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Every time you answer one of my requests i giggle and kick my feet while having a little happy meltdown as i read it. Your fics genuinely brighten my day and they make me so happy <3
Anyways-
What about a crosshair x reader where the reader is really happy go lucky and doesn't care about his snarky comments at all (sometimes shooting back a few). BUT- cross lowkey has a crush on them and his comments are his way of flirting. The reader picks up on this and starts "flirting" back with insults and the rest of tbb thinks they're crazy.
Also maybe the reader is also a really good sniper which is why they even caught crosshair's attention in the first place
Ok bye darling i hope you have a good day／night <3
Thank you xx I truly appreciate all the love and comments I get on all my fics ❤️
Crosshair x Reader
Blaster‑clean silence ruled the gun‑rack alcove until you flipped the long‑range sight guard open with a soft click.
Crosshair’s pale eyes slid your way. “That latch is louder than your entire trigger discipline.”
You grinned. “Funny—coming from the guy who coughs every time he exhales. You swallowing sand again, long‑neck?”
Echo, working on the nav console across the corridor, winced as though a thermal detonator had rolled under his boots. Wrecker mouthed They’re both crazy, and went back to bench‑pressing a cargo crate.
Crosshair’s lips tugged into what passed for a smile. “Keep rattling, sunshine. Won’t change the grouping on your last target sheet.”
You tilted the datapad so he could see the tight cluster of holes—dead‑center, half‑credit size. “Looks like it changed yours, though. Jealousy kicks the barrel left, apparently.”
For half a heartbeat his eyebrows lifted—barely—but you caught it. That microscopic flash of you‑impressed‑me that he could never quite smother.
He lounged against the bulkhead, toothpick rolling between his lips. “Blind luck.”

“Luck’s just skill nobody believes in yet,” you shot back, sliding the toothpick from his mouth with two fingers before he could react. You tucked it behind your ear, matching his lazy stance. “Besides, you’ve been staring since Ord Mantell. If my shooting’s so bad, why watch?”
Hunter’s tread slowed as he passed, sensing the static but wisely continuing on. Tech muttered from the upper gantry, “Statistical probability of combustive banter reaching critical mass: ninety‑two percent.”
Crosshair’s voice dropped, all gravel and embarrassment he’d rather chew than admit. “Maybe I appreciate a challenge.”
You leaned in, noses a breath apart. “Maybe you appreciate the view.”
Wrecker’s crate hit the deck with a clang. “I knew it! They like‑like each other!” Echo groaned, “Please don’t say ‘like‑like.’”
Crosshair didn’t move, but the tip of his ear darkened. “Put my toothpick back.”
You placed it between his lips, brushing gloved fingertips over the scratch on his chin. “Earn it aft‑side, sharpshooter.”
He caught your wrist—not rough, just sure. “Next op, fifty‑meter wind, angled shot, moving speeder. One bullet. Loser buys rations for a month.”
“Make it two shots,” you purred, pulling free. “One for the target—one to carve my initials in your ego.”
Behind you, the squad’s collective groan thudded louder than artillery. But as you strode toward the weapons locker, you felt his gaze marking every step—steady, precise, unmistakably interested.
And for once, Crosshair let the toothpick rest perfectly still, the curve of his mouth admitting what his words never would: he’d just been out‑sniped at his own game—and he liked it.
Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️
Kix x Reader
Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.
A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”
Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”
From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”
You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”
Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.
You pointed down the line:
“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.
“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”
“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”
Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.
Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”
“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”
A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”
Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”
Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”
“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.
Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”
⸻
Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”
“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”
His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”
Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”
Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”
You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”
Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”
Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”
⸻
Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.
Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”
“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.
Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.
Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”
You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.
Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”
Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”
And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.
Hi! I love your works! I was wondering if you could write a fic about the 501st who is in love with their female Jedi general?
501st x Reader
Felucia was vibrant and lethal in equal measure—towering mushrooms filtering alien sunlight, thick air buzzing with unfamiliar insects, and a dense undergrowth that clung to your boots like molasses. You pushed aside a broad-leafed plant and stepped into a small clearing where the 501st had already begun establishing a temporary perimeter.
“General on deck,” Jesse called, half out of breath, tossing a lazy salute.
You waved him off with a faint grin. “At ease. Just scouting ahead.”
“Thought we told you we’d handle that,” Rex said as he approached, already brushing bits of foliage off your shoulder with practiced familiarity.
You smiled faintly at the gesture. “You did, and I ignored you. As usual.”
“Yeah, we’re used to that,” Fives muttered to Tup under his breath. “Still doesn’t stop us from trying to keep her alive.”
“She thinks it’s loyalty,” Jesse murmured with a chuckle. “Adorable, isn’t it?”
Hardcase, lugging a heavy case of thermal charges, barked a laugh. “More like tragic. This whole squad’s gone soft.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dogma grunted. “I’m focused.”
“Focused on what? Her ass?” Kix quipped without looking up from his medical kit.
You, of course, had no idea what they were whispering about. The clones had always been close with you—professional, dedicated, respectful. If you noticed the way conversations halted whenever you walked into the room, or how they always seemed to compete for your attention in subtle, strangely personal ways, you chalked it up to a particularly tight-knit unit. One bonded through battle. Through trust.
After all, you shared the front lines. You slept in the dirt beside them. Bled with them. Saved them—and been saved by them more times than you could count.
“General,” Tup said quietly, stepping up beside you, his cheeks dusted pink despite the heat. “Hydration. You haven’t taken a break in hours.”
You took the canteen with a grateful nod. “Thanks, Tup. You’re always looking out for me.”
He looked like he’d been knighted.
⸻
That evening, near the field base You sat cross-legged in the command tent, analyzing the terrain projections while the familiar hum of clone chatter drifted in from the campfire outside. Anakin and Ahsoka lingered near the entrance, arms crossed, watching you work.
“She really doesn’t know,” Ahsoka said quietly, shaking her head.
Anakin followed your movements with an amused glance. “Nope. Not a clue. I don’t think she even realizes she could have the entire 501st building her a temple if she asked.”
“She did ask Fives to carry her backpack last week and he nearly cried.”
“I remember. Jesse said it was ‘the most spiritual moment of his life.’”
They both stifled their laughs as you looked up. “Something funny?”
“Nope,” they said in unison.
“Just, uh…” Anakin motioned vaguely toward your datapad. “Hope that’s got better answers than the last one.”
You raised a brow, but let it go. “We’ll hit the eastern ridge at dawn. I’ll lead the recon.”
“Of course you will,” Ahsoka said, grinning.
The fire crackled low in the center of the camp. Most of the men had finished maintenance checks and settled into their usual banter.
“I swear she said my name differently today,” Jesse said, eyes half-lidded like he was remembering a song. “Like, softer.”
“She says everyone’s name soft,” Kix argued. “It’s called being kind.”
“No, she looked at me,” Jesse insisted.
“She handed me her lightsaber to inspect,” Fives cut in. “Do you hand your saber to someone you don’t trust with your life?”
“She asked me if I was sleeping enough,” Dogma added with a hint of reverence.
“Pretty sure she just worries about your death wish, brother,” Hardcase quipped.
“You lot are pathetic,” Rex muttered, but there was no bite to it. He was staring into the fire, silent for a moment. “She trusts us. That’s enough.”
But even Rex didn’t believe that—not really. Not when you laughed that easy laugh after a mission went right. Not when your shoulder brushed his during strategy briefings and his thoughts short-circuited for a full five seconds. Not when you called him by name, soft and sure, like it meant something more.
⸻
You lay awake in your tent, the soft drone of Felucia’s wild night barely louder than the murmured clone banter outside. You smiled faintly, listening to the comfort of their voices, and whispered to yourself:
“Best unit in the galaxy.”
You really had no idea.
⸻
The jungle had closed in tighter the deeper you went. Trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their bioluminescent vines casting blue and green hues across the mist. Your boots squelched through thick moss as you signaled the squad to halt, raising two fingers to point toward a cluster of Separatist patrol droids sweeping the ridge ahead.
“Fives, Jesse, flank left. I want eyes from that outcrop,” you whispered. “Dogma, with me. Kix, hang back with the heavy—just in case this gets loud.”
They all moved in sync. Always so responsive. Always so ready.
What you didn’t notice was the flicker in Jesse’s eyes when you called Fives’ name first. Or the way Dogma’s jaw tensed when you brushed close to him as you moved up the ridge. Or how Kix lingered a beat too long, watching your retreating form before shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.
The skirmish was over in minutes—clean, quiet, surgical. A dozen droids scattered in pieces across the clearing.
You turned to Fives, heart still beating fast. “That was textbook work. Great movement on the flank.”
He beamed. “Just following your lead, General.”
But something about the way he said it made your stomach flutter. That grin was too… warm. Too personal.
You blinked, trying to shake it off. He’s just proud. That’s normal. Right?
⸻
You sat by a small portable lamp in the command tent, jotting down notes from the recon while the jungle buzzed around you. The flap rustled and Jesse ducked inside, holding a steaming cup.
“Thought you might want some caf,” he said, offering it with a smile—less playful than usual. Quieter.
“Thanks.” You took it, letting your fingers brush his without meaning to. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
You paused. The heat from the mug had nothing on the warmth spreading up your neck.
He stayed, quiet, hands tucked behind his back like a soldier at parade rest. But he didn’t leave, and you didn’t tell him to.
Not until Fives walked in.
“General,” Fives said, a little too loudly. “Just checking if you’ve eaten. You’ve got a nasty habit of forgetting.”
Jesse straightened slightly. “She’s fine. I brought her caf.”
Fives’ smile faltered. “Right. Well… I made stew. Her favorite.”
You glanced between them. “You two okay?”
“Peachy,” Jesse muttered, stepping out of the tent without another word.
Fives watched him go, lips thinning. Then he turned to you and said, “Don’t let him guilt-trip you. He gets weird about stuff.”
You looked at him sideways. “Stuff like me?”
Fives blinked, like he hadn’t expected the question to come so directly.
“I didn’t mean—nevermind. I’ll just eat later. Thanks for the stew.” You stood, grabbing your datapad and pushing past him, mind whirling.
Something was shifting. You weren’t sure what, but you weren’t imagining it anymore.
The fire was lower now, casting shadows over their faces as the clones gathered close. You sat among them, quiet, watching the way they moved. Noticing things you hadn’t before.
Jesse sat closer than usual, shoulders brushing yours. Fives kept shooting glances your way whenever you laughed at one of Kix’s jokes. Dogma didn’t say much—but his eyes barely left you the entire night. And when you stood up to grab your bedroll, Rex was already there, unfolding it with a softness that caught in your throat.
“Thanks, Rex,” you said.
He hesitated, eyes searching yours. “Of course, General.”
And that—that was what did it.
Something in his voice. The way he said your title like it hurt. Not because it was formal, but because it wasn’t enough.
You barely slept that night.
⸻
The next morning you stood at the front of the squad, explaining the route to a newly discovered Separatist supply outpost when you noticed them: Jesse, Fives, and Dogma—all standing just slightly apart. Not fighting. Not even speaking to each other. But the air between them was tense.
Kix noticed too. He leaned in as the others filed out. “You might want to watch that triangle you’ve unknowingly wandered into, Commander.”
You blinked. “Triangle?”
He gave you a long, knowing look. “More like a pentagon, if we’re being honest.”
You stared after him as he left, that fluttering in your chest blooming into something a little heavier. A little realer.
You thought you understood them. Thought they were just loyal. Just dedicated.
But maybe…
Maybe there was more to this than you let yourself see.
And now, you weren’t sure what to do about it.
⸻
Felucia hadn’t gotten any cooler overnight. The muggy heat clung to your skin like armor, but it wasn’t just the weather that had you feeling unsteady lately.
The clones had always been devoted—but now, their focus on you felt sharper. Their glances lingered longer. Their voices dropped when they spoke your name.
You weren’t imagining it anymore.
And that… scared you more than it should have.
⸻
You crouched over a portable console with Rex, fingers brushing as you both reached for the same wire.
He paused. Just a second too long.
You looked up. “You okay, Captain?”
“Fine,” Rex said. But he didn’t move. Not right away.
“I’m not fragile, you know,” you said gently, trying to smile.
“I know,” he said, voice low. “That’s… kind of the problem.”
Before you could ask what he meant, Hardcase stomped up, practically glowing with pride and holding two ration bars.
“Brought the last of the chocolate ones! And look who I’m giving it to,” he said with a wink, tossing you one.
“You’re too good to me, Hardcase,” you laughed, catching it.
“I try,” he said, puffing out his chest before flicking his gaze toward Rex. “Captain looked like he needed one too, but I figured you deserved it more.”
“Subtle,” Rex muttered.
Hardcase just grinned wider.
⸻
Later that night you paid a visit to the medical tent. Your wrist was bruised. Not bad—just a scuffle with a tangle of thornvine—but the medics insisted on a check-up.
“I told you not to block a shot with your arm,” Kix muttered, gently applying salve as you sat on the edge of a cot.
“I didn’t block it. I intercepted it creatively.”
He snorted, soft. “You know you scare the hell out of us sometimes?”
You looked up. “Us?”
“All of us,” he admitted, quieter now. “Rex won’t say it, but he barely sleeps when you’re on mission. Fives gets twitchy if he can’t see you in his line of sight. Jesse doesn’t even pretend to hide it anymore.”
You blinked at him.
“You too?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Kix held your gaze. “Would it really surprise you?”
You didn’t answer. Because it did. And it didn’t. And that was… confusing.
Before he could say more, Coric stepped into the tent.
“Everything good?” he asked, glancing between the two of you.
“Fine,” Kix said shortly. “She’s taken care of.”
Coric raised a brow but said nothing, just gave you a faint smile and left.
The silence afterward buzzed like static.
⸻
The morning started off normally enough.
Warm-up sparring. Partner rotations. But when you paired off with Rex, things shifted.
He was precise, careful, calculated. He always had been. But when your saber skimmed a little too close, and he reached out to stop your momentum—
His hand settled at your waist. Not for balance. Not for combat.
You froze.
So did he.
“…Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, withdrawing quickly.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because your heart was pounding.
And then came Hardcase, throwing himself between you two, laughing as he tossed you a training staff. “Mind if I cut in?”
Rex stepped back without a word.
You sparred with Hardcase next, but the smile you gave him didn’t quite reach your eyes. Not anymore.
Next chapter
Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader
R4 trilled while plugging data‑spikes into the sleek shuttle’s nav‑computer; TC polished the boarding ramp as though senators would rate its shine. Inside, [Y/N] sealed a crate of festival gifts—kyber‑laced lanterns, citrus‑spiced tihaar—when the hangar doors parted.
In strode Master Plo Coon and Kenobi, with his most innocent smile. Behind them Commander Cody and an impeccably straight‑backed Commander Wolffe.
Kenobi surveyed the scene, eyes twinkling. “My lady, I trust Coruscant treated you… memorably?”
Plo’s mask inclined. “Yes, I understand you’ve already formed a—shall we say—effective working rapport with our best security personnel.”
TC’s head swiveled. “If you refer to last night’s flawless briefing, Masters, I assure you my presentation notes were—”
“—copied from my schematics,” R4 beeped smugly.
Kenobi chuckled. “Quite. Though some reports suggest the princess herself gathered more… field intelligence than anticipated.”
Wolffe’s helmet visor dipped a millimeter; only Cody saw the pained grimace. He murmured, “Steady, vod, you’ve faced droid armies—Jedi teasing won’t kill you.”
[Y/N] kept a serene smile. “Coruscant was enlightening, Master Kenobi. Your commanders are… thorough.”
“Thorough,” Kenobi echoed, barely suppressing a grin. “An admirable quality.”
Plo produced a data‑chip. “Your Highness, these are revised escort protocols for the festival. The Council looks forward to cooperating.”
Cody added, “Wolfpack leads the clone detachment. We’ll rendezvous in orbit over Karthuna.” He patted Wolffe’s pauldron. “Commander is eager to ensure everything runs smoothly.”
Wolffe managed, “Honored to serve, Princess.” Translation: please let the floor swallow me.
R4 gave a warbling laugh. TC translated dryly, “R4 suggests the commander already has extensive knowledge of our customs—particularly nightlife.”
Kenobi coughed into his sleeve; even Plo’s mask seemed to smile.
[Y/N] ascended the ramp, pausing beside Wolffe. Low enough for only him: “Try not to judge anyone before second breakfast, Commander.”
He answered just as quietly, “Next time, title first, drinks second.”
Her wink was pure mischief. “Where’s the fun in that?”
With diplomatic farewells exchanged, the Jedi departed, Cody dragging a still‑smirking Kenobi. Wolffe lingered as engines warmed, visor reflecting the princess who had upended his meticulously ordered world.
R4’s hatch closed, TC waved primly, and the shuttle lifted skyward—toward open borders, a five‑day festival, and a reunion sure to test the Wolf’s composure more than any battlefield.
⸻
Commander Wolffe had survived orbital bombardments, trench sieges, and General Grievous’s cackling—but nothing tested endurance like the embassy’s protocol droid at full lecture speed.
TC strode the aisle between jump‑seats where Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker buckled in.
“…and the Festival of Dawning begins with a kuur‑vaan procession. That translates roughly as ‘dance of a thousand sparks,’ involving micro‑kyber filaments that ignite in sequence—quite breathtaking, provided you wear appropriate eye shielding. Now, the correct greeting is ‘Gal’shara’ with palms outward—never inward, or you imply the listener lacks honor. Also, avoid offering your left hand—historically used for bloodletting rituals dating back—”
Sinker slumped. “Commander, permission to eject myself through the air‑lock.”
Boost whispered, “Could be worse—could be a Senate speech.”
TC continued, undeterred. “—and if you’re offered sapphire tihaar, remember it’s an apology drink, not casual refreshment. Accepting without cause is tantamount to admitting fault. Speaking of fault, did you know the northern fault‑line—”
Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Droid, compile this in a datapad. My men will study quietly.”
“Oh, certainly, Commander. I have already prepared a 312‑page primer, complete with holo‑graphs.”
Sinker mouthed three‑hundred‑twelve?! Boost mimed choking.
⸻
[Y/N] sat cross‑legged in her cabin, R4 projecting a secure blue holo of King Talren—silver‑bearded, stern eyes softened only for his daughter.
“Little Dawn,” he greeted, using her childhood nickname, “I won’t waste time. Loyalist scouts uncovered three insurgent cells. Extremists insist reopening our borders is betrayal; some whisper of Separatist aid.”
A map flared beside him—red sigils in mountain passes.
“I need those cells silenced before the festival opens,” the king said. “You know the terrain. Take whatever force is required, but keep off‑worlders uninvolved. This must look like an internal matter.”
[Y/N] bowed her head. “It will be done, Father.”
The holo faded. R4 beeped a query.
“Prep infiltration loadouts,” she answered. “Low‑flash sabers, sonic mines, and two squads of Shadow Guard on standby. We strike first nightfall.”
R4 warbled approval, projecting tactical overlays. She added waypoints, carving silent routes Wolffe’s clones would never notice.
⸻
Later, passing Wolffe in the corridor, [Y/N] offered a casual nod. He paused, as if sensing undercurrents, but protocol kept him silent.
Behind him TC called, “Commander, I neglected to mention Karthunese dining order—if the Princess serves you last, it’s actually a sign of high esteem—”
Wolffe muttered a prayer for battlefield blasterfire to drown out etiquette lessons.
In her quarters, [Y/N] traced insurgent sigils on the holo with a gloved fingertip, resolve hardening. Opening Karthuna’s doors to the galaxy meant showing strength the old way—quiet, decisive, unseen.
And if the Wolf and his troopers never learned how the festival stayed peaceful, all the better.
⸻
The twin suns of Karthuna cast copper light over the obsidian‑paved sky‑dock as the Republic cruiser settled with a hiss of repulsors. King Talren stood flanked by honor guards whose sun‑metal armor threw brilliant flares into the air. Behind him waited the planetary senator, Senator Vessar, and the ever‑skeptical Governor of Interior Works, Governor Rhun.
The ramp dropped. Out strode Masters Plo Coon and Kenobi, Chancellor Palpatine in ceremonial crimson, a cluster of senators, and the clone detachment led by Commanders Cody and Wolffe flanked by Boost and Sinker.
Talren bowed with a warrior’s economy. “Karthuna welcomes the Republic. May the Force greet you as friend and guest.”
A respectful murmur answered. Yet even before introductions concluded, his daughter slipped to his side, murmured, “Urgent Shadow Guard matter, Father,” and—still in civilian vest and braid—beelined for a sand‑silver speeder.
Wolffe’s visor tracked her, but protocol held him. Engines howled; the speeder vanished down a cliff‑side lift‑tube toward the high passes.
Talren inhaled—the first lie ready on his tongue.
⸻
Kenobi stepped forward, large smile in place. “Your Majesty, we look forward to your famous Festival of Dawning.”
“As do we all,” Talren replied, steering the party toward the citadel’s balcony overlooking the festival valley—far from launch bays or military comms.
Chancellor Palpatine clasped gloved hands. “Your daughter leads the festivities, does she not? I had hoped to congratulate her.”
“She prepares a…surprise presentation,” Talren said smoothly. “Artists’ temperaments, Chancellor.”
Governor Rhun muttered just loud enough, “More like a warrior itching for mischief.”
Senator Vessar chimed in, tone dripping dry humor, “I assure our off‑world partners the princess habitually vanishes moments before debuting something spectacular—or spectacularly dangerous.”
Talren fixed them both with a steel‑edged smile that promised discussion later.
Plo Coon shifted his weight, Kel‑Dor mask unreadable. “Your Highness, Clone Commander Wolffe will require coordination with your security captain.”
“Of course.” Talren gestured toward the fortress doors. “Commander, my staff will relay schematics over luncheon. Meanwhile, allow me to show the Chancellor our kyber‑terraced gardens—quite safe, I assure you.”
Wolffe’s unspoken protest died behind the visor; duty bound, he followed Cody toward a briefing alcove where TC awaited with yet another data‑slab. Talren breathed easier: one crisis delayed, if not averted.
As the king guided the diplomats through colonnades, Governor Rhun leaned in: “You risk interstellar incident if the princess sparks bloodshed while the Republic picnics outside our walls.”
Talren’s voice stayed velvet, danger beneath. “Better insurgent blood in the mountains than senator blood in the streets.”
Senator Vessar added, half‑teasing, “If she returns with soot on her boots, I shall schedule extra press holos to reframe it as heroic cultural demonstration.”
Kenobi caught the whisper, grin curving. “Your court seems…spirited, Majesty.”
Talren allowed the tiniest exhale of amusement. “Karthuna has waited fifteen years to step back onto the galactic stage, General. We intend to give a performance worth the ticket.”
Above them, fireworks crews tested micro‑sparklers; bright hisses masked the distant roar of a speeder blazing toward insurgent territory.
In a quiet moment against the balcony rail, Talren gazed over valley tents blooming for festival week, mind split between choreography of diplomats and the razor‑work his daughter undertook beyond those peaks.
He whispered to the wind, “Return swift, Little Dawn.”
⸻
By mid‑afternoon the princess was still missing.
Commander Wolffe stood on the citadel parapet overlooking the valley’s bustling festival city, visor fixed on the distant scar of mountains her speeder had taken.
Local Sun‑Guard Captain Arven stepped up, spearhaft tapping stone.
“Enjoying the view, off‑worlder?”
“I’d enjoy it more if your crown heir were within com‑range,” Wolffe replied. “Transmit her last coordinates.”
“Princess has classified authority.”
Wolffe’s servo‑joint clicked as his gauntlet clenched. “My mandate is to protect every Republic dignitary on this rock—including her.”
Arven smirked. “Karthuna protected itself centuries before troopers in white armor needed it. Stand down, Commander.”
Cody’s voice crackled through Wolffe’s comlink: “Easy, vod. Diplomacy first.”
Wolffe never took his eye from the peaks. Diplomacy ends when the VIP bleeds, he thought—and weighed the odds of “borrowing” a gunship.
New LAATs screamed in, disgorging Jedi and clones.
Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano with the 501st, assigned to guard Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo and a cadre of Core‑World legislators.
Masters Mace Windu and Ki‑Adi‑Mundi arrived with Commanders Ponds and Bacara respectively, doubling ground strength.
Skywalker clapped Wolffe’s pauldron. “Heard your princess pulled a disappearing act—sounds like my kind of trouble.”
“Not helping, General,” Wolffe growled, though Ahsoka’s sympathetic grin eased his temper a notch.
Senators debarked in a flurry of aides, holo‑recorders, and fashion impractical for mountain air. Festival staff hustled to reroute them toward reception halls—distraction, Talren hoped, until his daughter returned.
Master Yoda, leaning on his gimer stick, sought King Talren atop a sun‑warmed terrace strewn with kyber wind‑chimes. The diminutive Jedi regarded the monarch’s sun‑metal cuirass and the twin‑bladed saber at his hip.
“Strong in the Force, your people are,” Yoda began. “Yet light and dark you name not. Curious, this is.”
Talren inclined his head. “Master, on Karthuna we are taught: there is no dawn without night. Deny darkness, and daylight loses meaning. Balance is not the absence of shadow, but its harmony with light.”
“Hmmm.” Yoda’s ears twitched thoughtfully. “Unnatural, you say, to void one side?”
“As unnatural as silencing half a heartbeat,” Talren answered. “We do not fear the shadow; we fear imbalance.”
Wind‑chimes chimed like distant sabers. Yoda closed his eyes, absorbing the resonance.
“Much to learn, even I have,” he murmured. “And much to guard, we both must.”
Talren’s gaze drifted to the mountains. “Agreed, Master Yoda. Balance must sometimes be defended by hidden blades.”
⸻
Sunset torched the valley when a sand‑silver speeder roared through the citadel gates. Clone guards scrambled aside as [Y/N] leapt off, still in dust‑streaked vest and combat shorts. She vaulted a barricade, sprinting for the grand foyer.
“Hey—civilian access is restricted!” bellowed Commander Fox, Crimson Guard staff lowered across her path.
She halted, breath steady despite the climb. “I live here, thanks.”
Before Fox could run ID, Chancellor Palpatine emerged from a delegation knot, eyes narrowing with fox‑like curiosity.
“My dear, racing through secure halls in such…practical attire—is something amiss?”
[Y/N] offered a flawless court bow that contrasted sharply with her grime‑spattered boots. “Merely last‑minute festival preparations, Chancellor. Please excuse me; I must dress for the gala.”
Palpatine’s smile sliced thin. “Ah, duty never rests. I look forward to your presentation this evening.”
Fox straightened as realization dawned. “Wait—you’re—”
She winked. “Classified, Commander.” Then slipped past, leaving red armor and red robes equally bemused.
In her chamber, TC fussed with brocade gowns while R4 powered a sonic shower.
“Your Highness, the schedule is punishing: welcome gala at nineteen‑hundred, holo‑address at twenty‑two, and saber exhibition by dawn.”
“Then we’d better look lethal and lovely,” [Y/N] said, toweling off. She chose a floor‑length gown of midnight silk that clung to sculpted muscle, high slits revealing thigh holsters for compact hilts. Sun‑metal pauldrons mirrored her crown, but the gown’s sleeveless cut displayed the lattice of scars down both arms—plasma burns, shrapnel lines, duelist nicks—each a story she refused to hide.
TC clipped the circlet into her damp hair. “Might I suggest gloves to soften the, ah, impression?”
She flexed scarred fingers. “No. Let the galaxy see what Karthuna’s balance looks like.”
R4 projected her entrance route. She studied it, then smiled. “Time to charm senators, silence rumors, and—perhaps—make a wolf squirm.”
⸻
A fanfare of crystal horns cut through conversation. Doors parted, revealing Princess [Y/N] radiant in midnight silk and sun‑metal crown, scars on her bare arms glinting like silver filigree. Senators gasped—half at the regality, half at the unapologetic battle‑marks.
Master Kenobi murmured to Skywalker, “Grace and menace in equal measure—definitely your type, Anakin.”
Skywalker smirked. “She’d have me for breakfast.”
Padmé Amidala complimented the gown’s craftsmanship; [Y/N] returned praise for Naboo’s relief programs, steering talk away from rumored insurgents.
Master Windu approached her, he attempted to discuss security perimeters; the princess assured him Karthuna’s Shadow Guard had “every shadow covered.”
Across the room, Governor Rhun whispered to holoreporters, stoking stories of her “reckless mountain excursion.” TC hovered, intercepting leading questions with cutting etiquette lessons.
Commander Wolffe, helmet clipped to belt, stood near a terrace arch with Cody and Plo Coon. When [Y/N] approached, conversation faltered like a blaster misfire.
She offered a delicate curtsy—mischief in her eyes. “Commander, I trust the briefing notes were…illuminating?”
“They were extensive,” Wolffe said evenly. “Yet somehow omitted your talent for disappearing.”
“Ah, but every good security test includes an unscheduled drill.” She stepped closer, voice just for him: “You passed—eventually.”
The faintest flush darkened Wolffe’s neck. “Next time give me a comm frequency, not a cliff to chase.”
[Y/N] arched a brow. “And deny you the exercise?” Her fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron as she glided past. “Meet me on the terrace at midnight—strictly business, of course.”
Wolffe exhaled—half growl, half laugh—as Cody elbowed him, grinning. “Careful, vod. That one dances with both halves of the Force.”
Strings struck up Karthuna’s dawn‑waltz. Jedi mingled with diplomats while clone troopers ringed the hall’s perimeter. Suspicion, politics, and bright music braided in the air—yet for a heartbeat, harmony held.
In the high galleries, R4 scanned faces, feeding the princess data on a Separatist envoy concealed among trade delegates—tonight’s real threat.
Midnight loomed, and outside the terrace doors, mountain winds whispered of balance, blades, and a wolf answering a princess’s call.
⸻
Princess [Y/N] leaned against the balustrade, moon‑silver kissing the scars on her shoulders. Commander Wolffe stood close, arms folded—attempt at stoic ruined by her playful tug on the strap of his pauldron.
“Still on duty, Commander?” she teased.
“Always.”
“So devoted,” she murmured, fingers ghosting along the seam where synth‑skin met armor. “Makes a woman wonder how else that focus might—”
A scarlet bolt sizzled through the ballroom windows. Shouts. Glass rained like crystal hail.
Inside, Governor Rhun lay sprawled behind an overturned buffet, cloak smoking at the shoulder. Clone guards returned fire toward upper galleries; a masked shooter vaulted onto a chandelier cable and vanished in a flash‑grenade’s glare.
Skywalker, Ahsoka, Windu ignited sabers; Cody’s troopers fanned out. Wolffe ushered [Y/N] through the shattered doors into the throne corridor, senators scrambling behind.
⸻
Heavy doors slammed. Present: King Talren, Chancellor Palpatine, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kenobi, Commanders Cody, Wolffe, Ponds, Bacara, Senator Padmé, and a handful of shaken delegates. Rhun, arm bacta‑wrapped, was dragged in by medics.
Tension whipped like live wire.
[Y/N] broke the silence, voice flat: “Pity the shooter missed.”
Gasps; Wolffe’s helmet snapped toward her.
Rhun snarled. “Should’ve been you that got shot!”
She advanced, eyes blazing. “I opposed reopening our borders. Tonight proves me right. We invited every power broker in the war to one valley—painted a target the size of a moon.”
King Talren’s tone cut ice. “Peace requires risk.”
“Blind risk courts massacre,” she shot back. “Insurgents in our mountains, Separatist agents in our ballroom—now assassins under our roof.”
Palpatine interjected silkily, “Surely, Princess, the Republic can strengthen your security.”
“More soldiers won’t erase the bull’s‑eye you represent, Chancellor.”
Mace Windu’s gaze narrowed. “You suggest isolation while the galaxy burns?”
“I suggest survival,” she answered.
Arguments flared—senators citing diplomacy, clones citing protocol. Wolffe stepped between factions, voice drill‑sergeant sharp: “Focus. Assassin is still loose. Mandates later, lockdown now.”
Plo Coon, calm amid storm, nodded approval.
King Talren exhaled. “Commander Wolffe, you have joint authority with my Shadow Guard. Hunt the shooter.”
Wolffe met [Y/N]’s gaze—heat of earlier flirtation replaced by razor respect. “Princess—coming?”
She clicked twin sabers to her belt. “Lead the way, Commander.”
Rhun blanched; Padmé exchanged a knowing look with Kenobi—battle partners born.
The moment the throne‑room doors slammed behind them, [Y/N] was already moving—midnight gown gathered in one fist, the other dropping her double sabers into waiting palms.
Wolffe fell in at her shoulder, DC‑17 raised. The marble corridor echoed with their synchronized footfalls.
“Shadow Guard breach tunnel’s this way,” she hissed, sweeping aside a wall‑tapestry to reveal a spiral stair cut straight into obsidian.
He nodded once. “After you, Princess.”
The air grew cooler, alive with a faint crystalline hum. Iridescent kyber veins glowed within the stone, casting violet and jade shadows across their path.
Wolffe switched his helmet lamp to low‑band; [Y/N] didn’t bother—her people’s Force‑attuned sight caught every shimmer.
A blaster scorch on the stair railing.
“Fresh,” she murmured.
“Means we’re close,” Wolffe replied, pulse settling into the calm that preceded battle.
The stair disgorged them into a vast cavern—kyber pillars rising like frozen lightning. At the far end, the assassin’s silhouette leapt between crystal spires, cloak tattered by security bolts.
Wolffe’s comm clicked twice—Boost and Sinker sealing exits above.
“Corner him,” Wolffe ordered.
“Alive,” [Y/N] added. “I want intel before he bleeds out.”
They split wordlessly: Wolffe low along a mineral ridge, [Y/N] sprinting the high ledge, gown whipping behind like a war‑banner.
The assassin spun, twin WESTARs barking scarlet. Wolffe dove, bolts sparking off crystal as [Y/N] sprang from above, sabers igniting.
A vibro‑dagger flicked from the assassin’s wrist—met by Wolffe’s gauntlet, beskad plating deflecting the strike. He slammed the butt of his pistol into the assailant’s ribs.
“Yield,” the commander growled.
A hissed curse the killer smashed a detonator against the pillar. Kyber screamed as fractures spider‑webbed, light flaring.
[Y/N] threw Wolffe back with a Force‑shove and thrust both sabers into the crystal, channeling energy away in a surge of blinding radiance. The explosion muted to a concussive thump; shards rained harmlessly.
When vision cleared, the assassin lay dazed, binders already clamping on under Wolffe’s practiced hands.
“Who hired you?” the princess demanded.
The prisoner spat blood, defiant. “Karthuna’s own who crave true freedom—and the Confederacy rewards such courage.”
Wolffe’s visor tipped toward [Y/N]. Confirmation.
⸻
Governor Rhun’s voice boomed across the ballroom remnant—holocams hovering:
“This outrage proves openness invites anarchy! I petition immediate curfew, martial oversight by local forces, and expulsion of unnecessary off‑world elements!”
Several senators, rattled, murmured agreement. Separatist sympathizers whispered through the crowd, feeding fear.
Master Windu folded his arms. “Governor, the assassin wielded Separatist tech. Cooperation with the Republic, not isolation, thwarts such threats.”
Rhun’s smile was razor‑thin. “Yet my princess would see me dead; perhaps the Council should examine internal loyalties first.”
King Talren’s reply was cut short by the distant rumble of kyber—catacomb fight vibrations reaching high halls. Panic rippled anew.
Wolffe and [Y/N] emerged, armor and gown dusted in crystal powder, prisoner in tow. Gasps rippled through assembled officials.
“Governor Rhun,” [Y/N] announced, voice carrying. “Your assassin failed. And he’s confessed to Separatist backing—backing that feeds on fear you happily sow.”
Rhun’s complexion drained.
Palpatine stepped forward, tone silken. “A grave accusation, Princess. Proof?”
Wolffe activated the assassin’s cracked vambrace: a holo‑sigil of the Techno Union flickered. That, plus recorded confession from his helmet‑cam, filled the air in chilling blue.
Yoda’s ears drooped, sad but certain. “Darkness invited not by borders, but hearts seeking power, yes.”
Arguments flared, but now the tide shifted: senators demanding inquiry into Rhun’s dealings, Jedi reinforcing joint patrols, clones and Sun‑Guard sharing data rather than territory. The assassin was led away.
In the aftershock, [Y/N] turned to Wolffe, adrenaline still bright in her eyes.
“You kept up,” she said softly.
“You lit up half a mountain,” he retorted, relief threading the words.
A grin tugged her lips. “Balance, Commander—little light, little dark.”
His chuckle surprised them both. “Next time, maybe just a dance.”
She offered her arm—scarred, unhidden. He took it, escorting her back into the fractured ballroom where a new balance—uneasy, hard‑won—waited to be forged.
Previous Part
Scorch × Reader
Blaster bolts lit the Shipyards catwalks like strobe lights in a night‑club. Not the vibe you’d planned when you sliced the maintenance door for a clean bounty grab. One step in—boom—three Separatist commandos, a Vult‑droid wing overhead, and four Republic commandos in matte Katarn armor stacking up beside you.
Boss—orange pauldrons, voice like a field sergeant holo‑ad—barked, “Unknown armed asset on deck C‑7, identify.”
You spun your WESTAR pistol. “Asset? Cute. Name’s [Y/N]. Freelance.”
To your right, the green‑striped commando muttered, “Freelance complication.”
Behind him, the crimson‑visored sniper gave a low chuckle. “Complication’s bleeding already.”
And then the demolition expert—Scorch, yellow stripes, joking even under fire—leaned out, lobbed a flash, and yelled over the alarm, “Hey, freelancer! Where’s your head at? Left or right? Pick a lane before someone decorates the floor with it.”
Something about the grin in his voice made you smirk. You dropped behind a crate with them just as the flash popped. “Guess it’s with you nerf‑herders for the next five minutes.”
Five minutes stretched into an hour of shutdown corridors, hacked bulkheads, and mortar echo. Fixer sliced the security mainframe; you handled the underside maintenance ports he couldn’t reach without alerts. Your bounty (a Neimoidian logistician) was fleeing in the same direction as Delta’s target datapack—perfect overlap.
Sev provided overwatch, grimly amused, “Bounty hunter’s got decent trigger discipline. Don’t shoot her yet.”
Boss’ voice echoed over the comms, “Mission first. Everyone out alive—optional.”
Scorch, planting shaped charges, kept the tone light. “C’mon, Boss. Optional? I was just getting to like her. She laughs at my jokes.”
“I’m laughing at the absurd probability I survive this.”
“Stick with me, you’ll live. Probably. Ninety‑ish percent.”
you and Scorch sprinted down a service tunnel to place the last charge.
He tossed you a spare detonator. “Push that when Sev says ‘ugly lizard,’ okay?”
“Why that code?”
“Because he only says it when a Trandoshan shows up, and that’s exactly when we want the bang.”
Sure enough, Sev’s dry voice soon crackled, “Ugly lizard, twelve o’clock.” You hit the switch. The deck buckled, cutting off enemy reinforcements. Scorch whooped, slammed his gauntlet against yours. “Told ya. Harmonic teamwork.”
⸻
With the datapack secured and your bounty stunned in binders, you and Delta reached the evac gunship. Boss motioned you aboard. “Republic intel could use your debrief.”
You eyed the Neimoidian. “He’s my paycheck.”
Fixer chimed in “Republic will pay more for him and the pack.”
“And we didn’t vaporize you. Factor that into the fee.” Sev said dryly.
Scorch stepped closer, visor tilting. “Look, [Y/N]—head’s gotta be somewhere, right? Why not keep it above water instead of floating in space? Ride with us, collect a bonus, maybe grab a drink later.”
You raised a brow. “With commandos?”
He shrugged. “I make a mean reactor‑core cocktail. Ask Sev, he hates it.”
“Because it’s toxic,” Sev deadpanned.
You exhaled, Chaos, adrenaline—these kriffers matched the tempo of your life better than any cartel employer had.
“Fine,” you said, hauling the Neimoidian up the ramp. “But the drink’s on you, Demo‑Boy.”
Scorch’s laugh filled the gunship bay. “Knew your head was in the right place.”
⸻
.Hours later, in a Republic forward hangar, the bounty transfer finished. Boss handed you a cred‑chip far heftier than expected. “Hazard compensation,” he explained.
Fixer simply nodded—respect acknowledged. Sev offered a half‑grin. “Next time I say ‘ugly lizard,’ you better still be on our channel.”
Then Scorch leaned against a crate, helmet off, sandy hair plastered, scorch‑mark across one cheek. “So… drink?”
You twirled the chip between gloved fingers. “Where’s your head at now, Scorch?”
He winked. “Currently? Somewhere between ‘mission accomplished’ and ‘hoping you stick around long enough for me to find out what other explosives we make together.’”
You laughed—a real laugh, no alarms or blasterfire backing it. “Buy me that reactor‑core cocktail, and we’ll see.”
As you walked out side by side, the distant clang of sortie sirens sounded almost like drums.
And in the thrum of the hangar lights, you realized: this rhythm—wild, unpredictable, deafening—might be exactly where your head belonged.
Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader
Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.
A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.
The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”
Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.
Karthuna: quick file
• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.
• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.
• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.
• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.
• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.
The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”
Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.
Psych‑profile excerpt
“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.
Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’
Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”
Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”
“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”
Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”
⸻
79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.
Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.
“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.
“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”
“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”
“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.
The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.
She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”
Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”
“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.
Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.
Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Credits to spice‑cakes.”
“She hasn’t told him?”
“Not a word.”
Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”
Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”
They clasped forearms on it.
The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.
When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.
“I don’t dance,” he protested.
“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”
She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.
At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.
“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”
He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”
“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”
Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”
“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”
⸻
Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.
“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”
Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”
As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”
“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.
“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.
⸻
Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.
She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”
His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”
Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.
⸻
Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.
A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.
The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.
“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.
The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”
[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”
“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”
Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.
“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”
[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”
“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”
A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”
“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”
She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”
He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.
Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.
TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”
A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”
She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”
TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”
“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”
The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.
[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”
TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”
“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”
⸻
Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.
—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.
TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.
“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”
R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.
At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.
“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.
Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”
Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.
“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.
Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.
Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”
Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.
“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”
Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.
Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.
The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.
Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”
⸻
Next Part
501st x Reader
The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”
Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”
You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.
“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”
Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”
You smile. “Armor for the skin.”
As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”
“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”
Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.
The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”
Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”
Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”
“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.
Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”
“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.
Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”
You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”
You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.
Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”
“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”
Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”
Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”
The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.
As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”
“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”
He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”
Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.
⸻
An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.
Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”
“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.
Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”
“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”
Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”
You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”
Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”
Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”
Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”
Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”
Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”
You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.
Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.
You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.
Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”
Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.
Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.
The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.
Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”
Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”
Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”
A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”
You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.
⸻
Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.
“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”
Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”
Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”
Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.
Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”
You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.
Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”
⸻
Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”
Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”
Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”
Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.
“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”
You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.
⸻
A/N
This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.