13 Works by faeloria
Listing Works
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win the war (with ego) by faeloria
Fandoms: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types
24 Sep 2026
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Summary
Fox has a bit of a mean streak.
Always has, if Cody’s being honest.
He used to scare the shit out of the other CC’s, always defensive, like a feral dog with a hard won bone, more rabid fight than rational thought. Cody thinks it’s mostly for show, more bark than bite, but whatever the goal, it keeps vode away from him.
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color of your mind by faeloria
Fandoms: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
31 Aug 2026
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“Vod’ika,” Rex says quietly, and this time Dogma thinks he does twitch, surprise singing through him at the endearment. Brothers don't call him that. Ever. They call him killjoy and mir’sheb and meat droid, but never that. Never anything so soft, so nice. He doesn’t understand. “Is something wrong?”
He looks up, and the gentle concern on his brother’s face has something cracking open in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what to even say, because he is what’s wrong. In trying to prove that he could adapt, that he could shape himself into something smaller, more tolerable, all he’d proved was that there was no version of him that fit. That no matter what he did, he would still be Dogma, and that was the sin. The stain he couldn’t scrub out.
This is him. Existing in the only way he knows how, fulfilling his role in the quietest and subtlest of ways.
A good soldier following orders.
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“You are not invincible.”
He knows that.
His entire life he’s known it.
All the training, all the knowledge and pain, that’s what it’s been for. A gross overcompensation for the fact that he hurts and bleeds like everyone else.
And so he says, softly, “I know.”
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The warehouse stinks of rot and rain, a metallic, earthy scent that settles heavy in his lungs.
For a moment he pauses there, letting his eyes adjust to the dim darkness and straining for any sound. If Fisk’s intel could be trusted, the target was here and had been for days, laying low.
A heavy hitter, Vanessa had said, lip curling in displeasure. Pledging loyalty to an unknown party. The directive was simple: Get rid of them before they became a problem. She’d recommended exercising caution and urgency, and from the stiff way she’d held herself, he would guess it to be a personal matter.
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The worst part about it is that it could have been avoided.
John normally doesn’t think like that, can’t, because if he lingers on the what ifs then all of it comes crumbling down and there simply isn’t a point.
But now he can’t help but wish Bucky had been paying more attention. That Ava had been able to phase sooner, that Alexei had stuck with the group or that maybe Yelena would have tagged along instead of staying with Bob at the Tower.
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made in your reflection by faeloria
Fandoms: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types
19 Apr 2025
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It’s easier to just pretend it isn’t happening.
Childish in its simplicity, maybe, but it’s the only thing that gets him through.
For a genetically modified being created for warfare, created to step over twisted bodies and take hits and keep on taking them, he doesn’t feel particularly brave. He feels cold, and alone, and so, so weak.
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Panic, while not uncommon, does not come easily to him.
He’s a demolitions expert, his entire job is centered around making things fall apart, but somehow, when the missions fucked and the intel is bad, things falling apart seems a lot more devastating.
There’s no recognition in Ghost's eyes.
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Sam speaks softly, carefully. The same way one might diffuse a bomb.
“Are you okay?”
He doesn’t know how to untangle his tongue, how to get his thoughts to quiet and settle, and so he just nods. He’s fine, the cuts on his chest are deep but manageable, and the bruising will fade with time. He’s okay, he doesn’t know why he’s acting like this.
Always so dramatic, Winchester.
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canyon calling by faeloria
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty Modern Warfare
19 Apr 2024
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The target is dead when they arrive.
That’s the first thing he notices when he steps foot in the compound, like a gravitational pull. Impossible to avoid, impossible to ignore.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“We’ve been made.” Someone says, but he isn’t really listening. “Laswell, you got your ears on? The missions fucked.”
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He doesn’t get a call.
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, he didn’t get one last time, either.
Jason had just suddenly been there, a thorn in his side, offering him his hand with a smile and a gleam in his eyes. He’d been so vibrant, so full of determination and life.
“Nice to meet you, bro,” He’d said, and somewhere in the back of his mind Dick had been surprised at the sincerity in his tone. At the fact that the kid actually meant it. “I’m the new Robin.”
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There’s always been a bit of a disconnect.
A lot of things don’t click for him, never have, and he’d given up trying to force a square peg in a round hole a long time ago.
He learns from a young age that Love is raised fists and high voices, and that Dad is bared teeth and a cracked bottle.
It’s easy, when he thinks of it that way, an immediate connection that comes straight to his mind. It’s easy in the same way that Mom means bitter vomit and trembling hands, whispered pleas and small white pills.
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It doesn’t really happen a lot in their line of work.
That’s what he keeps telling himself, when her hands are on his chest, gliding over smooth skin and gnarled scars, when his head is yanked back so hard he swears they’ve ripped the hair from the roots, barely able to breathe, neck strained so far back.
They’d figured out fairly quickly that the standard doesn’t work on him. He hadn’t broken at the knife, at the way they’d carved his skin and dug deep, weeping wounds into hot flesh. Hadn’t broken at the hammer, the torch, anything.
It’s logical, then, that this be their next approach.
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“Yield.”
He bares his teeth, presses back against the firm body above him and bucks, furious and not particularly sure as to why.
The arm around his throat tightens as Ghost presses further against him, nearly crushing him with his weight. He’s trying to wear him down, trying to get him to collapse, but Soap has held heavier, has pushed through worse.
The spar isn’t over until he says it is.