I Love How He Has No Fear-

It’s-all-just-a-tv-show AU in which they’re all going over the script of the clone wars:

Fives: *reading silently*

Echo: *same*

Fives: what?!? *slams script closed* NO WAY!

Echo: *closing his script and wiping a tear away* aw man, just like that? Just “boom”?

Fives: *pulls echo into a hug* damn man, I’m gonna miss you

Echo: shit, me too. Ah, man, Rex’s gonna be so pissed.

*camera pans to Rex who’s just closed his script on the corner*

Rex: *pointing at the camera* you stop filming this shit right now, I’m going on a strike. *walking away* Oi Cody. CODY! I want you to make a petition online to the writers of this thing RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

batman: what’s the situation?

commissioner gordon: Harley and Ivy have hijacked an AM radio station and taken the employees hostage

batman: what are their demands?

commissioner gordon: they haven’t issued any. they, uh.

batman:

[commisioner gordon turns on the radio]

harley: —you gotta walk away, sweetie. His family sounds completely toxic, if not outright emotionally abusive, and he’s too enmeshed to see it.

caller: no, you’re right. you’re right. I gotta do it.

harley: you got this, honey. now, stay on the line a minute, I’m writing down some the names of some books for you and you can get those from Ivy after we’re done. okay! our next caller —

[commisioner gordon turns off the radio]

batman: what station is this?

commisioner gordon: WGTM.

batman: the one that rebroadcasts rush limbaugh?

commissioner gordon:

batman:

commisioner gordon: you know what, i probably didn’t need to call you for this.

Humans have no time for other planet’s savior complexes.

The first huge battle between us and an outer space fleet happened before we even got out of our solar system. They flew down and held the planet hostage, made threats, the whole shebang. The Galactic Syndicate catches word of it; one of the warring planets taking control of a tiny, defenseless planet right on the edge of their borders? Well, that doesn’t look good for them.

So they send ships down. The moment those doors open, the aliens have a gun in their face and a very angry, bruised, and beaten human glaring at them.

What they hadn’t been made aware of was that the humans had, more or less competently, handled the invasion. However, the introduction of outer space aliens had been somewhat of a shock to them and, as the human explained in less polite words, they had had their fill of outer space life forms, thank you very much.

But now Earth is on the map. News of their competence in the fight against their invaders passes through the systems and planet upon planet send down delegations to attempt to form relations with these strange new creatures. More often than not, they offer protection, with the uninformed belief that these soft, little bipeds need a strong defender. Those emissaries return to their planets rather hastily and steadfastly refuse to return to the backwater little planet.

Since then, many more invasions have happened on Earth, but no matter how many fleets are sent to help defend the humans, they are turned away. Some of the elders in the Syndicate claim it is human arrogance, refusing any help, stubborn, stupid creatures. Others find it fascinating, courageous, and a little bit sexy.

But the truth is, humans don’t trust well, and we don’t like to be in debt. We know how fast we can turn on each other; how fast do you think it would take for a mysterious, scientifically advanced, military deep space species to do the same, good intentions be damned?

No, best just to handle it ourselves.

When Zuko apologized to uncle Iroh in the tent cause he was so ashamed of his actions and what he’d done to the only person who unconditionally believed in his ability to do good >>>>>

When and why did the word attachment become a congruent synonym for love within the Star Wars fandom??

Sometimes I feel like reading Star Wars one shots or fics and it’s often the same statements that make me cringe and close the tab. Like „love isn’t allowed blah blah blah“, „the order is flawed because I cannot love another openly“, „how can the Jedi deem love wrong, it’s only natural“, etc.

Like what?

Even the movies make the distinction between love and attachment. Anakin tells Padmé for example that the Jedi do in fact love.

It’s just that the order comes first because as a willing member of said order that’s your duty. A partner would always come second. „Don‘t lose a hundred just to save one.“

And I mean even in real life there’s a clear difference between the two words: love and attachment. Most people wouldn't tell someone they have feelings for, „I am attached to you“ rather than „I love you“. And I feel like just when you read those two phrases, they give off a completely different vibe. „I am attached to you“ seems more selfish, sort of cold and temporary, it implies a fear of loss somehow, whereas love sounds purer and honest and selfless and everlasting. (But maybe that’s also just me.)

And also how come when people say the Jedi or their Order was flawed, the only flaw they end up mentioning is the attachment rule. And that’s also only a flaw for them because they confuse attachment with love…

But like, you’re telling me an entire culture and people is flawed because they don’t put selfish borderline toxic romance on a pedestal, but rather see the flaw within exactly that type of „love“. And that to you is wrong because why?

Oh and of course how could I forget? The only other flaw that keeps getting mentioned is that they „didn’t do enough“ and they „let“ Anakin fall to the Dark Side and „allowed“ the Empire to rise. Yeah, let’s take all autonomy away from the edgy handsome villain and blame everybody else, because he baby.

Jedi have to go above and beyond to please the audience and are blamed and taken apart for every little mistake or not even mistake, just for „not doing enough“. But when is it actually enough? It seems to me never. What good they actually did gets ignored. On the other hand villains get to do the worst of the worst but get babied and praised for the smallest of kind acts. It’s just complete hypocrisy.

And to top it all of, a lot of the times the good guys or in this case Jedi are deemed as arrogant without really showing any sort of arrogance. What’s up with that? Why are they arrogant to you? Because they point out wrong from right, try to strive to do good over and over again as best as they can? I feel like people just really like doing what they want and desire with no regard to right or wrong and do not wish to be called out for it or face any sort of consequence. And when there’s somebody who does call out wrongdoings, they deem them as arrogant and hypocrites. And so the Jedi become the „actual bad guys“ and the bad guys become the heroes, who „are actually in the right“.

Cody's Best One-Liners

There’s a piece of flimsi tacked to the wall, unassuming in a way that is casually acute and altogether too smug. The letters loop gracefully, but they point at the ends like a lighthearted jab.

Which, naturally, they are, because at the top of the flimsi in Obi-Wan’s dry-humored handwriting is written “Cody’s Best One-Liners.”

Cody never knows whether to laugh or grimace or roll his eyes, but for the life of him he doesn’t have the heart to take it down.

So it grows, an entry popping up every few days with the same amused devotion that plays in the twitches of the Jedi Master’s beard.

“Maybe a cough drop would do it.” And the admirals had glowered, but Obi-Wan hacked out a strangled laugh and suggested that perhaps, indeed, General Grievous could be persuaded to negotiate.

“If you leave them alone they’ll be glued together by the time anyone gets back.” Boil looked affronted, but Waxer had covered giggles behind his hands while Boil’s mask melted. They snorted, identically, and even the shinies had laughed.

“No need to call the demolition crew. Rex’s guys will take care of it.”

“You’re not confused, sir, you’re just wrong.”

“Wolfpack’s late again - I suppose General Koon really is serious about that parental quality time thing….”

“You are not excused from eating your rations unless the Force feeds you, which is exactly what I will do if you don’t.”

Obi-Wan takes great pleasure in adding to it. He saunters up to the flimsi almost lazily, a pen between his fingers, a loose grin coloring his cheeks, and pointedly does not look at Cody when he makes his little expansions. He just smiles, somewhere between stupid and knowing. It’s insufferably affectionate, and it drives Cody half-mad.

It’s safely in their joint apartment, the one the Jedi and the Marshal Commander accidentally share, so it’s not like someone will stumble in to see it. A private joke.

But Obi-Wan’s other great pleasure comes from dropping hints about it. “We ought to write that one down, Commander,” he’ll say, or “how I wish I were inspired enough to make even half of Cody’s quips.”

Most embarrassingly, he introduces them both to the new batch of shinies with “don’t be fooled by Cody’s formidable exterior. Our dear Commander has quite the sense of humor….” which makes Cody glad for his bucket. Wooley excuses himself and steps a safe distance away, where undoubtedly he can laugh without the shinies knowing.

But Cody looks back at it and can’t help feeling warm.

He sits on the tiny couch they share, in the common room between their separate bedrooms. There’s movement on the other side of the thin wall - Obi-Wan must be in the ‘fresher. His datapad is held in his lap; a cup of caf steams on the wobbly end table beside him.

Obi-Wan comes through the door, a cup of warm tea pressed into his palm, and settles next to Cody on the couch. The drink is herbal, subtle, a vaguely floral sweetness. There is something stronger underneath, solid and quietly bright.

“Cassius?” the commander asks, and cants his head towards the mug.

The Jedi hums. “The Mandalorians say it brings good health.”

Cody looks up, a wry smile and raised eyebrows and a soft tease. “I hope so, considering your vendetta against a full night’s sleep.”

Obi-Wan throws his head back and laughs, comfortably surprised. The sound is effortlessly joyful, and Cody wishes for that kind of peace. The general seems to carry it inside of him, as if it is woven into the essence of his flesh, his clothes, his beard, into the crabbed, gentle elegance of his handwriting.

Obi-Wan fumbles for a pen.

*******

212th for 212? More coming soon, hopefully :)

I wrote the beginning of this piece a few weeks ago and ran right into a wall. It took some effort to finish, but I do love this idea. If anyone's seen this post, yeah. I will never get over Cody's dumb f**king banter. Or Cody, in general.

I will, therefore, leave you with an alternate one-liner that *almost* made it in here. Wolfpack's late again - though I would be too if I had to organize a platoon's worth of Father's Day gifts for General Koon.

TBOBF in 3....

2....

1....

taglist: @sexy-rex @artemis98 @handsignals @ladysongmaster @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom

For the hurt/comfort prompt, would you do 5."C'mere, let me hold you-" with Fox and Wolffe, or Fox and any of his sibling ? Only if you feel like it of course

I really enjoy your writing and your characterization of all the clone troopers, thank you for sharing it

(Content warning for alcohol mention plus a character being drunk.)

Fox stands in the doorway, swaying from side to side just the slightest, hands holding onto the wall on each side. He’s still wearing his full armor and Wolffe can smell the alcohol from where he’s standing.

“Hey, Fox,” he says casually. His fingers tap onto the cup he’s holding. “Can I help you?”

Fox stands straighter. Or, at least, tries to. “Didn’t know you’d be planet-side,” he says, and yeah, definitely drunk. Wolffe wonders if here’s here to pick a fight.

“Fox,” he says. “Listen. I don’t know how you got into this ship in your state, but I’m sure your vode miss you. They’re probably looking for you all over the place.”

He stands and moves to put away the cup of caf he’d emptied. When he looks back at the door, Fox is still standing there.

“Well, do you want something?” Wolffe asks.

“I,” Fox says. His voice breaks. “I wanted to see you.”

Wolffe sighs. “You’ve seen me now. Go to bed, Fox. You’re drunk as shit.”

Fox still isn’t moving. Wolffe turns back to his cup, makes a mental note to go get more caf from Sinker, later. He only turns his head when there’s a sudden sound that almost sounds like a suppressed sob.

Fox’s helmet is off. It’s hanging by his side as he’s wiping his face with his other hand, and—

“Are you crying?” Wolffe asks.

Fox flinches. His face twists. “M’sorry,” he blurts. “I don’t want to cry. You’re right. I’m drunk.” He hiccups, and the helmet drops to the floor. Fox leans down to grab it and topples over, coming up on the floor with a quiet oof.

“Fuck, Fox,” Wolffe says, forgetting about the caf and getting on his knees beside Fox. The door glides shut behind them. Fox groans.

“Are you going to puke?” Wolffe asks. “D’you need a bucket?”

“I—I feel dizzy.”

“Maker, how much moonshine did you have,” Wolffe mutters, taking Fox’s helmet and pushing it into his brother’s hands. “Put that back on. I’m bringing you back to your barracks.”

“I jus’ thought it’d make me feel less bad.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s not a good coping mechanism. You should know better.”

Fox swallows. He’s not looking at Wolffe but he hasn’t stopped crying. Tears glide down his cheeks.

Wolffe sighs. “Why are you crying, Fox?” he asks, almost helplessly.

Fox eyes glide over him, and then he shrugs, swallowing again. “I jus’ miss you. I know y’don’t love me anymore, but I still miss you,” he says.

Wolffe pauses and blinks. “What?” he asks.

Fox looks at him. “It’s okay,” he says, as if to comfort him. “I wouldn’t love me either. Jus’ hurts. Even though it’s my fault. And it’s also kinda—it’s not. But I didn’t wan’ you t’worry. Or do somethin’ stupid. But I miss you.”

He hiccups, and suddenly something in his eyes turns desperate. “I jus’ want out of ‘ere. Wolffe, I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s never enough. I’m not enough. Can you get us out? You’re—you do rescue missions. This one’s a lot bigger. But still the same thing, right?”

“Fox, what the fuck are you talking about,” Wolffe says.

“It’s not safe here. We’re not safe.”

“Coruscant is the safest place for you to be. It’s—“

“No,” Fox sobs, and Wolffe stops in his tracks, because he’s never heard Fox sob like that before. Something in his chest twists. “It’s not, Wolffe. We’re dying. I’m dying. And, and, the fucking Senators… And I can’t protect my family, even though I try. I’m just so tired, Wolffe. Please get us out.”

“You’re dying?” Wolffe asks. Fox doesn’t seem to hear him. He shakes his head, shrinking away.

“I’m sorry, Wolffe,” he whispers. “I’m asking for too much. I know I am. I just wish we had someone like—General Koon. I wish I could fucking do something. But I can’t. Wolffe, do you understand? I can’t do anything. I just can’t do anything.”

Fox is sobbing in earnest, now, babbling incoherently. Wolffe tries to process any of his words and fails miserably, hands hovering above his knees and fighting the urge to reach out. He hangs onto the part of Fox’s drunken ramblings that’s the most unbelievable.

“You think I don’t love you?”

Fox blinks at him through his tears, breathing heavily, and stops talking. He looks utterly confused.

“I know you don’t,” he mumbles.

And Wolffe wants to cry now, too. He stares at Fox face as he feels his body crumble into itself, feels his shoulders slump and his head sink. “Fox,” Wolffe whispers. “Of course I love you. You’re my batchmate.”

“But you’re always angry with me.”

Wolffe opens his mouth and closes it again, and Fox looks at him, with glassy eyes and wet cheeks, and Wolffe finds that there’s nothing he can say. His gut twists.

“Wolffe?” Fox asks.

“Fuck,” Wolffe says, and opens his arms. Fox blinks, frowning.

“Just—C’mere, Fox. Let me hold you, please,” Wolffe says because he doesn’t know what else to do, ignoring the way his cheek feels wet. Fox definitely notices. His face twists again.

When he finally falls forward he crumbles into Wolffe’s arms with a choked sob. Wolffe slings himself around him, holding tightly, and Fox buries his face in the nape of Wolffe’s neck as Wolffe rests his head on Fox’s shoulder, inhaling sharply.

“I’ve got’cha,” Wolffe mutters, stroking his fingers through Fox’s curls. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Slowly, the tension seeps out of Fox, until he’s lying in Wolffe’s arms, slumped over, apparently drained of all strength. His breathing slows.

Wolffe makes a decision.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he says, and, fuck, yeah, he’s crying. His voice wavers. Fox continues crying softly, and though Wolffe isn’t sure if he can hear him, he keeps talking. “You’re going to stay with me, and in the morning we’ll talk, and I’ll do everything I can to help you. That sound okay?”

Fox nods. Wolffe feels it more than he sees it.

Only five minutes later Foz falls asleep like that, still hugging Wolffe. Wolffe hadn’t thought he’d be this exhausted, but then again, apparently there’s a lot of things he didn’t know.

Mentally combining the "bees are unionized and will leave if they don't like their working conditions" post with the various "humans stow away on alien spaceships and do the jobs that are too dangerous for more fragile species" posts

Reblog if you think that men can wear dresses, trying to prove a point to my dad