AHHH I saw this anon right when it was sent and I was like ooh I’ll have to give them a good response and then. Forgot.
I really love the Rogue One movie as it is, there’s a great depth and tragedy with that whole tale unfolding in the span of two-ish hours. But there’s always the craving for more, and honestly I wouldn’t mind prequels? We basically have a firm grasp on Jyn’s backstory, as we get what’s important in the movie and Catalyst and Rebel Rising fill in the details and the rest is up to fanfiction, but just… Cassian. Bodhi. You could do a whole film on each of them.
Bodhi…. Bodhi’s life is the life of any member of the diaspora. The film opens to a not idyllic but comparatively peaceful (loud and bright and colourful, but peaceful) world, heavy with faith and layers and layers of ancient history. So many languages, cultures, small conflicts and great architecture, so much history. You stand at the heart of Jedha and at once feel like a tiny pinprick in the ocean of the Force, a small insignificant point in the grand sprawl of galactic history. But you also feel at home, loved. These people are kind, the children playing football in the alleys call you older brother when they ask you to pass the ball back to them. Sure, there are pickpockets and tricksters looking to swipe credits from starry-eyed offworld tourists, but this is life. Jedha is Life itself.
Bodhi is born into a loving family. Three faces peer into his cradle: his mother, father, older sister. And then the barrage of aunts and uncles and grandparents coming to gift treats and trinkets and blessings. His life is gold and brown and red and orange and yellow; warm even in the cold, well fed even while experiencing no great Coruscanti luxury. His father sinks in and out of the picture. War is brewing, the Force has a metallic taste to it, but it’s like the clouds on a sunny day. Offering shade, almost. Something that can be ignored.
Tag: cassianandorjyn
@basada-en-la-esperanza requested: The smell of freshly baked bread + sniperpilot
Maroon curtains dance lazily, their intermittent swaying allowing Jedha’s star to set the golden stitches of his mother’s kameez aflame. Her bangles catch the same sparkle as she pulls the tray from the oven.
These new fangled nanowave ovens are more finnicky than the stone ones we used when I was your age, she laments. His sister rolls her eyes; being the elder child she’s heard every complaint to cross their mother’s lips a thousand times at least, or so she claims.
Bodhi, however, ignores their troubles and is preoccupied with the aroma wafting from the tray. The sweet warmth fills the air, his nose, his every thought. Already he can taste the syrupy sunburst dates, the soft flavoured dough melting in his mouth.
So far ahead of yourself, beta, his mother chides, shooing him away from the piping hot tray and imminent burns. What did I tell you? Patience. All good things come to those who wait.
Bodhi nods, soundlessly stepping away. She prods the loaf with a fork. He doesn’t bother to catalogue every minute detail, as he will later in life; because now he thinks there will be many more loaves to slice and cashews to roast and cold almond milk to wash it all down with.
He’s forgotten the scent of the oils in his sister’s braids and the pattern of his mother’s dishcloth. He can’t remember what their kitchen even looked like; nor can he recall his mother’s voice. He only recalls her hacking coughs and delirious rambles; the hoot of watchful birds and the crackle of stormtroopers’ commands.
Bodhi does remember the recipe, and as he pulls the tray out of the oven he thanks the almighty for granting him that sole mercy. God-willing it will taste just right, or close enough.
Close enough is just as valuable as perfection, these days.
The scent wafts up to his nose, and the mere hint of cardamom manages to clear away years and years of stale cockpits and musty quarters.
“That smells fantastic,” Cassian says, leaning over Bodhi’s shoulder.
Bodhi sets the loaf down to cool and turns to regard his companion with a slight smirk. “You’ll have to wait for it to cool,” he says, brushing flour off the bridge of Cassian’s nose. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Cassian cracks a smile at that, one of his not-as-rare-anymore ones that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.
Then his expression shifts, the dark brown of his eyes growing mischevious, and Bodhi has half a second before Cassian’s arms are around his waist and face burrowed against his neck. He thinks about playfully swatting him away, but the loaf has to cool and they have time, so much time, so he sighs, shifting his weight to rest against Cassian.
Cassian’s stubble brushes against Bodhi’s pulse.
“I know a thing or two about waiting for good things.”
“Oh?”
Bodhi grins, the heat spreading to his face; and he’s soon reminded Cassian’s lips are capable of a sweetness outshining measly sunbursts.
a nugget of a treat for @sniperpilot-prompts: 3: My cute neighbor goes all out with the Halloween decorations. It’s going to look great if he doesn’t kill himself first.
Bodhi is on his roof.
Cassian is not surprised.
Bodhi is not wearing a harness.
Cassian pinches his nose. Safety hazard! his mind screams. Not that people around here don’t regularly sit on the rooftops, especially while drunk.
Still. Nobody’s holding the ladder resting precariously on the edge of Bodhi’s front steps, either. It’s all a disaster waiting to happen right outside his window.
Naturally, Cassian’s response is to shut his laptop, shrug on a jacket over his worn green hoodie, slip on his boots, and head outside.
The chill nips at him immediately. October’s end is showing it’s ugly fangs, and Cassian shoves his hands into the depths of his pockets. The jacket is sort of overkill for the season, but Cassian has always preferred being too warm over being slightly cold. The socks Jyn attempted to knit him are a proof of that – for all their wretched appearance he wears them regularly every day after the first 0-degree night.
“Do you need any help?”
@dasakuryo requested Cassian + trying to walk on ice.
Frigid air seeps through his parka. After this many hours his carefully selected layers are as useful as scrap flimsi. He bites back a shiver, muscles tensing. He’s tempted to flex his fingers, coax blood back into them, but he’s afraid even the slightest movement will cost him everything.
Then, suddenly; his goal, his target, is within reach.
Gaze steady, breath measured, his world shrinks to a pinprick of focus.
He pulls the trigger.
The body falls with a thud into fresh snow, sending a puff of flakes up into the night air. Cassian slides off the roof, scampering down the stairs; and is already dashing down the icy walkways by the time he hears the first sirens.
@basada-en-la-esperanza requested: The smell of freshly baked bread + sniperpilot
Maroon curtains dance lazily, their intermittent swaying allowing Jedha’s star to set the golden stitches of his mother’s kameez aflame. Her bangles catch the same sparkle as she pulls the tray from the oven.
These new fangled nanowave ovens are more finnicky than the stone ones we used when I was your age, she laments. His sister rolls her eyes; being the elder child she’s heard every complaint to cross their mother’s lips a thousand times at least, or so she claims.
Bodhi, however, ignores their troubles and is preoccupied with the aroma wafting from the tray. The sweet warmth fills the air, his nose, his every thought. Already he can taste the syrupy sunburst dates, the soft flavoured dough melting in his mouth.
So far ahead of yourself, beta, his mother chides, shooing him away from the piping hot tray and imminent burns. What did I tell you? Patience. All good things come to those who wait.
Bodhi nods, soundlessly stepping away. She prods the loaf with a fork. He doesn’t bother to catalogue every minute detail, as he will later in life; because now he thinks there will be many more loaves to slice and cashews to roast and cold almond milk to wash it all down with.
He’s forgotten the scent of the oils in his sister’s braids and the pattern of his mother’s dishcloth. He can’t remember what their kitchen even looked like; nor can he recall his mother’s voice. He only recalls her hacking coughs and delirious rambles; the hoot of watchful birds and the crackle of stormtroopers’ commands.
Bodhi does remember the recipe, and as he pulls the tray out of the oven he thanks the almighty for granting him that sole mercy. God-willing it will taste just right, or close enough.
Close enough is just as valuable as perfection, these days.
The scent wafts up to his nose, and the mere hint of cardamom manages to clear away years and years of stale cockpits and musty quarters.
“That smells fantastic,” Cassian says, leaning over Bodhi’s shoulder.
Bodhi sets the loaf down to cool and turns to regard his companion with a slight smirk. “You’ll have to wait for it to cool,” he says, brushing flour off the bridge of Cassian’s nose. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Cassian cracks a smile at that, one of his not-as-rare-anymore ones that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.
Then his expression shifts, the dark brown of his eyes growing mischevious, and Bodhi has half a second before Cassian’s arms are around his waist and face burrowed against his neck. He thinks about playfully swatting him away, but the loaf has to cool and they have time, so much time, so he sighs, shifting his weight to rest against Cassian.
Cassian’s stubble brushes against Bodhi’s pulse.
“I know a thing or two about waiting for good things.”
“Oh?”
Bodhi grins, the heat spreading to his face; and he’s soon reminded Cassian’s lips are capable of a sweetness outshining measly sunbursts.
@basada-en-la-esperanza requested:
The smell of blood + sniperpilot
Blood, death, like a ritual pig sent for slaughter. Fire, flesh, one consuming the other. Bodhi’s hands trembling, but no sister to hold them tight. Only the blaster and his knuckles turning white.
Then:
Cassian, at his side, smelling of scorched fibre and familiarity. A hush in his ears, the warmth over his hand, pulling away the blaster and pulling him away from the causalities. Like Jedha, so like Jedha, with blood and bodies and screams. So like Jedha, the horrifying hours forever memorialized in his dreams. So like Jedha, with Cassian there to push him further away, to the ship, to safety, to home.
Home isn’t Jedha, not anymore. Home is:
Cassian holding and soothing him until the trembles stop, until his ragged breathing grows steady. Until Bodhi can hunt the ghosts in Cassian’s own eyes, and remind him that he chose this life, not (just) for Cassian, not (just) because of him, but because he was ready.
Rebellions are built on hope 