It'd be real—too real for him to relive it all over again. The burden is his and his alone, no one else's and especially not yours. Even though you had been the one constantly on his mind. “I was distracted in the last campaign and it was my reckless decisions and executions that… that killed so many of my men on the field.”

“Oh, love…”

“We lost. The cost was too great, it was entirely my fault. He sent me home and my marshal commander took my place. For a month.”

He looks at you. He's not even angry anymore. Resigned. “Did you have a say in that?”

“I did,” you murmur, “But I had no idea…”

The moment your frown fades out from between your brows and your expression softens, Wolffe releases a long breath, sounding almost like relief, as he carefully approaches you and kneels by your feet. “Don’t apologize. You have the right.”

Then, he looks into your eyes. Really looks. Your swollen lids for shedding tears at his unavailability, his failure as a husband. You're in so much pain—that, he is now aware of. The sight simply despairs him, breaking him over and over again, as if taking preparations to haunt him in his sleep.

Slowly, hesitantly and almost shakily as if he doesn't deserve it, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. Your knuckles are smooth along his chapped lips, the sensation of finally touching you—his beloved wife—is enlightening.

“Forgive me, ner cyare riduur,” Wolffe murmurs, softly pressing his lips onto your skin in-between phrases. “I've been horrible to you these past few months. You're always on my mind. I love you—always, you must know—and I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” His warm amber brown eyes that you love are glistening with unshed tears. Remorse. “I don't know what I'd do if you can't.”

His heart flutters as he witnesses a smile slowly pulling at your lips. “We’re married, Wolffe.” You squeeze his hand. “And even if we aren't, I can't, for the life of me, not forgive you.”

He kisses your knuckles again. “There's always a line.”

“Then let's hope we won't cross it.”

It brings a soft chuckle out of him—content, confident, safe. Your husband is famously known for his ultra rare smile, and seeing them so often in every moment you spend time together feels like an absolute honor.

You touch his hair at first, longing the feel of it in the tender palm of your hand. But he doesn't want to let you steal his opportunity—because he could enjoy your soft touches further and fall asleep right there and then—so he rises to meet you, still on his knees, leaning into you and props his forearm next to your head on the back of the couch.

Wolffe breathes in the sight of you. You, smiling up at him, your eyes still shining with remaining tears—happy tears. He caresses your cheek softly with his gloved knuckles before nearing your lips, testing the waters. Your smile broadens, accepting his kiss—a long-awaited one, one that both of you deserve all after those painful months of separation.

“Missed you,” Wolffe whispers against your lips, gently taking it again between his before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, so much. I'm so sorry.”

Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I'm sorry, too. For your loss. Your brothers. But you're here now, Wolffe. That's what matters right now. I’m so happy you're here, really am,” you say to him. Wolffe leans against your touch, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “And I'm sorry I slapped you,” you pout, “My hormones are all messed up.”

He shakes his head in dismissal. “I deserved it.”

“Want me to kiss it better, love?”

“If I ever refuse, I want you to beat me to death.”

A small giggle erupts from your lips before you pepper his cheek with apologetic kisses, leaving no inch of skin untouched with your love. It's glaring red from when you slapped him, blame the estrogen and cortisol ganging up on your sanity.

Wolffe shifts his attention from you to your pregnant belly. It's been… lovely. All the pain and illness you've gone through seem worth it knowing that it's his children you're carrying. You hadn't found out until 8 weeks. You'd wished he was there at your first ultrasound when your doctor announced you're pregnant with twins.

“Are you feeling okay?” He places his hands gently on your belly. “This looks… painful.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Does he really not know? “This looks—” you parrot him but get cut off.

“Are you, cyare?” Wolffe asks again, firmer this time, and even more serious. “In pain?”

You stifle your smile. Gods, this man.

“Not really. For now.” And thus you roll out a new impish scenario, wondering how it'd go, and how long it'd go. “Well, okay; sometimes.”

“The diagnosis?”

“It’s fine, my love. Nothing's wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong?!”

You bite the inside of your lip, preventing a laugh coming out.

He goes on, eyes sweeping over your body. Your cheeks seem fuller, you gained weight. Other than that, you're healthy. You're glowing. But he can't seem to find out why. “Did you go to your usual doctor?”

“Yes,” you nod, “And um, another kind of doctor.”

Your husband frowns, hard, at your grin. “Another… kind?”

“Wolffe, for the love of gods.” He blinks cluelessly as you pry his gloves off him before dragging his now bare hands beneath your sweater and placing them firmly against your belly. “Here. Feel.”

He sighs at the warmth of your skin, his thumb having the mind of its own caressing them.

You scrutinize him. “Do you have any idea of what might be happening?”

“You don't look sick,” Wolffe analyzes, mismatched eyes meeting your gaze. “You look healthy, in fact.”

“Wolffe,” you giggle, clutching onto his hand, “I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, his eyes flash with clarity and total adoration. His lips part to gasp, the entire focus in his body now directed at your pregnant belly. In the joyful realization and perhaps feeling a little stupid for not clocking it earlier, Wolffe pours all his love into his touches, lifting your sweater to finally look at you. At first you hear what may be a sob, but his sniffle confirms it anyway. The joy of a father.

“So,” Wolffe sniffs again, “So this was when you complained about your late period before I got shipped off…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, moving your hands into his hair and slowly scratching his scalp. “Y'know what, I think they might be afternoon delight kitchen counter babies. I couldn't forget that one.”

There's so much of that to digest, especially a comeback with that last one—which may be true because he couldn't either. He can't even let out a laugh, his ears already stopped listening at the plural word that you just said.

“Babies?” Wolffe marvels, “Twins?”

You smile, nodding. “Twins.”

And only then he finally laughs. It's not his usual boisterous one when you crack your lamest stupidest dad joke—it sounds wet, relieved, happy, and full of hope. You've talked about this—both of you have been wanting this for quite a long time. Wolffe’s thumb repeatedly brushes over your belly, as if caressing his babies’ heads through the flesh, and his face is leaning closer.

And now your wish is finally granted with not only one but two sweetlings. You've spent day and night thinking what traits they would take once you give birth to them, and once they grow up. Strong and resilient just like their father, you hope.

“Su'cuy, ad’ike. Ner kih’verde,” he murmurs against your skin, “I'm your buir. I’m sorry we're only meeting just now.” Wolffe presses a long kiss to your belly, and another. There are two of them, after all. You feel wetness—your husband's first tears upon knowing that he'll be a father to his own children growing in your womb.

You slip your fingers in between his face and your skin to wipe the trail of tears away from his cheek. “I think they'd understand that their father is fighting to secure their future.”

Wolffe nods weakly, contently. “That's right,” he says, resting his chin on you while meeting your gaze again, his expression curious and helpful. “So is it—are they… Boys? Girls? Both? Have you found out yet?”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Maybe we can find out together this week or next, if you want?”

So you've been waiting for him. His heart aches again—imagine if he refused to come home, ever. “Of course. I'll be there with you,” Wolffe says, a breathy chuckle falling off his lips. “How far along are you?”

“16 weeks.”

“Sixteen. 4 months.”

“Mhm.”

“A month before my deployment,” he repeats, and you nod, humming your affirmation again.

A small part of him that hasn't found resolve cringes—horrified. His previous thoughts are coming back to haunt him—the what-ifs.

“Hey,” calls your voice, cutting through the haze. Wolffe relishes the gentle smile that graces your lips, relishing how fortunate he is to have you. “I know what's going through your head right now.”

The weight in his chest has been crying out to be released. And you're his wife. His worries, his fears and anxieties, become yours, too.

“If only I threw a fit,” he slowly confesses, “I refused to come home, cyare. I would've fought the decision and convinced my general. But then, I wouldn't have known.” He could've flown too close to the sun. He could've died in future campaigns, leaving you alone with… with his babies. His children. They'd be fatherless, and you'd be exhausted to death caring for them alone without him. And they wouldn't know who their father was.

And he wouldn't know he'd be charging head on in the front lines for his children. He wouldn't know.

But then there's your presence again, so bright in his life. You lift his chin with a touch of your fingers so you can pull him out of the abyss of his past thoughts that are looming over him, and so there will only be you—his present and future—to gaze upon, to look at. Not the abyss.

“You're my husband,” you say softly, your thumb caressing his cheek again. “Val buir—their father, Wolffe. And I know that… every regulation out there isn't in our favor, especially now that we're having children—”

He looks guilty. “I’m sorry if this isn't what you imagined.”

Sighing, you pinch his cheek. “I'm not done yet, love. Stop apologizing about stuff that I already know, and I knew I'd go through this before I decided to be married to you. I love you for who you are.”

Wolffe blinks quickly—the corners of his eyes sting. You just… always know what to say. You're always confident, and he loves that.

“And that means I know who you are,” you continue, “I know where your heart and your spirit is. I'm not afraid, Wolffe.”

He sighs heavily. “I don't know—you don't know—if that's the right thing you should've said,” he says, “Don't want you to say empty promises, cyare. You know they do nothing to me.”

“These are all facts, Wolffe. They all came from here.” You grab his hand and place it over your heart. “You are a soldier, love, I can't take the battlefield away from you. But as long as you come home when I need you—for me, that would be enough.”

It's like fire. It's like love renewed, and it's burning bright, the light cleanses the dark in his heart—every strand that pulses insecurities and anxieties that shouldn't even be there.

“I promise,” your husband then vows, “I won't miss something like this ever again. You have my word.”

You grin teasingly. “Again? I haven't even given birth yet. Just how many do you want, Commander?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. The gesture always makes you laugh, and he knows it. “Cyare, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I know,” you giggle, “Icebreaker.”

Wolffe’s smile is stretched so wide on his lips that he can feel it ache—his cheeks ache. He rarely smiles like this even in the presence of his brothers, but he doesn't hold back with you. He rises slightly to meet your lips, silently wishing to listen and relish your laugh. “I love you,” he mutters, pecking your lips in between phrases, “I love you. So much. So much, cyare, you have no idea.”

You laugh softly. “I know, my love.”

“I'll be here for you,” Wolffe says enthusiastically, and your smile grows even wider as you listen along. “Until you give birth. Maybe I can talk to my general to temporarily put Brontes on my post while I'm away—”

“Wolffe, udesii. It's okay,” you interrupt with a laugh, “I’ll need you more after I give birth. When I get into labor, too.”

He nods, your plea sounding like a superior’s command to him—heck, he almost said yes sir. “I’ll be there. No matter what. We'll do this together, I promise.”

Wolffe lets out a breath. His mind is already forming to-do lists that involve research and possible timestamps and predictions and scenarios to lie his way through military assignments just so he could be there for you, or in case anything happens to you. Maybe he could gamble his lucky attempts with his general.

He leans in to kiss your lips again. “In the meantime, you're gonna tell me everything you've been doing for the past three months?”

You smile. “The good and the bad.”

“Every bit of it?”

“Yes.”

Wolffe then kisses your knuckles, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Promise?”

Your giggle is a ripe melody in his ears. His source of joy. You lay your hand on top of his, still resting on your belly—both of your beloved children inside. “Yes I promise.”

Some backstory I didn't get to include: Sha Koon, Plo’s niece, regularly checks in on you so she could relay the information to her uncle because both Kel Dor care so much about your and Wolffe's wellbeing 🩷

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#wolffe x reader #commander wolffe #z3st replies

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orangez3st · 20 days ago

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So glad you loved it Ferox 😭😭💛💛 and YEAH we need more Boss being a casual cheesy loser who NEVER fails to make you blush and feel warm and fuzzy inside 💓 just ughhh Boss fluff 👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼

New Orders Just Came In

Clone Commando Boss × GN!Reader

✧ Summary: Boss loves to take care of you, especially when you're sick—even if you put up a fight.

✧ Tags & Warnings: sickfic, eepyfic, established relationship, domestic fluff (these four are deadly fluff combination I daresay)

✧ Word Count: 1.9k

✧ A/N: Woe Boss sickfic be upon ye. If you're feeling under the weather as you're reading this, I hope you get to feel better soon! Stay hydrated and don't forget some calories in. Man I miss writing short fics like this, it took less than 24 hours. Anyway, enjoy my second Boss fluff, exclusively for prompt day 6 "where's my caf?" of @deltasquadweek! 🧡🧡

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Boss (in-header image)

Once upon a time he'd promised he would never complain about the mattress in his squad's barracks. The two-inch bare-minimum necessity to catch 8 hours of sleep at most on a good day. He even has to fluff his pillow every damn day, or every hour when they're just hanging out in the barracks waiting for what's next.

He's top bunk, just so Fixer who's sleeping under him gets to shove his mechanic tools and knickknacks under the bed. Also because Sev literally sleeps with one eye open and that creeps the kriff out of his second-in-command. Scorch hates Fixer's snores, but everybody's gotta lose something.

But at your house, though…

Everything is perfect. The couch they don't have. The bean bags that aren't busted and terribly patched up. The amount of natural light pouring in from the rustic-style windows. It's lived in, the same as his barracks, but just not the same way. It's warm, it's cozy. It's everything he could've wanted for a livable living area.

Now he's complaining.

Put that aside. Boss is lucky to have you. He's lucky that he'd won you over all those months ago even though the first date was far from perfect, but you were so willing to accept what he lacks and believe in what he's capable of and in his aspirations, and still are. You are perfect.

When he's planetside, he excuses himself from the barracks and stays over at your house. Often comes unannounced to surprise you, and it works every time. Your joyous smiles and your tight hugs are such treasures—he would literally shoot someone to see them again. And anyway, that's what his mission, his duties, are for. Coming home to you and enjoying everything you both have to share, the domestic bits and pieces of it, after every of those mandatory debriefs, on-call duties.

In the kitchen, Boss stirs your herbal tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain mug as he's incorporated a tiny bit of sugar in there. His caf's brewing. The packet herby nuna cream soup he's discovered in the pantry is simmering in a pot behind him, while the toaster next to it automatically turns off as the bread slices pop up loudly.

Apparently and eventually the noise in the kitchen wakes you up, not long after your boyfriend. Still in your sock-clad feet and Boss’ worn bodysuit top, you're rubbing your eyes as you pad into the kitchen. Boss smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey.” Chuckling, the commando wraps his bare, strong arms around you as you crash into his chest. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” you mumble airily, but you sound very much awake. You peel yourself off of him, peering into the simmering pot and smiling at the sight of toast. “A really nice view to wake up to.”

Standing bare chested with only just black sweatpants in the middle of your kitchen, Boss looks at you teasingly.

“Dork,” you rasp, trying to laugh but your sore, painful throat prevents you to. “I'm talking about the food.”

“Trust me, I know,” Boss says, nodding to himself in confirmation. He then quickly rinses the teaspoon he used to stir the tea. “Am I not food?”

“Sometimes,” you answer, distracted by stirring the pot with the ladle.

Boss glances down as he leans back against the counter. He watches you for a moment. You usually hum. This morning you don’t, and he knows why. Last night you complained about the dinner you had with your friends that you might or might have not overconsumed the food your friends warned you about. His last night's concern skyrockets this morning. “Cyar'ika,” he begins carefully, “If I ask you not to talk too much, will you listen?”

You turn the stove off. “Hm?”

“Your throat's hurting.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, not even bothering to hide your wheeze.

“Okay, stop talking.” Your boyfriend holds a hand up almost sternly. “That's an order, cyar'ika.”

“But how am I supposed to wor—” you're cut off in surprise when Boss pushes the mug of tea he's been stirring for five minutes to make sure the small amount of sugar dissolves into your hands. You melt at the warmth in your palm, but you complain just as fast. “Um. Why is this tea?”

Boss shrugs. “It's for you.”

“I want caf. Where's my caf? I need one.”

He sighs. “You don't need it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You complained about your throat last night. And you were shivering. I lowered the temp in the bedroom and I consulted. This morning you must be feeling terrible, worse than last night.”

Every bit of his words ring true. You look at him suspiciously, but you lift the mug to your lips anyway. “Who are you consulting with?”

“A trained medic,” Boss says as you sip on your tea, “He dropped some of our top-shelf med supply this morning. That tea is one of them, to soothe your throat first thing. And this.” He shows you a tube of tablets that he draws out of nowhere—you’re feeling it's getting difficult to keep up, it's not good. “For your flu symptoms.”

Relief washes over you. Boss has always been very kind, and he loves taking care of you. And your house. And your needs. Basically he cares about everything about you.

“Okay,” you smile gratefully, gulping the last of your tea. “Um, tell my thanks to your medic. And thank you.” You hug and kiss his cheek before turning around for the stairs. “I'll go shower and head out.”

Boss sighs. It's one of those sighs that goes out of him when Fixer breaks into another argument with either Sev or Scorch. "Cyar'ika, you can be very adorable sometimes."

You grin widely as your cheeks flush in his praise. You turn slightly to glance over your shoulder. "Sometimes?"

"You're not feeling well," he says, ignoring your teasing. "You're staying home."

"What?! No—aherm.” You wheeze again, your voice now barely coming out. “Oh bugger…”

He raises an eyebrow challengingly. "No?"

You roll your eyes, switching to whispering. "Boss, honey, I've got deadlines and I have to be in office."

"No, I've checked your work progress and everything can be done remotely from home.” He approaches you, swiftly crowding you with his ridiculously built, strong body and his equally strong arms. Despite your protests, you can't help but melt as he cages you in them again, wrapped around your waist very snugly. "You're going to have breakfast, take your meds, wrap yourself in blanket, and sleep in.”

You look horrified. "Sleep in?"

"Sleep in," Boss nods, undeterred. "Or I'll take you upstairs myself and make a ronto roll out of you, sweetheart. Your choice."

You shuffle your feet in hesitance. It does sound tempting, and Boss knows your resolve is falling apart.

In the end, he ends up smiling so smugly. You don't say it, but he knows what you're thinking—you’re persuaded; you can't resist his charms and his unshakable duty to take care of you. Especially his charms. You know Boss as a soft-spoken person but also in a way stern about duty and orders. Plus, his thick unique accent is your sole weakness.

And then you're truly persuaded to eat the hot packet soup that you can't taste at all, with the dry toast—no butter in order not to make your strep throat worse. Boss pointedly sips on his fresh caf in front of you while having the same meal as you, yet innocently evading your ‘envious verbal attacks’ by saying that he has to be on-call at 1500, so he's got to be at HQ before that time.

And then to email your team leader and human resources to tell them you're really, really sick with the official doctor's orders in writing coming in hot soon on another email.

Boss literally nags at you when you even try to load the dishes into the washer, says he'll do it later after you're asleep—he’ll take care of the house and make sure to have lunch ready for you before he departs.

Now you're sitting with a glass of water and the tablets on the table, Boss snapping the tube close as he half-sits on the table. He looks at you, zoning out, and drags you back in by loosely brushing your hair with his fingers and pushing them away from your face so you don't look really terrible.

Grateful for everything he's done, you look up to meet his gaze. “I love you, you know that?”

Boss smiles, his dimples showing and making the hummingbirds in your stomach flutter. “Love you too.” He leans in and kisses your head. “You'll always have me,” he mumbles to your hair, rubbing your arm. “Whatever you need. I'll do it for you.”

You grab his hand and squeeze, wishing you could kiss it but you don't want to risk infection—it’s the last thing he needs. Him being close is hazardous enough for him, but he insists on clone metabolism and stuff. So you just squish your cheek into his palm, your eyelashes flutter against his skin and make his chest flooded with warmth.

“Come on,” Boss urges you again, right after you take your meds. “Let's get you to bed.”

You squeal and giggle hoarsely as he hoists you up by the back of your knees, your chest meeting his while having your arms wrapped around his neck, and shuffle upstairs to your shared bedroom. A commando like him is strong, no doubt—admiring his strength, you always love it when he carries you.

Boss gently drops you on your side of the bed with a slight groan. He smiles at you, brushing your hair away from your face once again before tucking you in and slipping behind you above the covers.

“Best day ever,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Don't say that. You're ill,” Boss playfully chides, pulling you close to his chest and throwing his leg over yours. “Best day would be to see you up and about again. Tirelessly chirping. Active, adorable. Like a little porg.”

You coo, not knowing what to say. “Thank you.”

Boss hums, gently rubbing your arms above the covers.

It's the comfortable silence and lazy atmosphere that make this almost like a Benduday morning. Soon enough, not within five minutes or so you think, your eyes droop heavily.

"Oh, you drugged that tea, didn't you."

Boss bites down on his lip to resist his amused smile at your tone. "You'll be fine. Just sleepy. Fi prescribed it for you."

You hum in question. "Fixer?"

"Fi," Boss insists, "From Omega. He's the squad medic. I consulted him."

"Oh." You don't know who it is. "Prescribed? For all I know you dumped the whole bottle in there."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because you don't want me to work.”

“No,” Boss corrects you, "Because I know you are so exhausted that your immune system drops, so I want you to catch a lot of rest.”

You yawn, turning around, and curl your body above his chest. Boss releases a deep sigh as he feels your feverish body, and tugs you closer. His warm body makes you purr beneath the covers, wishing that it could swallow you alive. "Well, it's working,” you murmur, your consciousness slipping out of you and for once it feels blissful.

"Good," Boss smiles into your hair, his arms snug around your cocooned body. "I'll stay, cyar'ika. Get some rest.”

divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#z3st replies #clone commando boss x reader

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

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ABSOLUTELY CANON DON'T WORRY GUYS THEY'RE ALIVE HEALTHY HAPPY AND STILL KICKING IMPERIAL ARSES 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

Because just imagine?!1?!1 The 501st dudes including Jesse and some others bonding with Luke and Leia??? Wolffe wrestling with Fox in the background while Rex playing referee and Cody is just tired and missing his husband 😭 Don't let me out of this hole don't get the ladder 😭😭😭😭

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 22: Tenacity | Masterpost

even in the (official) rebellion

✧ Star Wars | Echo & Fives | 1 BBY ✧

Echo gazes into the skyline of Yavin IV. “Feels right to be here.”

“Always.” Fives rolls himself out of the starship part he's welding. He looks at his twin, who excellently mirrors his own aging face lines. “Still dealing with senators, but fine.”

Echo laughs, offering him revnog. “The good ones.”

Fives hums, chugging before studying his vod fondly. “We’ve come a long way from Rishi. Citadel. Bracca. Teth. It's your tenacity, vod—always find myself admiring ‘em.”

Echo looks away blinking.

“Aw, love you too, vod'ika.”

His twin snorts. “You're an idiot.”

Fives raises a toast. “But you love me.”

A/N: Can't move on from Andor yet and I just rewatched Rogue One yesterday so naturally I wanna put the boys somewhere in that scenario 💙💙 also @aknightreaderr this is for you!! Hope you like it 🫶🏼

Also from this fluff prompt

Divider Credits: [1] by @/plum98 - [2] by @/enchanthings

#glad you enjoyed it lupe ner vod!!! 💛#z3st replies

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

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Me and my homies (4 other people):

Also 'Scorch's fav thing to do is smacking Rex' should be a horror thriller game where Scorch chases Rex down the corridors EVERY TIME they recognize each other's presence it's like tag you're it but hey lemme slap this nonexistent don't touch me im old and delicate paper sheet on your back in greeting REAL HARD

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 21: Choices

swipe left, swipe right

✧ Star Wars | Rex, Fives, Hardcase, Jesse, Delta Squad | 20 BBY ✧

“What in Prime’s name are you doing with commandos—” Rex pauses, blinking. “Deltas.”

“Rex'ika,” Scorch beams, smacking his back so hard that it almost sends him flying across the room.

��Teaching Sev how to use Spinder,” Fives announces with a massive grin.

“Swipe left if you no likey, swipe right if you likey,” Hardcase explains to the sniper commando.

“Won't that offend someone?” Boss asks.

“Nope, that's how that works!... Sarge,” Jesse clears his throat, “It’s everybody's choice. No one'll be offended.”

Fixer watches on. Fives notices his silence. “You?”

“No need! He gets laid every week.”

“Shut up, Six-Two.”

A/N: Inspired by bits and pieces of @hellfiresky’s stuff 😭😭 their latest update on Seeing Red involves Triple Zero plot! Oh, truly the happiest day of my life. Spinder is space tinder or something.

Divider Credits: [1] by @/plum98 - [2] by @/enchanthings

#z3st replies #also GLAD U LIKE IT VOD #thanks for reading 💛

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orangez3st · 2 months ago

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Your comment about the sibling-ness means so much for me bcs I don't have siblings irl 😭😭

I utilize my hunger and love for food to make this happen ;) thank you for reading Ferox!!! 💛💛

Welcome to Vau's! - Chapter 1

Fries & Rings

Delta Squad × OC | Modern AU | Fast Food Worker AU

✧ Chapter Summary: Raye's first time at Vau's—a local fast food place that everybody else at hometown seems to go to.

✧ Warnings: maybe US military thingy inaccuracies bcs I'm not from there and curse words, other than that; none :)

✧ Word Count: 2.7k

COLLAB WITH @carbon-corrie | Credits: OC Paisley Jettster belongs to Carbon, as well as some prompts and/or dialogue lines!

“Seven months of Oki deployment and first thing you do when you got home is driving out for greasy food.”

“Yup,” Eli says, popping the ‘p’.

Raye scoffs from the passenger seat. “And not a fucking nap.”

“Ay. Language, Raye.” Even with his focus on the neighborhood road ahead, Eli points a scolding finger at her—a sign that the traffic is not his sole focus at all. “I'm still your older brother.”

“It's literally nothing more than whatever you've said during service.”

“We don't curse as much in the Marines, trust me.”

Raye glares at him. At his stupid military regulations high-and-tight haircut and the smug smile lines because he's a goof of a brother. No idea how he's managed to maintain his sense of humor from being a goddamn Marine. From all she knows, it’s all horrors. Especially when one gets Okinawa. But at least Eli's come home alive and totally not spooked by those well-known urban legends. Or maybe he's immune to it already. He's a goof. A fearless goof. He makes a damn good Marine, and has been, for the last 6 years.

She tries to remind herself of that. Nothing beats one of those moments when he popped up at her uni like those emotional homecoming videos. At least in one of them she cried like a baby.

“How good is this place anyway?” Raye then asks.

Eli smirks, glancing her way. “Local pride. They do fried stuff and wraps. Run by a few guys I know. You remember Fixer, that guy from the cyber club in high school? My guy’s the line cook. That guy can cook.” Somehow he can feel he's about to ramble off though, and it's gonna be less helpful than the last thing said. He's just fanboying. “They’re good. Really good. No approval from Abuela, but Vau’s is my favorite.”

“And you're telling me just now,” Raye deadpans, betrayed as ever that Eli’s been keeping this from her for a while. But as any other person who gets to guiltlessly think about greasy fast food, she’s down for it. “Right-o. Let's see if this could top Panda Express.”

“Different category, but yeah, okay. I think you'll find it great.”

Raye finds Eli's optimism uplifting. And out of place—considering he's a Marine. Uni may not be as harsh as his unit deployment program—UDP—and the occasional local paranormal shit they go through, but she's happy that he's happy. Mainly because they get to spend summer break together. Family time, casual catching up, the banter and the bullying. So; sometimes it's enough.

And no, Raye has never heard of Vau’s. She's been living away in Austin with Riyo, the distant family on Dad's side, before she moved back home for college. So a local chain where every neighborhood is crowded with McDonald's and Taco Bell and a few other variations is a foreign concept. But she admires the entrepreneurship spirit. Definitely a family business. A touch near what's defined as gas station food.

Eli drives the car into the lot. The exterior looks nearly hauntingly similar to the other black and red franchise, but more black and more yellow. Neon signs. It's actually cute. And it's got a hecking drive-thru. What kind of family-run food chain invested in a drive-thru? It's clever. It's really up competing against other drive-thrus.

“Oh, looks packed,” Eli muses, scanning around the lot and clocking cars and bikes alike. He punches through the empty lane and gets his side of the window open as they reach the speaker, excitedly grinning all the way through like a child in a way that creeps Raye out and makes her want to smack it off his face.

“Welcome to Vau's, can I take your order?”

Raye is keeping herself from jumping out of her seat because okay, look, a man's voice that deep was something she would never expect coming out from a drive thru speaker. Fair, because everything's been light and polite. This one's fucking robust and probably ready to grab you through the damn thing.

Eli snorts into his hand. “One extra large of your sass for the day, Sev.”

A pause. Then; a hard, exaggerated sigh. It seems like the guy on the other end makes sure the sigh gets through.

“You again, Estrada?”

“Bro, what do you mean you again Estrada, huh? Gone seven months and that's quite a cheerful greeting you got there for me, bro.”

“And you're still alive?”

Eli rolls his eyes dramatically—rolling his neck and all—and peers Raye’s way, jabbing a thumb toward the speaker. “Get a load of this guy,” he chuckles, “That's Sev. One of the guys. Fixer's brother.”

Raye is still comprehending it all.

“Need you to squawk your order now ‘cause you're holding the line, Estrada.”

Almost as if they're twins, both siblings turn their backs. Empty lane.

“Ain't nobody behind us, man, chill out,” Eli says, still with the same shit eating grin.

“Yeah, but I wanna be done with you. Preferably face to face.” Sev’s already gruff tone is almost scolding, but given Eli's sugar-high expression not dissolving any time soon, Raye can tell they obviously go way back. It's a wonder she hadn't met them before. “Got ghost stories to show the class, Staff Sergeant?”

“Hell yeah. It's Camp Schwab. ‘Course I've got some, man.”

“Neat,” Sev says, not missing a beat. “You not coming in?”

Eli sighs sadly—loudly. “Nah I’m getting my usual wrap and fries and go to nap till next week.”

“Makes two of us. One double chili chicken wrap and fries. Coke?”

“Yeah, please. Large fries. Actually—do half and half with the onion rings. Large, that. And Coke. Hold on for a sec.” Eli nudges her with his elbow gently. “Ay, Raye. Whatchu getting?”

She leans across the console plus Eli himself to get a good look at the menu panels, chocolate-toned hair already threatening to escape the hair clip atop her head. And Eli's right. Those wraps and fried sides are actually looking solid. And they've got cream soup, too. Package cream soup, most likely, but still; her favorite. Extra coleslaw, extra cheese dip, extra everything sauce on paid request. Her jaw aches, and her stomach suddenly feels empty.

“Uh,” Raye says loudly, “Number four with Dr Pepper please. Half and half of fries and rings, too. And extra coleslaw, ple—wait a sec.” She turns to Eli. “Is their coleslaw shitty?”

Her brother shakes his head. “Nope. All good. You'll love it.”

“Okay,” she says, leaning over again. “And extra coleslaw, please.”

“One number four; double fish nuggets wrap, medium fries and rings, Dr Pepper. Extra coleslaw. Did I get you right?”

“Yep.”

A moment of pause. “And this is the female Estrada offspring?”

Raye’s mouth falls agape. “That's an uncommon way of saying ‘sister’, man.”

“And you speak like him. Now there's two of you,” Sev complains.

She actually takes that personally, but she laughs it off—it’ll maybe turn into somewhat a medal of honor in the future. “Y’know,” she remarks, “Strange we haven't met before.”

“Elio stored dirty secrets. And I don't do introductions through a goddamn drive-thru speaker.” Because it's rude, right? Should involve a handshake or a fist bump or something. “Can I get you anything else, Estradas?”

Eli gives her a look like he's giving her a final out. “You sure about double wraps? It's bigger than the ones at McDonald's.”

“I'm starving, Eli.”

“Just as I hoped,” he grins maniacally before turning back to the speaker. “Nah man, that's it. Have a good day, bro!” And with that, he drives off to the payment post at a relatively slow speed. Raye slams back down in her seat, not bothering to put the seat belt back on, sighing.

“God, he's rude.”

“He's crude,” Eli corrects, finger jabbing toward the ceiling. “Among his brothers. But overall he's nice.”

Raye frowns hard. “Nice—?”

“He was a scout sniper. Same company that I'm in,” Eli explains. The air around them suddenly changes. A bit of northern hemisphere summer heat since he keeps his window open, and a bit of bleakness element of a military story that they know how it ends. “Honorably discharged. Fell on a deployment and permanently injured his leg. In the same year they decided to shut the school down and graduate the last Marine snipers, back in 2023.” He huffs, almost mourning. “Sucks. But he's living through it.”

Raye glances downward, her toes wiggling absently in her sliders. “And the leg?”

“Military-grade leg brace. Top shelf shit. Or at least, by Marine standards. Daddy’s a high-ranking officer, so he's got favors.”

“The dad?” Raye exclaims, “The guy who owns this place?”

They've reached the payment post, and Eli makes a quick swipe of his card to have it done. “The one and only,” he says, neatly placing the card back into his wallet and tossing it onto the console. “Walon’s a no nonsense guy, but he loves his kids. Met him a couple of times in Lejeune. MARSOC officer.”

“Wow,” Raye awes. Having a Marine brother got her into military structures along with its abbreviations and lingo. Big brain picks up easily. MARSOC is the specops command. That makes that these guys are raised with utter discipline. And maybe with dark humor and occasional shenanigans as a way to cope, as well.

Raye is expecting no more surprises when pulling up to the pickup window—at least not someone that Eli knows, like the guy at the payment post that's clearly someone he doesn't know.

Yeah. No.

This one guy looks like that one who would blow air horns and pop at least three confettis upon entry and play Xenogenesis outro when he's gonna bail.

He claps loudly. “Well well, look who it is.” Guy rocks this shit eating grin that eerily reminds her of her own brother when he's pulling the most horrendous prank in his teens and wide mohawk with fades that haven't been clipped for two weeks. “Made it back from Schwab in one piece with no single spooked bone in his body. I think you owe us one of those new stories, Eli!”

“Scorch.” They shake each other's forearms with a dull clap, Eli's grin matching the other guy's. “Stories next time, baby. Cross my heart.”

“Holding onto your word,” he nods triumphantly. It takes him another second to notice Raye's presence hovering over the console with a curious eyebrow-raise. His amber brown eyes are shining. “Hey, there. I'm Scorch.” He extends out a hand, leaning past the window and far down to reach her. “Sev mentioned that Staff Sergeant Goofball here brought the sister along. Nice to finally meet ya.”

She snorts at the nickname. “Yeah, same. I'm Raye.” She shakes his hand, pulling a tight smile. “Finally, right? Weird he hadn't introduced you lot yet back then. Honestly it feels sucky.”

“Ay, I'm right here,” Eli complains, “You were in Austin back then.”

“Sshhh…” Scorch, still leaning over the window, presses a finger against Eli's lips. “You have the right to remain silent,” he whispers dramatically.

Raye shakes her head, her laughter muffled poorly. “Yo your bromance is grossing me out already.”

“Ay, Raye. Mouth filters, por favor,” Eli chastises, slapping Scorch away from the car interior. Then he seems to be stunned, Raye is unable to see the way both his eyebrows scrunched as he scrutinizes the printed sheet of paper taped on the window. “Scorch.”

“Hm?”

Eli nods in its direction. “That new?”

“Oh, this?” Scorch leans over to make sure that the active Marine is talking about the vacancy notice that he printed at 4 AM yesterday—he was so immersed in Galactic Contention that he forgot. “Yeah. We need a new guy. Last one quit because she couldn't handle Sev's asshole attitude, can you believe that?”

“Sev? Asshole?” Eli snorts. “Sounds like something that came out of fucking Oxford dictionary.” Raye rolls her eyes. So much for not cursing too much. “Word and definition, side by side. Can't blame her.”

“Unable to maintain the workplace harmony and stuff. Couldn't get along. Beef every day with either Fixer or Sev. Boss wanted to fire right away, but Addy had us wait. And she waltzed out on her own! Never mind those. She never made it to the employee of the month board anyway.”

And then there's silence. Raye finds it odd since she has just discovered that Scorch is the guy who Eli gets along the most with—both being chatterboxes—and she can almost hear the gears inside her brother's head turn.

“Raye,” Eli then says, jabbing a thumb not at Scorch but in the general direction of the fast food place. “You… wanna?”

Raye blinks. “Me? Working at Vau’s?”

“Yeah, I mean you're on summer break, you need something to do.” Eli seems to be past critical decision-making already. A generally good brother. Enough bullying, enough fighting, enough thinking about her, watching her back as needed. He's always thoughtful when it comes about her. But this time it's around his friends—friends he trusts. “That's easy and open opportunity for you to get out of the house.”

Scorch hums in agreement. “I can talk to Boss, if you want. And hey.” He subtly points at her, a kind smile lifting his lips. “Relative to a fellow Marine—that’s standard. Honor and stuff. Our dad's a Marine. And the Estradas have always been good friends with us—family friends. We need someone we can trust that won't beef with any of us, and we can make it all smooth for ya.”

Smooth path, indeed. “I'll see about that beef,” Raye smirks, plopping back down to her seat to find something for her back. It's getting sore.

“Oh you'll love us,” Scorch winks. “Just don't touch Sev. He's got his own lady friend already.”

“Damn. Your brother still gettin’ it goin’ with Paisley Jettster?”

“Yep. In their own world.”

“Holy shit. The balls. The competition’s heiress.”

Scorch shrugs one shoulder. “Eh, he's crazy like that. Not new. And because of that; she's just as crazy.” He then slaps his palms loudly onto the counter, once again his smile morphs into a massive grin. “So? Raye? Whatcha think? I'll see you sooner than I thought in our fast food pride and joy?”

She's starving. The answer to that question has to be placed in the back burner. But honestly… it's tempting. “Yeah okay, I'll think about it.”

“Oh come on, you already did,” Eli teases.

“Just drop by when you're actually done thinking. I'll tell Boss so he'd know,” Scorch says. Suddenly he scrambles around, reaching off to the side for two paper bags. “Also here's your food. Damn. Almost forgot with the catch-up. Now piss off Elio, you're holding the line! Enjoy your wraps!”

They're holding the line alright because there are two cars behind them. After a stressful round of see you later alligator and its many sequels, Eli skids out of the lane and into the main street, releasing the biggest sigh of relief from the deepest caverns of his empty stomach. Raye reaches into the bag for the modest-sized packet for the fried sides, and totally not disappointed at the dominant peppery notes that stick to both fries and rings after she pops each into her mouth, one after the other.

“So what do you think?” Eli asks after a while, eyes on the road, keeping his hands respectfully to himself and not snagging her fries.

Now enjoying one of her fish nugget wraps—the apparently homemade coleslaw dressing tastes like heaven by the way—Raye watches the lines of houses in the neighborhood blurring by. “Yeah you're right,” she decides, “I think I'm in.”

At least Scorch is nice, so she'd try to bond with that one first. Sev is kinda spicy. She doesn't remember anything about Fixer aside that he stopped by in their house at least once for group homework with Eli, and she had zip idea about Boss. The other employees would either care or don't.

Eli glances at her twice in a quick succession. “Good! Good for you. They're nice and I trust them, y'know? You'll like them.”

He offers a fist bump, which she accepts. Eli smiles every damn day, but Raye knows which one is the you're gonna regret freeing me of my enclosure smile and a very, very proud smile.

“Also,” he clears his throat, “Also actually I'm asking your opinion about the fries. Good, yeah?”

Raye, laughing, swats his arm playfully. “Yeah.” She'd definitely see the Vau brothers again pretty soon. “Yeah, this is all nice.”

A/N: BAM SURPRISE DELTA LONGFIC WITH NEW OCS. This idea has been running around my head for a while. I'd like to thank Carbon for hyping me up to keep writing, and for accepting the collab invitation too, really (I'M SO HAPPY 😆💛). If you haven't checked her amazing art yet (how could you?!), she's @carbon-corrie! The header will be changed soon when the main art piece by the artist herself drops during Delta Squad Week, so keep an eye out for that and for an edit reblog! 💛

As usual I'm starting a taglist for every chapter update. O potentially interested ones, please let me know to join! @hellfiresky @gh0st-c0mpany @pichiflu-draws @leiopython-rat @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika @leafdupe

#welcome to vau's #z3st replies #yes yes they do serve breakfast in the mornings #this makes me want to make an actual menu sheet

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

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Aaaahhh thank youuuu Carbon!! 💛🤗 I feel like wanting to put another Delta in this kind of monster!clone scenario as well but I dunno. You're excellent with your ideas so gimme some LMAO. Time to pull out my spin my Delta wheel and find out who's next for another halloween vibes 😆

How Do You Explain Unsolved Murders by Plasma Bolt?!

Clone Commando Sev × GN!Reader

Season: Autumn - Clone × Reader Prompt-a-thon ✧ @cloneficgiftexchange

✧ Prompt: Monster!Clone

✧ Summary: You always get away from the mysterious deaths of the people who bully you, only because of this dead dude from another galaxy who names himself Sev acting as your avenging angel, if that even exists.

✧ Tags & Warnings: set on our planet earth in the year of our lord, bullying and the classic neglect of some people with position, curse words, mentioned suicide attempt, implied attempt of rape, Sev murders people and is enjoying it.

✧ Word Count: 5.3k

✧ A/N: Heyo and welcome to my first ghost!clone AU 👻 and yeah uh that basically means this is a Sev Dies AU. This may not be my best writing for now, but I really do hope you guys enjoy it still 🫶🏼 thanks for being here, and have a good one!

Masterlist | Read on AO3

“You want me to drive you back?”

“No that's fine, I got it,” you refuse to the detective as he walks you along one of the corridors of the police station. You shrug. “I'll just Uber myself out of here.”

He studies you for a moment, a little hesitant at your decision. You kinda don't remember his name—maybe it's Jarrick or something, a thirty something year old man of lanky build with a faint cigarette smell coming from his jacket and a solid, grounding tone of voice.

“Okay,” he says, “Let me fetch your things back from evidence.”

“Okay.”

The detective leaves you in the middle of a bustling office workroom that smells heavily like coffee, exhaustion, and neverending paperwork. Around you are officers and detectives alike shuffling through case files, pens scribbling down details, and parental figures breaking down crying upon learning their loved ones are either incarcerated and charged or murdered.

You're having one of those.

Not willing to stand around and disrupt people's pace working their way through crimes, you shuffle your feet towards an empty couch near the door and sit down, the leaves of some real and typical strangely well-cared office plant brushing against your arm. You sigh deeply, planning. Maybe not going home yet. Some burritos to reward yourself after going through a hassle of a criminal investigation that you certainly didn't do, but always finding yourself in it.

“Hey.” The detective walks toward you in long strides, your backpack in one hand and your phone still inside the evidence zip bag. “Here's your stuff, all cleared. If you could sign this one first, here…”

You nod sort of exhaustedly, going through the supposedly last errand quickly and not really bothering to read the last half of the clearance document. He presents you the bag, unzipped, the content free for you to take.

“Thank you,” he says, slipping the clipboard underneath his arm and fishing a business card out of his pocket. With a tight smile, perhaps out of sympathy, he offers it to you. “If something else turns up, or if you need any help at all, you can call me. Okay?”

Det. William Jarrick

Oh, that's indeed his name after all. You take a few seconds to absorb the police logo, your city and state, and his official phone number. He's new, you heard, taking over the case—the previous one apparently is in jail for DUI.

“Understood,” you say, carefully pocketing the card. Jarrick opens the door for you, and you don't look back to the office. “See ya, Detective.”

He waves you goodbye. “Don’t get yourself into trouble again, kiddo.”

With a deep breath, you happily march out of the police station, willing to put it all behind you. There's nothing more stressful than a busy police station, even though you did absolutely nothing wrong. It's the walls, painted muted dark blue, and just… crowded spaces and coffee machine underneath a low lighting of the cabinet and paperwork scattered all over those desks.

The day is particularly chilly today. It's fall. Northern hemisphere autumn is never boring, you always like the cool air and warm color palette slapped across any surface either man-made or natural—trees, shop decorations, unraked leaves, shawls and jackets, thematic discount labels, video thumbnails.

“How's the new guy?”

If you hadn't known Sev and his tendency to quite literally pop up next to you with his oh-so-intimidating phone-scammer deep voice for the last six months, you'd jump and shriek at his sudden presence.

“He's okay,” you sigh, lowering your voice under your breath and digging for your handsfree in your bag. “Less annoying, more understanding. He's younger. Younger than the old frog who can't tell the difference between talking in a closed space and standing by a running jet engine.”

He snorts. “Where'd he go?”

You stick the device in your ear, running on a pretense that you're on a call whereas you're actually talking to a ghost that no one else can see but you.

“Jail, can you believe it? DUI.” You stretch your arms with a weary yawn before walking off the threshold and the entire vicinity, your pack now secured behind you on your back. “Wait, you've got DUI in your homeworld, right?”

He shrugs. “DUI, public indecency, vandalism, auto theft. You name it, Buggy.”

Buggy. Only Sev calls you that because you refused to tell you his name during your first run-ins with each other. You were too busy screaming and muttering incoherent prayers to the top manager of your belief system, or whatever gods above.

Sev follows you along the pavement, sparse of people, his translucent bluish white form floating above the ground, although he’s practically marching. There isn't any hesitation in his steps as he bears a soldier's stance. Intimidating. How could he not, with all that bulky armor set on him? He dwarfs you easily, and he finds it hilarious that he knows you're feeling kind of safe that he's unable to tackle you. Not that he'd want to. Not without reason, anyway.

“So where are we headed?” he asks from behind you.

“Stress-eating,” you say, laughing awkwardly to yourself. To calm your post-police interview jitters, more like. “I was in that stuffy room for like, two hours.”

“One and a half,” Sev corrects.

“Right.”

“You ain't scared that they'd find you suspicious ‘cause you're walking instead of taking a cab like what you told the new case detective?”

“So you were listening all along,” you muse, ducking into your usual small dine-in burrito place. You exclaim your usuals to the cashier and slide into one of the shabby booths. “To answer your question, it's not their business.”

“Could be,” Sev says, his ghostly (heh) form already slipping into the seat opposite you. His pack is already disengaged. “If there's another murder.”

“You wouldn't.”

“What?”

“Doing another murder.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sev,” you groan, “I don't want you to—” you cut yourself off, remembering you're practically in public space. You sigh. “Don't slot anyone again.”

Sev smirks behind his helmet. It's a vocabulary he taught you. “They're bullying the kriff out of you.”

“Ever, Sev.”

“Can’t stand aside and let you be trampled like that. Like you're a useless piece of shit. You're bright. And you're still a person, Buggy.”

“You’re putting dead bodies in my name and making me the prime suspect every time!” you whisper-shout.

“Person of interest,” he corrects you.

You slowly close your eyes.

Sev looks at you. His sniper rifle is leaning casually against the back of his seat. “Can't do much while being a ghost of a soldier with unfinished business, doncha think?”

Before you can retort, your order is slid to the table in front of you, all warm and spicy and invoking the monsters in the depths of your belly. Spicy chicken burrito, ranch and extra pico de gallo, crisps, and cookies ‘n cream milkshake.

“Rough day?” the server, Caleb, asks you.

You blink. “Huh?”

He taps his ear, referring to your handsfree and how you've been talking excessively. “Another murder that frames you or is that your Slovakian ex girlfriend?”

You let out a dry laugh, your fingers toying with the still-warm crisps. “I don't have a Slovakian ex girlfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

You kick at his feet. Lucky bastard swerves away cackling. “Shut up, Caleb!”

“Yeah yeah anyway,” he chuckles, his gaze clearly holding some genuine sympathy at you, “Hope you get through it and catch the guy. Mustn't be easy for you.”

“Heard that before,” you mutter, glancing down at your lap before smiling at him anyway. “Thanks, Caleb.”

Caleb offers you a smile and a shoulder pat before sauntering someplace else.

Sev scoffs at your meal as you start to dig in. “Scorch would huff that down.”

You slurp on your shake. “Y'all can handle spice?”

“Loved it, even,” he says fondly, which is a strange sight to you still even though you've known each other for roughly six months. “He handled it better than I do.”

It's sensible to talk about people in past tense when you don't know if they're still alive or not. For Sev, he's lost them anyway. He died. In his past life, in some place called Kashyyyk.

Or in another universe or something, because there were no known previous civilizations on Earth rocking the apparatus that he carries with him.

And he just happened to… land into your life as a ghost tied to you. Wherever you go, he follows. It had been hard to live with that, especially when you couldn't handle his dark gloomy jokes some time in the beginning of your acquaintanceship. Friendship. It's easier now. You're considering him a friend. You're stuck with each other, after all.

“Do you think you really have unfinished business?” you suddenly ask.

Sev blinks hard underneath his helmet to digest your question and, ah, it's poking his private compartment again. Why he's here, how he came here—does it matter? He's stuck as a ghost without so much as a memory about the manuals if they even gave him one somewhere in the limbo.

You continue studying him, placing down your ronto roll ripoff and absentmindedly poking at your crisps. “Like a mission? To complete?”

“Does it matter?” It's not usual for him to defy a question from someone other than a clone.

“It might,” you shrug, mid-chew. Sev is used to it. “We should… find out why you're sent here, right?”

“I lived in a different galaxy than yours, Buggy. Why I'm here is up to whoever's in charge of both yours and mine.”

You scrutinize him. Like, actually putting him under an interrogative pressure. You seem not to care about other people in the tiny diner looking. “You don't wanna find out why? Ever?”

There's something else he hides. Something about ‘unfinished business’? It does feel like that. He's a soldier. A hunter. An accomplisher. Those traits drive him to his goals with utter ambition and, sometimes, sadistic hunger. Hunger to get the job done. Hunger to anticipate what comes next after that job is done. He chases after these things. It satisfies him—the success, the crudeness, the raw elements he gets himself high on.

Then he died and he met you. Poor, unsuspecting and unlikely scrawny kid who's doing whatever they can to sustain their ranks in school. Apparently being too ambitious achieving a goal is a crime because it invites envy and jealousy of others. Now that, he can't comprehend. You're only doing your job, you want the best for yourself.

But your classmates attack you. Calling you names, banging at the locker next to yours just to startle the shit out of you, the cold shoulders, the belittling stares. Your teachers don't feel like intervening. You're used to it, but you're tired. Your utter surrender attracted him somehow, that when you actually really attempted to test how good your belt is using the railings on the second floor of your mother's house, the downstairs phone rang.

It was the news of the sudden death of a student in your school. Bertrand Wilson. He was the one who banged the locker every damn day. “We thought you should know,” your principal had said, before ending the line.

Three days later, Jackie Lombardini. She called you names. Next week; Kellan Peterson. He pushed you into a lake once. That Friday, Melinda Brewster—dunked your head in the toilet. The same day, Lucas Martinez—emptying your locker and setting the contents on fire in the dumpster. The next day; Naomi and Hans Grant, twins. They literally continuously threatened to kill you just because you caught them in the act in the lab after hours.

Everything was a mystery. No one knows what hit them. Cameras never caught the perp; no vehicles, no mysterious figure walking by. No blood. Just bodies dropping to the ground with a scorching hole in the middle of their forehead, smoke rising above it. Everything connects to one thing; you. Motive? Vengeance.

But that's the problem. The police can't place you in any of the crime scenes. It's a variety of places you'd never have the intention to go to—bars, shabby diners, rooftops, dingy hotel rooms, biker lot, or hell, their own house. Your alibis checked out—always. It's fortunate that the local police are immune to local media pressure—they stay on the lane. You're always cleared. You always walk away fine, undamaged, and perhaps, albeit a little guiltily…

Satisfied.

They deserve it.

Sev literally grinned down at you—behind his bucket, of course—when he first manifested in front of you. After every phone call, because the killings are always consistent. After hours. Evening. PM. You stopped testing the belt. You chilled out in your room and you were screaming to death while Sev came forward for the first time and asked you things.

“How do you do?”

“Did you like it?”

“What do you think?”

“I wish I could give them the old shank in the kidney like I did to those ugly lizards, but my Deece is all I've got. And I'm an excellent shot.”

“Taken care of.”

“Don’t have to worry about them anymore, Buggy.”

“I've got you, don't worry. I've got ‘em, too. Went out with a pew.”

It takes some time for you to adjust. Sometimes you're wondering if you still have the right to be called ‘victim’. They bullied you, after all. They bullied you first. They started it.

They deserve it. Sev finishes them. Lessons exhibited to everyone in your school. The aftermath? No friends at all, having absolutely nobody to talk to, and a new sick urban legend circulating around mentioning your name seeking refuge to the devil. What bullshit. Except if they want to call a living dead bloodthirsty psycho sniper from another galaxy the devil. Picking victims and taking them out in your name. It's fitting and eerily beautiful at the same time. At least that's what Sev thinks about.

Sev sighs. “Don't need to find out why,” he says gruffly.

You stare at him. “Um… why?”

He tilts his helmet back at you. “I know why I'm here.”

It's to hunt them down. Those who hurt you. He can feel it in his incorporeal body. Every time he lays on his belly on the next building over with a nice vantage point, every time pulls that trigger, every time he watches the body drop. He's never hesitant with his shots, he's always confident. All that, put into a shaker and poured into a fine, cold cocktail glass for him to enjoy.

You play with your straw as you lower your voice, “It's to kill them, isn't it?”

“I got off on it,” Sev admits shamelessly—but not, at all, in a sexual sense. “And it feels like the right thing to do.”

The corner of your lips twitch. Maybe you're just as sick as him, handling that much pressure and suddenly that pressure is ripped away from you without resolve nor closure. “So,” you muse, “Acting as my guardian angel who brutally kills people?”

“Don't see me doing anything else, do you?”

You look down somewhat guiltily. “I never saw you.”

Sev tears his focus away from you and stares into the plain fucking wall. He won't let himself be seen as soft, at least not now, although it's too late. Something is provoking the guess what I actually fucking care bone inside him. You're being vulnerable, so he can't be, too. At least one of you has to look alive.

“It’s for the best,” he says eventually, “You wouldn't like it—”

“Well, look who it is! My sweet darling baby!”

You’ve never turned around so fast. After one and a half hour being interviewed by a detective who's genuinely trying to help your tired hardass, that voice turns this day boring to plain shitty—a familiar assface with a Canadian accent bursting through the door with his sickening grin and, can you fucking believe it, blond pompadour hair.

“Who the kriff is this?” Sev asks aloud, his hand steadying on his rifle.

“Raph?” you gape, ignoring him, “The hell you doing here?”

Sev watches this Raph dude interrupting his intense conversation and sauntering toward your table with a happy skip in his step with a smile that even Scorch would've slapped away. “Flew over for you.”

You shake your head and let out a dry laugh “Don’t be an asshole, Raphael. Seriously, what are you doing here?”

Raph looks at you offended. “Me? The asshole?” he snorts. He makes a shoo gesture at you and forcefully wedges himself into the booth before smiling his smackable smile again at you. Sev actually considers to punch him across the face—doesn’t matter if his fist and knuckle blade goes through. “Don't be silly, baby darling. You broke us up first.”

You stare at him, scooting to the other side until your back meets the wall. “Because reasons.”

“Aw, you couldn't handle me,” he teases.

“Understatement,” you mutter under your breath, throwing a glance at Sev with a sigh. “Raph, we already broke up. There's absolutely no reason for you to fly over and— and babying me!”

“Right, right, but I can look after you while still being friends, can't I?”

“I don't have friends,” you state firmly. Sev gives you a thumbs-up. You bite your lip to stifle a smile.

“Well, but I want to.” This chakaar actually… seems genuine. Sev relaxes. A bit. The boy sighs in resignation seeing your unconvinced expression. “Okay, you want honesty? I'm in town ‘cause my dad's having a board meeting with your city council. Told him I'm gonna drive around town and, well.” He gestures to you with a flashy smile. “See how you're holding up.”

Sev watches your expression carefully with his arms crossing his chest. It's been a hard month with all the murders around you, and he's not feeling sorry for even one. They deserve it. He can't explain it in words, but his intuition has helped him survive many times by identifying two-faced sha’buire before.

“Yeah, I don't know,” you shrug mindlessly, “This mysterious sniper guy is gonna get the second wave of FBI hounding on my back and that'll be bad for me.”

Raph seems taken aback. “Whoa. Second wave?”

“Yeah. They sent profilers, but they found nothing on the crime scenes—all six of them. Pulled out and been working on it remotely ever since so far. Or at least that's what I hear from the detectives.”

“Right, right,” Raph nods thoughtfully, seemingly taking it all in seriousness. “Want me to hire PI for you?”

You scoff. “Raph. The victim's parents literally unionized to hire a band of private investigators to look into me.”

“Are you serious? You don't seem scared.”

“I've got nothing to hide.”

Sev catches one look too long in the far corner of the diner. He perks up, and that slight gesture from him renders your attention at Raph crumbling for a moment. “One in that corner,” he informs you. Your head swivels following his direction.

“What?” Raph asks.

You roll your eyes. “Speak of the devil. One that's hoping I'm gonna buy that… I don't know, librarian persona.”

“Oh yeah,” Raph muses, nodding as if awed he's got to see a real PI for once. “Doesn't that bother you? I can make a call to ask one of my dad's counselor team—”

“Raph, stop,” you shake your head, “I appreciate it, but I don't need your help.”

“Time to go, Buggy.” Sev stands up. Awkward situation that normally could escalate into a varping shootout like this is something he always runs away from first thing, even in the Before where Fixer usually shouted after him, and he intends to drill this when to walk away lesson into you. He grabs his rifle readily, appearing as the cold and deadly sniper he is as if ready to put a nonchalant bolt through Raph's head right there and then. “I'm saving your shebs from this dumbass.”

You release a loud sigh as you begin to wrap the burrito with its own tin foil and shove the last of your crisps into your mouth quite unceremoniously that makes Raph blink in absolutely not amusement. Maybe disgust. Good. You've got enough eyes on you, you certainly don't need your ex boyfriend to poke around, too.

“Want me to drive you?” Raph tries again.

You stall by slurping your milkshake clean, noisily. “I got it, Raph.” You plot your escape, rather quickly, to the front door where Sev is already waiting for you, rifle raised as if Raph could see him then the kid should be scared.

Raph follows you outside, his steps are more hasty rather than concerned. You groan your frustrations, turning to give him a piece of your mind until he cuts you off.

“Hey, hey. Please. I really am concerned. What if they’ve been targeting you?”

“Targeting me?” “I've been bullied for most of high school for having top marks, Raph! If they were targeting me, why would they kill people around me who've been causing me pain and made me nearly hang myself in my own house?!”

“Maybe jealousy?” Of course he doesn't care about your suicide bit. “They're trying to intimidate you by killing people around you.”

You watch in silence as Sev comes up next to Raph, out on the sidewalk and under the autumn late afternoon sun. The commando you've known as a friend seizes your ex—panting and practically begging you to understand and to be on his page—up close and personal with a predator's prowess. His grip on his rifle may seem relaxed, but you know the finger on the trigger guard is itchy to press.

Sev looks at you. “Want me to shut his hole?”

“No!”

Raph looks at you in disbelief, unaware of your slip-up. “Are you serious?”

“Yes I'm serious!” You gain your focus back but already forget what he brought up. Sev nods grimly and steps back.

“Copy that.”

“Look, I care about you, okay?” Raph says, “Watching the news and your name popped up on screen, it's only just last week that it's now up by seven victims. Seven. I was always wondering if you're okay ‘cause these are people you know, people you went to class with, but what if they get to you finally—”

“Raph.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, and then level your gaze with him, giving in with what you hope is genuine plea. “I don't need your help.”

You turn around again, but Raph grabs your arm. “I get that,” he says, sighing. “Let me drive you home? Then I won't bother you again.”

“Promise?”

“You won't see my face again and you won't even know I'm leaving town.”

And that's how you find yourself in the passenger seat of Raph's car.

It smells rental and you try to focus on it instead of your ex’s presence just a mere feet away. Raph wasn't good to you—his dad being a member of Canadian parliament, all he cares about is himself. You were just an object of his love bombing for five months and you're still trying to pretend to ignore that at least a quarter of your belongings were his gifts to you.

So. Him being concerned about his ex partner who becomes a person of interest in their bullies’ strange murders? Even stranger.

Raph insists on a scenic route. Says he hadn't been here long before moving back to Canada—all those five months here were spent wooing you and bombing the lovesick person out of you, both with love and his pompous bullshit.

And now you’re letting him initiate conversations with you again. You let him steer the topic, because you're too tired to think of one, much less speaking about one to your ex. Sev is watching you and the interaction from the backseat, his quietness isn't unusual.

He can sense something's wrong. He’s certain you’ve noticed too, but what could you do in a moving vehicle, if not launching yourself out the door out of paranoia without injuring yourself? Call it his intuition. Out of his brothers, his intuition never went wrong. It’s his patience and attentiveness when he's locking in.

So when the chakaar pulls up in the seediest corner of a gas station after fueling up, all this poorly executed bullshit ends now.

The temperature surrounding his incorporeal body freefalls. Always, every time, when his trigger discipline can no longer be contained. It makes his head feel hot and crowded with utter focus, his attention fully locking into his new goal—his target.

The search for vantage point? He lets his body do it. Methodical, careful, as if someone ran the program inside his head to do just so, because he's used to moving so discreetly without risking being seen. Even a ghost now—he can't erase that away. He can't be careless, still. It's who he is. Remove that, and he'll be just a shell of RC-1207 who loses his kick.

He's found a tree, but he doesn't climb, so he covers himself behind the gigantic trunk. He wants to see the bolt penetration. He wants to watch his target's head loll sideways as it claims their life that's been spent on stooping so low belittling other human beings. He wants the thrill. He wants to smell burnt tibanna. He wants to smell the death.

Sev raises his rifle and aims. It's already dark outside, and he's surprised why you didn't choose to go on a screaming match with your ex already to demand to be taken home. Raph drives around, errands here and errands there, even taking his time on grocery shopping and delivering packages. He's already been waiting for the cover of darkness so he could lock the doors and turn off the lights in his car…

And pounce on you.

Once the moving shadows inside the car begin to show signs of resistance and oppression, he wastes no time.

He pulls the trigger.

The boom resonating out of his sniper attachment is followed by the sound of glass breaking. The bolt went through the car's rear window, the seat, and…

The head loll. And not a second later, the entire body, dead, flopping heavily onto you. Dead.

You scream.

You've obviously thought of being present in a crime scene. But you’ve never found yourself in it since it's probably for the best and yet; here you are.

It's just like what they say and what they show to you in pictures. No blood. Scorched bullet hole. Smell of foreign gas flooding your nostrils. Dead body. It's also what they don't show you that's overwhelming your senses. You think dead bodies are cold, but you have no idea they'd still be warm. Or maybe, deep down you knew but it's all happening so fast. Freshly dead bodies are still so warm that it makes you want to believe Raph is possibly still alive.

You push his body away from you. Raph’s dead weight slams against his side of the door with a loud thunk.

“Buggy! Hey!”

Sev is on the other side of your window, wishing on everything he could've done including rapping his knuckle plate against the window and hauling you out of there as fast as he could to get you to safety.

“Let's go. We should go.”

And then the fog clears. It's like you're waking up from a nightmare.

“Sev,” you breathe, finding consolation in the presence of his illuminating bluish white form before unlocking the door manually with shaky fingers. Sev arms go through your body in an attempt to catch you as you stumble out. You hit the asphalt and grass followed by Sev's frustrated grunt.

“Buggy,” he calls you, even crouching to meet your level, “Get up. You okay?”

Your sight blurs—it’s your tears pooling in your eyes, and you don't even realize you've been crying. Sev’s translucent rifle, the one he just shot Raph with, lays on the ground next to him. You're expecting to be eye to eye with Sev’s gruesomely painted helmet but the face behind it greets you instead, and it does seem like your questions about the color of his eyes and what kind of scars marring his face would remain unanswered. The frown between his eyebrows and concern reflecting in his gaze bring you into a shared space of vulnerability.

Your breath hitches.

“Sev…”

“You’re alright,” he soothes, voice softer than you've ever heard of him. Sev raises his hand to your head to push some of your hair away but pauses midair, again forgetting his current state. Glancing away in embarrassment, he turns back to you with sudden encouragement. “Come on. We gotta get moving.”

“My bag,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper as you try your best to get up even on your jelly-like limbs.

Sev nudges his head. “Go. We'll get out of here.”

You get on your feet with hardship and turn, and you're looking at the nightmare again.

Raph had suddenly become violent when you rejected his advances and landed a solid smack to your cheek. Not three seconds later, he flopped dead against you by Sev’s protective headshot.

“He—” you swallow thickly, “He tried to rape me—”

“What matters now is that you're safe, ad'ika,” Sev affirms behind you, his voice filtering through his helmet again. “He won't bother you anymore, that's what I know.”

It burns. The pain in your cheek has numbed but it still burns. You touch the reddened spot with the tip of your fingers and immediately cringe away—it’ll always be a reminder of a tragedy.

And your mistake.

You're here when he's murdered. You're present at the crime scene, your DNA is all over the place. Within a second, you feel like the best you could do right now is crying again and screaming as loud as you can.

“Buggy,” Sev urges you again.

“I'll never be safe, will I?” Your voice strains as you turn around, your tears hot in your eyes. “As long as this town hates me, I'll never be safe, and you'll never stop.”

“If that's what it takes.”

You know you're supposed to be taken aback by his words—Sev’s sole intention and belief that he should protect you, a vulnerable soul, at all costs. His calling, he called it. But you're not. Your shock has escaped you and you are so used to letting yourself be ushered under Sev’s protective wings that you no longer question his merciless actions. It scares you, your sanity—it scares the little sympathy that's just magically… still there.

After all seven, eight murders.

Have you always been this heartless? Ever since they turn to be so condescending and kick you into the ground that you've had a fair share of the vile earth yourself, and make you swallow what they've spat on?

Maybe they deserve this, after all.

You sniffle, harshly wiping the tears off your sad fucking face. Grabbing your bag to find your phone, there's only one fight left for you.

“Raph’s dad’s lawyers are going to kill me,” you mumble as you tap the three numbers for emergency services. “They're gonna make sure I'll be behind bars for this one. They're powerful people.”

Sev huffs almost boredly. “Then good thing there's a security camera right across from where you are.”

It's a good position, and it's on. It surely caught what had transpired beyond the windshield of the rental car, and all the windows aren't tinted.

“They won't touch you.” Sev raises his rifle again. “I’ll make sure of that.”

You release a breath of laughter—either for him always having your back or the fucking coping mechanism, you're letting the universe do whatever it wants with you, as long as they decree Sev to always protect you against the most vile evil that the world throws at you, at least.

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

divider by me -> Delta Squad helmet PNG's by @/stars-n-spice

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#z3st replies #sev x reader

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

Text

And I'll write again

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 28: Mercy | Masterpost

there's only 24 hours

✧ Star Wars | Crosshair (CT-9904) | 18 BBY ✧

“If you lay down with dogs, then you'll get fleas.”

Hunter's words have never rung so loud in Crosshair's ears. Ire and woe come uninvited and burst through the doors of his conscience that he's kept under lock and key.

What's worse is mercy slips through.

It's a deadly combination. It makes him question his conscience, his sanity, his stance with the Empire, his whole self. What is he? Where is he?

Where is he supposed to be?

He's not ready. But they would be. They gave him purpose. Appreciation, brotherhood, love.

This must be what hollow servitude feels like.

A/N: Tbh I don't really know where this goes, but dear Crosshair gurlies (gn) this is for you 🩶❤️ Crosshair on existential crisis is one of my guilty pleasures bcs I can throw either Twenty One Pilots or Lana on him. Song is 24 by Lana Del Rey.

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

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orangez3st · 28 days ago

Text

He's showing up not uninvited for sure 😭😭 he found a poncho and like a civilized man of course he put it on!! ❤️ Thanks for reading, Leah!

Drabble Challenge May 2025 by @thedrabblecollective Day 5: Cold | Masterpost

poncho-holics non-anonymous

✧ Star Wars | Sev, Wrecker, Cal Kestis, Rex | ? BBY ✧

“Nice seeing you again, Wrecker.”

“Can't miss the weekly meeting, Rex.” The demo expert’s chuckle echoes around the cold, quaint strategy room with four chairs in the middle.

The door opens to reveal a guarded ex-clone commando.

Cal Kestis frowns. “And who are you supposed to be?”

Sev stares at him in disbelief. “M’one of the Delta Squad?”

“Hang on. The Delta Squad?”

Wrecker laughs. “Always gets that reaction every time.”

“No I mean, when did you even put on a poncho?” Cal asks.

“Uh,” Sev blinks, “Kashyyyk.”

“Oh yeah, been there,” Cal snorts, “The humidity. Osik planet.”

They high-five.

A/N: @alor-ika ner vod you said poncho and I said "ooohh it's on" 😂😂😂 enjoy the full crack of this meeting I wasn't even thinking about this 🤣 and @hellfiresky thought you should know this one

Credit: bottom divider by @/enchanthings

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

Text

Felt like I'm talking w myself ngl 😭 I have two sides it's generous-emoji-Scorch and whatamidoinghere-Raye

Thanks for reading vod!! 💛

Welcome to Vau's! - Chapter 2

Pale Ale

Delta Squad × OC | Modern AU | Fast Food Worker AU

✧ Chapter Summary: Eli being home is always a refreshing sight, especially when that goofball is on a reunion with old friends—the Vau boys. Raye hits Scorch up for that part-time opportunity.

✧ Warnings: several namedrops of known TCW characters along with one (1) from the Jedi game and a couple from Repcomm novels, Scorch chats in lower caps and abbreviations, inaccurate fast food restaurant management lol

✧ Word Count: 2.4k

✧ A/N: Welcome back! I did mention that there would be several OC pairings, right—so judging by my current hyperfixation I guess I'm predictable enough. Enjoy this light filler! Next up will be actually introducing Raye to everyone at Vau's 😉

📊 Worldbuilding #1 Poll is over! The local bar name shall be The Clone Underground ✨

COLLAB with @carbon-corrie | Will update with a header art made by Carbon!

Summer break at home is rarely ever bad. And Eli is back home, so that's ten times better. And as always and sure as the day after Monday is Tuesday; Abuela Rosa needs company, Dad's oftentimes out of town lawyer-ing, and Mom spends time at the homeless shelter and in various other communities. One thing in common about the Estradas is the way they value communication and connection.

Dinner done, first thing Raye did after she showered was Facetime with Riyo. Then a brief group discussion with the student council which Raye is in that actually produced something instead of goof-offs. Then acting therapist to a wasted Padmé because apparently Skywalker fucking forgot to check in the entire day while his girl is on period. Uh uh. Bad, real bad.

While she loves being home, Raye can't help but feel out of place. The mattress is unlike hers in her dorm room back at Austin. It's hers, but laying down on her belly with a laptop in front of her on her own bed only makes her miss Austin, and then there's the little guilt for thinking about that. It's not really that worth looking into, but shouldn't you feel at home during summer break at home?

She's in the middle of doomscrolling when someone knocks on her bedroom door, and it opens to Eli. Leave it to a brother who doesn't even bother asking. On purpose.

“Hey.” Eli peeks his head in. Raye invites him in with a nod. “What’re you up to?”

“Researching,” she mumbles, chin propped up in one hand while the other shifts to her laptop, the screen showing a browser with multiple tabs open about Vau’s. “How on Earth didn't I know about this place before? Google Maps and Yelp; 4.8 star, 36k plus reviewers. Most of those talking about the drive-thru guy. Facebook page. TikTok. Instagram. Their PR’s working hard that I don't know that that's even possible, but what got me scratching my head is how the geographical algorithm shit on my social medias haven't recommended this place even once.”

Eli chuckles as he listens, the bed shifting under his weight as he plops himself down onto it. His eyes skim over the content displayed on the screen, grinning and mumbling hell yeah while nodding to himself. “Toldja. Local pride.” He then clears his throat. “You contacted them yet?”

Raye shrugs, grabbing her phone on instinct but not knowing where to start. “I think I should contact that window guy Scorch personally?”

Eli arches a perfect eyebrow. “That shouldn't be a question, Raye. He asked you to.” Grabbing his phone, the Marine thumbs through his contacts and proceeds to do God's work. “There. Sent you his number.”

Raye's phone pings upon the coming notification, her heart picking up in nervousness even though her lips carried a pleased, grateful smile. “Alright thanks, bro,” she sighs in relief, double-taking to the side once she catches Eli’s bomber jacket and jeans. “Where you goin’?”

Her brother stands and makes his way to the door. “Out.”

“I know that, dumbass. To where?”

“The usual; The Clone Underground,” Eli grins charmingly, his enthusiasm shining through, “Catching up with the boys over drinks.”

Raye smiles. “Sounds like boys night out,” she says before eyeing the Snapchat notification for a second. “But hey, isn't Scorch gonna be there?”

“Yeah everyone is, so you better talk to him ASAP before I get there ‘cause once Scorch runs his mouth off he won't catch a break.”

“Ouch. Mean timer,” Raye mutters.

Eli cracks the door open and slips through.

Raye stifles her smile. “Don't forget safety!”

“Fuck off, Raye. Es noche de bros tonight!”

“I believe you.” Her laughter rings through before the door shuts. “Bye!”

A couple of responding slaps to the door signals Eli's exit from the premises. Drinks with friends. Must be nice. Once in every other week Raye hits Concord Dawn off campus with her girls—Riyo, Padmé, Ahsoka, Barriss—to let out some steam. Though sometimes Padmé wanders off with her boyfriend if he happens to be in the area and nobody wants to know what they're up to. Without booze, the conversation goes stale pretty quickly once Soka and Barriss basically radiate awkwardness toward each other (because everybody seems to know about them except themselves) with Riyo repeatedly checking her notifications to anticipate messages from this pretty chill guy from history named Echo Skywalker.

Raye rolls onto her back and releases the biggest sigh that night, letting the silence take over and making her mind go blank in a drowsy buzz. Eli's car as it reverses out of the driveway can be heard, and then nothing, as he drives off. No music blasting out her audio device tonight, the nervousness is running around too wild to contain, and so are the thoughts.

So. Part-time job. FNB, service. Probably manning the counter and mopping the floor at the end of last shift. She's been there before, somewhere in second term where she needed the pocket money for band merch and better home-cooked food. So what is it exactly that needs to overthink about? The path is there, laid in front of her, all she has to do is to walk it.

Raye sighs again, staring down the empty chatroom on her phone, yet to be filled with conversation. Yeah, right. Okay. We can do this.

Raye Hi this is Raye Estrada. Eli gave me your number.

There. Should be a good start.

Until she huffs a regretful sigh.

“Shit I should've been more formal. Should I?”

She's worked part-time at a diner off campus before. Plus point. Generally nothing to worry about if you've got a relevant work experie—

Scorch oh hiiiiiiiiiii i was wondering when u would reach out soon means good 😁 taking the offer??

Yeah, uh, definitely not formal. Raye's pretty sure Scorch won't rat her out for talkin— chatting… colloquially. He's besties with Eli, so far she knows. And the manager is, what, Scorch's brother too? Doing this via private messages especially when he's Like That is pretty much not formal.

Raye Yeah I've considered it Bcs I for sure am not hitting on u buddy Scorch aw bummer 😔 want me to introduce u to fixer? he aint got no bitches yet 😏 Raye We'll see abt that 🙄💀 So how does this work? Scorch right just come by tmrw @ 11 n talk to boss thats when we start our shift Raye Y'all have the same hour? Scorch yea ik this sounds cringey but we r inseparable 😀 hours is 6-11 11-16 16-22 midnight crew 23-2 Raye Wow that's nearly 24 hrs Scorch yea serving the country w our teriyaki sauce poor fixer bro gotta prep every damn day @ 4 am sev takes 3 shifts sometimes do u know that asshole is popular 🙄 Raye Kinda but I'll make sure to check on that more 😀 Scorch wow u rly dont sound like a local 11. ask for boss if im not the first thing u see bby

Handling boys who's gone out of their way to flirt is a current occurrence. To be honest with herself, she doesn't look too bad. Although not as radiant as that girl from criminal justice Trilla Suduri, Raye's got a fair hoard of eager boys tailing her around. Valentine's Day can't be worse. Or someone who goes hard on being a fucking tsundere like Bacara, that gruff guy from meteorology who's got a ten feet pole up his ass.

Raye 🥴 that means I'm gonna have to put up w u every day If I even got in Scorch u will! eli n i talked more abt u, i put the good word in n isnt it exciting 😉 im exciting Raye Ok keep telling urself that el macho Anyway, thanks! See u tmrw Scorch 👋🏾😘

But to be honest… Scorch is handsome. That half-assed outgrown bleached hair makes him real quirky. But too much of shit-eating grins and him just being generally expressive—reminds her too much of Eli. She's feeling eager to know about the story behind that big burnt scar on his face, though. Ordnance accident? Was he infantry, a veteran? Grenade blew up too close?

That uh, went well.

Pretty well in fact, that Raye's heartbeat is unable to calm down after five minutes or so. But that should be a good sign. She's enthusiastic about work. Around people she knows, too. Or, soon to know. The Vaus are long-time family friends, after all. She just needs to be reintroduced with them and everything will be dandy.

She has a feeling that she should care about this job.

Evenings like this are usually spent among friends. Her girls; Riyo, Padmé, Ahsoka, and Barriss. It's always either group voice calls into the night over assignments or boys being dicks.

Or sometimes sitting for lunch in the cafeteria with Bardan, the friendly dude from anthropology who drives Uber for a side gig, and his classmate Etain—those two are an odd pair to be around, never seeming to fit in with the other students. But they click with her. Raye, a normal jane herself, seems to be the magnet for strange people with strange circumstances, and never been bothered with that.

It's only been a few minutes of doomscrolling silly cat memes, dubbed get-ready-with-me’s, and stupid bass-boosted Scotland bagpipe music jumpscares until another notification floats on top of her phone screen. Curious to see how much further this goofy guy would be able to tease her, Raye accepts the unspoken challenge—well, for herself anyway.

Scorch ur brothers here lol 😆 📷 tap to open image

It's a picture from Scorch's point of view where he's sitting at the far right of the table, phone camera angled like so to the other end where Eli is seen slapping another guy's shoulder with the biggest stupidest grin on his face. Raye can no longer stifle her smile—he looks very happy. Reuniting with friends after long months of deployment must be reinvigorating—Eli has only been catching a few hours of well-deserved sleep before waking up for dinner in a very specific enthusiastic manner.

Reunion. Friends.

But that's not her sole point of focus. It's the guys who apparently sit with Scorch, too, bearing resemblance judging by skin tone. Beautiful sun-kissed tan, some marred with white scars, muscles slightly straining. These dudes are well-built. She remembers Sev the drive thru guy, and he's a vet—were they all really in the military?

It's difficult to put familiar names to faces she hasn't seen for a long, long time. Everyone's out of frame, but one of them can be seen sipping his pale ale, though his eyes dart sideways to Eli's direction glinting with some kind of mirth and reunion.

Raye That's fast Is that one of u?

She waits for a couple of minutes before the reply comes through.

Scorch heck yea thats fixer 📷 tap to open image

Raye frowns. Deep. Hard. Every running neuron particle and shit in her brain telling her not to place her trust in the attachment. Or maybe the dude himself because shit-eating grin owners typically are menaces, and ‘speaking from experience’ is understatement. Whatever's Scorch planning deserves a loud disrespectful bitch slap to the nuts if it's a piece of one of those horror jumpscares.

Raye What r u sending Scorch jeez bomb squad chillax 🙄🙄🙄 its worth it i promise 😂

And she regrets her decision to believe him.

No. It's not worth it. If you count a selfie photo of Scorch pulling the sigma face worth it, Raye wishes you luck in your later life because that picture is her bad luck charm now.

Raye How to unsee Ctrl z Scorch 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺 yea ok fair dudes looking @ me weird rn 📷 tap to open image

Fixer, who apparently Eli had grown close with in high school for sharing the same interest in tech, is situated diagonally to Scorch. Eli is out of frame, Scorch purposefully zooming in solely on the man. Raye is expecting something else and nothing else at the same time—at one point she's surprised he looks exactly like Scorch, but one educated guess dismisses it away.

His hand reaches across his body to grab onto his own shoulder, the other hand rests on the table. Cocking his head to the side presumably to Eli's direction, Fixer sports a slight smirk, barely visible, to something her brother probably said. His hair, though probably is shaggy that reaches past his ears, is tamed and well-kept in a slicked-back style. His cool-toned pine green hoodie looks worn yet it only radiates how much he holds value of his own possessions.

Her heart races and then stops for a second. And it's making her feel real fucking ridiculous—almost embarrassing.

Raye R u on a matchmaking mission or sumn 😑 Scorch who knows yk �� Raye Eli gonna kick ur ass yk He's close w Fixer too if I’m not wrong Scorch exactly 🏃🏾‍♂️🏃🏾‍♂️🏃🏾‍♂️ DUDE i kicked his ass in wrestling back in hs LMAO Raye Lol ok my money's gonna be on u I never knew that Scorch aw now thats my girl 😘

The stifled smile on her lips finally blooms into a full-blown wide beam followed by a mixed series of snorts and laughter. Somehow talking with Scorch feels… safe. Maybe with the other boys would feel safe, too. Eli trusts these people with his life, having known them most of his life.

It feels wrong to compare this with Austin. Austin is a whole different life, a different Raye merely chasing a bachelor's degree bunking up with a distant cousin and spending time with friends, away from family.

But here is home—where her family and the closest ones are. It's where she grew up, where she developed the homegrown sense and awareness towards people she should trust. And Eli, that sweet stupid courageous hermano, willingly opened up a lot of gates of opportunity for her with the love of a brother, and still does. Raye can't be grateful enough.

Scorch u know what me sev boss fixer we r literally identical quadruplets Raye World's wonder Scorch so if u r having babies w one of usdjdoldl

She snorts. What a guy.

Raye Uh you still there? Scorch YEP boss took my phone cuz i didnt pay attention Raye 😂 what a dad Scorch we r fun i promise well see ya tmrw @ work 😘

Welcome to Vau's Taglist (lmk to join!): @alor-ika @hellfiresky

#welcome to vau's #z3st replies

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