Clone Trooper Howzer - Blog Posts

Рекс: Я не договорил. Он не кусается, сразу руки отрывает.

goodmorning to the finest men in star wars🗣️‼️‼️

I haven’t drawn a human in like a decade but for Howzer, I’ll draw Howzer

I can’t stop thinking of this man

“A Safe Place to Fall”

Captain Howzer x Reader

You didn’t remember the escape.

You remembered the cell—the sting of cold stun cuffs, the fluorescent hum of sterile walls, the shadow of an Imperial officer’s boots crossing your field of vision.

You remembered pain.

And silence.

And waiting for the end.

But now, you woke to the sound of wind.

Real wind—not the artificial filtered kind used to simulate nature in Imperial holding zones. This was dry and real, carrying the scent of rock, dust, and maybe desert flowers if you were still sane enough to tell.

You lay on a cot, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket. Dim golden light crept across the floorboards of what looked like an old storage room—repurposed into a makeshift sleeping space. There were crates stacked in the corner, and a small table with two chipped mugs.

You sat up slowly. Your body ached like it had been stitched together too quickly. And then—movement.

A man was sitting in a chair across from you, unmoving. Broad-shouldered, armored only in the bare essentials of his gear. He stood when he saw you stir.

You flinched. It was instinct. You hadn’t seen his face yet—just the outline, and the authority in his posture.

“Hey,” he said quickly, palms lifting, voice calm and low. “You’re safe. You’re out. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

You blinked up at him as his face came into focus. Not a stormtrooper. Not an officer. A clone.

But not just any clone. There was something different in his eyes—something soft. He wasn’t holding a weapon. Wasn’t armored head to toe. He looked almost… tired. Grounded.

“Name’s Howzer,” he added, watching you carefully. “I was with the squad that got you out. Captain Rex sent me.”

You opened your mouth, but your throat wouldn’t work. You clutched the edge of the blanket tighter around your shoulders, fingers trembling.

“You were in that cell a long time,” he said gently. “You don’t have to talk yet. Just breathe. That’s enough.”

Your eyes burned, but you nodded. That felt like something you could do.

Howzer stepped back a pace, giving you space. He moved with a kind of deliberate calm—like he knew exactly how close not to get. Like he understood trauma too well to make it worse.

“I put some tea on the burner,” he said after a beat. “It’s not great. Local stuff. But it helps.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could. Your whole body still felt like it was waiting for the next scream, the next interrogation, the next blow.

You watched him move to the small table and pour something steaming into one of the mugs. Then, without pressure, he set it down on the crate beside you and stepped away again.

“I’ll sit right over here,” he said, nodding to the chair. “You don’t owe me anything. I just… thought maybe you shouldn’t wake up alone.”

That sentence.

That sentence hit something in you.

You stared at the mug. It was shaking. No—it was your hand. You gripped the blanket harder to stop it.

“I thought I was going to die in there,” you rasped. “I didn’t think anyone would come.”

He didn’t say you’re safe now. He didn’t say it’s over. Instead, his voice dropped low and sincere.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve seen what they do. To people who speak out. Who know too much.”

Your eyes lifted to his again.

“Why are you helping?”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Because someone should.”

You stared at him, then looked down again. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t oppressive. It breathed.

“I didn’t think any of you clones cared,” you admitted softly.

Howzer let out a slow exhale. “A lot don’t. Not anymore. Chips saw to that.”

You didn’t know what that meant yet, but you filed it away. It sounded like something buried deep.

He rubbed the back of his neck, then added, “But there are still some of us who remember what we fought for. What it was supposed to mean.”

You looked up. “And me?”

“You spoke up against the Empire. You tried to protect civilians. You mattered.” He paused, voice softening. “You still do.”

A strange sound escaped your throat—half sob, half laugh. You covered your face with your hands, shoulders curling inward. It was too much. Too kind. Too intimate after so long spent dehumanized.

“I don’t know how to be around people again,” you confessed. “I feel… broken.”

“Then be broken,” he said gently. “You’re allowed to be.”

You lowered your hands, blinking at him. His expression hadn’t changed. Steady. Open.

He moved again—slow, cautious—kneeling beside your cot so he didn’t loom.

“I can leave if you want,” he said. “Or I can stay. I won’t touch you unless you ask. But you don’t have to go through this next part alone.”

Your throat clenched. You didn’t know this man. And yet, his presence was the first thing since your arrest that felt real. Safe.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you whispered.

He nodded. “Then I’ll stay.”

You shifted the blanket, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached out. Your hand found his gauntleted wrist—just the edge of it, where skin met armor.

He didn’t move. Just stilled, like he didn’t want to scare you. Like the contact meant something to him, too.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

He gave a small nod. “You don’t have to thank me. You made it out. That’s enough.”

You held onto his wrist for a long time.

And when your breathing slowed, and the tears dried, he stayed right there, kneeling beside your cot, steady as a lifeline. No words. Just quiet company in a broken world.

And in that small, silent room, lit by the desert sun and filled with nothing but the sound of two survivors breathing, you finally began to believe that healing might be possible. That not all soldiers followed orders blindly. That kindness hadn’t been stamped out entirely.

Captain Howzer didn’t promise to fix you.

He simply offered to stay.

And in that moment, it was more than enough.

⸻

You couldn’t sleep.

Even in safety, your body hadn’t learned how to rest. The cot creaked when you shifted, the blanket tangled around your ankles, and the stale air felt heavier the longer you lay awake.

But what really kept you up were the memories—the sterile cell walls, the screaming, the waiting. The echo of boots outside a door that never opened. You hadn’t realized how deeply loneliness could burrow inside your ribs until you were finally out.

You sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, feet touching the cool floor.

A creak sounded outside the room.

You froze.

Then—Howzer’s voice, quiet, near the door. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” you answered softly.

He hesitated. Then, his silhouette appeared in the doorway, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the hallway lantern.

He was wearing only the bottom half of his armor—no chestplate, no pauldrons. Just a plain dark shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His expression was open, calm. He looked more like a man than a soldier tonight.

“Can’t sleep either?” you asked, voice hushed.

He shook his head once. “Too quiet, sometimes. Feels wrong.”

You understood that too well. The silence that had once meant peace now scraped against your thoughts like broken glass.

“I made some tea,” he offered after a pause. “Didn’t want to drink alone.”

You stood slowly and followed him into the main room. The safehouse was small—two bedrooms, one main area, and a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t seen Republic service in years. It was old, but clean. Familiar now.

You sat across from him at the small table. The light was dim, warm. Between you sat two steaming mugs.

“This is becoming tradition,” you said, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.

Howzer gave a low hum of amusement. “It’s the only thing I know how to make that doesn’t involve rations.”

You took a sip. “Still better than what the Empire served.”

His smile faded, and for a moment, he watched you too carefully—like he was searching for bruises no one could see.

“You’re sleeping more,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Not dreaming less,” you admitted.

“How long were you in there?”

You hesitated. “Three months. Maybe more. They stopped marking the days. I think they thought I’d break.”

A silence settled between you. But not a heavy one.

“They don’t like people who speak too loudly,” he said eventually.

“I didn’t scream when they came for me,” you murmured, almost surprised to hear the words aloud. “I thought… maybe that would mean something. That I stayed quiet. Dignified.”

Howzer’s voice was soft. “You don’t owe them your silence. Or your strength.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His eyes weren’t cold, like the ones behind stormtrooper helmets. They were warm and tired and human. He looked like a man who had seen too much and decided to carry it anyway.

“You’re not like the others,” you said.

He shook his head once. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, you thought he might not answer.

“I saw what they did to Ryloth,” he said finally. “The Empire. The orders. I followed them for too long. But one day… I just couldn’t anymore.”

He didn’t sound proud. He didn’t sound angry either.

He just sounded real.

“Do you regret it?” you asked.

“Every day. And I’d do it again.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s brave.”

“No,” he said quietly. “That’s necessary. Brave would’ve been doing it sooner.”

The silence between you changed. It warmed. Stretched. Your eyes lingered on his hands—strong, scarred, fingers curled around the mug like he was anchoring himself to something.

“You’re the first person who’s made me feel safe since…” You trailed off, unsure if you could finish.

He didn’t press. Just said, “You don’t have to explain.”

“But I want to.”

That surprised both of you.

You lowered your eyes to the table, your thumb tracing the rim of the mug. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel normal again. Or… human. But with you, I don’t feel broken. Just… healing.”

Howzer’s voice dropped to a hush. “You are human. You never stopped being.”

You looked up.

And the way he looked back at you—gentle, unwavering—made your chest ache.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said. “I don’t know how to be close to someone again.”

Howzer reached out—slowly, carefully—and laid his hand on the table, palm up. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move any closer.

But he offered.

And after a long moment, your hand found his.

You curled your fingers around his palm. The warmth of his skin grounded you, anchored you in the present.

“You don’t have to know how,” he said. “We can just sit here. That’s enough.”

The silence that followed was the good kind—the kind that let you breathe.

You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until his forehead touched yours.

The contact was feather-light. Chaste. His breath ghosted across your cheek. His eyes stayed closed, and his free hand hovered near your elbow, waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers tightening around his.

“You’re gentle,” you whispered.

He smiled, barely a breath. “I have to be. You’ve had enough pain.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t know if I can feel everything yet,” you admitted.

“That’s okay,” he said. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

And gods—how many people had said that and meant it?

You leaned into him, letting your weight rest partially against his chest. He adjusted, gently guiding you closer, until your cheek pressed against the space just below his collarbone. His arms wrapped around you slowly, hesitantly, then held you like you were something precious.

He didn’t try to deepen the moment. Didn’t press for more. He just held you. One hand in your hair, the other resting low on your back. His heartbeat against your cheek. Steady. Warm. Alive.

“I don’t want this to be temporary,” you whispered.

“Then it won’t be.”

You stayed like that until the lantern burned low, and your body stopped flinching at shadows.

And when you finally fell asleep—held safely in Howzer’s arms, your fingers still twined with his—you didn’t dream of the cell.

You dreamt of the desert wind.

And hands that never hurt.