Clone X Reader - Blog Posts

“Duty Calls, Desire Waits”

Boss x Reader

The door to your quarters hissed open, and before you even turned around, you felt him. That familiar presence—silent, commanding, unwavering. Boss was back.

You didn’t need words. The way his heavy boots hit the floor, slow and steady, told you everything. The weight of the mission still hung in his posture, but beneath it, something softer—a need. For you.

He finally looked up, eyes dark behind that helmet’s visor, and you caught a flicker of relief. You stepped forward, your hand reaching for his arm, fingers curling around the reinforced armor. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.

No words were spoken, none needed.

Your fingers traced the edge of his visor, then slid down to his neck plate, where the cold metal met bare skin. Boss’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer—no space left between you now.

The heat built slowly, burning through the quiet. His grip tightened, and you tilted your head up, brushing your lips lightly over the rim of his helmet as if to remind him you were here. That this was home.

A low, almost inaudible sound vibrated from his chest—a promise, a confession. You smiled, heart racing.

Then, the world faded until it was only you and Boss, the steady beat of two hearts finding their rhythm again.

He finally took off his helmet to reveal his eyes—intense, dark, tired. The kind of tired that comes from seeing too much but still standing tall.

“You’re here,” his voice was low, rough around the edges like gravel, but steady.

You reached up, fingertips brushing over his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Every time I leave, I wonder if I’ll come back.”

Your hand slid from his neck to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the armor. “You always do.”

His other hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb stroking as if trying to memorize your face. “You’re my anchor. The only thing keeping me grounded when everything else is chaos.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then stay grounded. Stay with me.”

For a moment, all the walls around him seemed to crumble, and he looked vulnerable—the soldier behind the mask.

“I want to,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “More than anything.”

You closed the small distance between you, resting your forehead against his. “Then show me. Stay.”

The tension between you was electric, but it wasn’t just desire—it was relief, connection, and the unspoken promise that no matter how dark the mission, you were both each other’s light.

He pulled you closer, the strength in his embrace both protective and tender.

And in that quiet space, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat, you both knew this was home.

Boss’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him. The heat between you grew, the space shrinking until the world outside ceased to exist.

His voice was a low growl near your ear. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

You whispered back, “Me too.”

Just as his lips brushed yours, soft and promising, the sudden buzz of the comms cracked through the silence.

Boss pulled back slightly, annoyed but alert.

“—Scorch here. Uh… I might’ve accidentally blown up the supply depot. Again,” came the familiar voice, a mix of sheepish and panicked.

Sev’s harsh reply followed, “You’re gonna pay for that, Demo. I’m coming for you.”

Boss shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “So much for a demolition expert.”

You laughed softly, the moment broken but the warmth lingering as Boss reached for his helmet.

“Duty calls,” he muttered, eyes meeting yours one last time. “But I’ll be back.”

You nodded, voice steady. “I’ll be here.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you both wanting more — and counting down until the next time.

“Vertical Evac”

Sev x Reader

The Senate landing pad still stank of charred durasteel when the four commandos in Katarn armor strode out of the dawn mist. Boots hit duracrete in perfect cadence, and every aide around you startled, skittering out of their way like spooked tookas.

The one in the center stopped in front of you.

“Senator,” the vocoder rasped, calm as a metronome, “Delta Squad assumes your protection detail.”

You’d asked for one discreet guard after the Separatist torpedoes punched holes in your shuttle last night. Instead you’d been delivered a miniature shock battalion.

“I requested subtle,” you said dryly, sweeping your gaze over identical T‑visors. “Instead I’ve been issued four portable war crimes.”

A bark of laughter crackled through the comms. The clone on the left—armor scorched black at the shoulders—tapped two fingers to his helmet. “Portable war crime, that’s a new one, Senator. I’m Scorch. Demo expert. You break it, I blow it.”

“Stand down, Scorch,” the leader murmured. “I’m Boss. These are Fixer and Sev.”

The tallest—Sev—inclined his helmet a millimeter. “We’ll try not to stain the carpets.”

You almost smiled.

⸻

Your suite looked less like a workspace and more like a forward operating base. Scorch crawled through the ceiling vents, humming while he tucked micro‑det charges behind every ornate sconce. Fixer was wrist‑deep in the security terminal, ripping out obsolete boards and muttering about “code that predates the Jedi Order.” Boss paced, mapping angles of fire that only a clone commando would notice.

Sev took the window.

He didn’t move, didn’t even sway—just stood with the DC‑17m sniper attachment snug against his shoulder, visor tracking the boulevard five stories below.

You returned from the kitchenette with a tray of caf. “I assume troopers run on caffeine the way senators run on spite.”

Fixer declined with a grunt. Scorch popped down from a vent to snag two cups—one for himself, one he tried to hand to Sev by clinking the rim against the sniper’s elbow. Sev accepted without breaking sight‑line.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The voice behind the filter was low, gravel under ice.

You leaned against the sill beside him. “How long can you stare at traffic before you see stars?”

“Long as it takes.”

“Healthy.”

He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “Health is secondary. Mission first.”

Your lips twitched. “Let’s keep them aligned, Trooper.”

He finally turned his head. The visor reflected your own weary expression. “Call me Sev.”

“So,” you ventured, “Sev. What’s that actually short for? Your brothers keep calling you ‘Oh‑Seven.’ ”

A low rasp filtered through his vocoder. “Serial: RC‑1207. Clones don’t waste syllables—turns into ‘Zero‑Seven,’ then ‘Sev.’ Vau tried to rename me once—Strill‑bait—but Sev stuck.”

“Efficient,” you mused. “I was hoping for something poetic.”

“Closest thing to poetry we got,” he answered, “was Sergeant Walon Vau reading after‑action reports aloud and marking every missed shot in red. I preferred numbers.”

You huffed a laugh. “Numbers never filibuster.”

“Exactly.” He tipped the caf under his helmet, then added with a shrug you felt more than saw: “Still, seven isn’t a bad omen. Seven Geonosian snipers on my first real op. They’re the stripes.”

Your gaze dipped to the dried‑maroon slashes across his plate. Those kills were in the official record—no campfire exaggeration, just Sev doing Sev. “Better trophy than a Senate commendation,” you said.

“Commendations don’t stop blaster bolts,” he agreed. “Armor paint might. Enemies aim for the bright bit.”

“Note to self—add high‑visibility stripes to every lobbyist I want removed.”

He chuckled, deep and short. “You handle it with speeches, I handle it with DC charges. Same outcome; mine’s louder.”

The ceiling vent banged open and Scorch—all riot‑yellow hazard marks—dropped in upside‑down. “Louder? Did someone say louder? Because I have a three‑det primer that’ll make democracy sing.”

Sev kept his rifle steady, unamused. “You done wiring the vents?”

“Finished! Whole place is a merry little grave waiting to happen.” Scorch swung like a loth‑monkey. “What’s the banter—numerology and murder? Count me in. My favorite number’s forty‑seven—arms, legs, whatever’s left.”

Fixer snapped from the terminal, voice flat. “Scorch, your ‘festive’ cabling is shorting the main feed. Touch another conductor and I’ll teach you binary via blunt‑force trauma.”

“Harsh love, Fix.” Scorch saluted invertedly…and clipped a coil. Screens died, lights cut; the building’s distant alarm groaned awake.

Pen‑light clicked—Sev’s, white beam spearing the dark. “Stay with me, Senator.” He toggled comms. “Boss, primary’s down in the principal’s suite—unknown cause, probably Scorch.”

Boss answered, calm and clipped. “Assume breach until proven Scorch Error. Fixer: backups. Scorch: vent lockdown. Sev, keep the package intact.”

“Copy.” Sev shifted, square in front of you. Above, Scorch’s grin hovered in the torch.

“Bright side,” Scorch quipped, “if hostiles come now, they won’t see the scorch marks!”

“Touch that wire again,” Fixer warned in the dark, “and the next blackout’s permanent—for you.”

The auxiliary kicked in; light flooded back. Scorch fled up the duct, chastened but humming. Boss appeared in the doorway, orange visor band bright.

“Clear. Scorch is off det‑detail,” he declared.

Sev’s low chuckle rumbled. “Discipline, Delta‑style.”

You toasted him with the caf. “To functional anarchy. First amendment: electrified committee chairs.”

He gave a tiny nod. “Second amendment: motion passes with high‑explosive majority.”

A distant “I CAN SUPPLY THOSE” echoed from the shaft.

Side‑by‑side at the window, you both let the city’s neon river roll past, sharing bruised humor and the mutual certainty that, whatever happened next, you’d handle it—whether by votes or by very precise blaster fire.

⸻

Sleep never really came. You were half‑draped across a stack of datapads when every pane of transparisteel in the lounge shattered inward at once—a prismatic roar of sound and stinging air.

A glare‑white projectile streaked through the breach, thunked against the far wall, and bloomed into a spiderweb of crackling ion static. Lights died. Grav‑conduits hiccupped. Gravity itself seemed to wobble.

“Contact, east aspect—breach charges and ion!” Boss’s voice snapped from the darkness, all business. He’d been on silent watch in the corridor.

Sev materialised out of the gloom between you and the ruined window, rifle already hot. “Droid jump‑squad—minimum six. Senator, with me.”

You barely had time to register the whirring hiss of BX‑series commando droids vaulting the balcony rail before Sev’s gauntlet closed around your forearm.

Boss kicked the apartment’s panic door open with enough force to shear its hinges, emergency chemlights flickering along his orange‑striped armour.

“Fixer, Scorch—status?” he barked into squad‑comms while shoving a palm‑sized beacon into your hand. An amber arrow blinked on its surface: PROX‑CODE DELTA.

“Dining area’s a toaster, Boss. I’m boxed—two droids.”

“Vent shafts compromised—make that three,” Scorch added, laughing like it was Life Day.

“Hold and delay,” Boss ordered. “We’re exfil Alpha with the principal.”

Sev herded you down the service hall, DC‑17m coughing scarlet bolts that popped droid skulls as they rounded corners. A ricochet sizzled past your ear; you felt the heat, smelled scorched upholstery.

“Keep your head ducked,” he growled. “That helmet budget of yours is still pending.”

You shot back, breathless, “Filed under agricultural subsidies—nobody reads those.”

“Smart.” He clipped a spare vibroblade from his thigh and pressed it into your palm. “If it comes to close‑quarters—stab the gap at the jaw hinge.”

“Charming bedside manner, Sev.”

“Better than a funeral eulogy.”

The maintenance lift doors yawned open—just in time to reveal the empty shaft beyond. Gravity stabilisers flickered; wind howled up the vertical tunnel.

Boss lobbed a glow‑stick; it spiralled downward, showing two hundred metres of nothing before emergency nets. “Main lift’s offline. We rappel.”

A cable launcher thunked against the upper frame. Sev snapped the line to your belt, then to his own. “Clip in and step off on my count. Boss goes first.”

Blaster‑fire rattled down the corridor—Fixer’s voice on comms: “Third droid down, corridor secure.”

“Copy, Fix,” Boss replied. Then to you, calm and steady: “Three… two… one.” He vanished over the edge.

Sev guided you after him. The world flipped; you were suddenly running down a wall of permacrete, black void on either side, cable humming overhead. You focused on Boss’s glowing armour below, and on Sev’s hand firm between your shoulder blades.

Halfway down, a BX droid leaned out a blown‑open access door and fired upward. The cable near your hip sparked.

Sev twisted mid‑descent, rifle spitting crimson. The droid’s chest plate caved; it pinwheeled into darkness.

“Cable integrity?” Boss called.

“Nominal,” Sev grunted. To you: “Still with me?”

“Not filing that helmet request after all,” you gasped.

“Good. Would’ve been a waste of paperwork.”

Boots hit deck plating beside Boss. An auxiliary hangar gaped before you—service speeders, loading cranes, and, at the far end, a battered LAAT/i gunship painted civilian grey.

Boss punched the hatch codes. “Borrowing that. Scorch, Fixer—vector to my beacon.”

Scorch: “Roger—bringing the fireworks!”

Fixer: “And the repair bill.”

Sev swept the bay, visor pinging heat‑sigs. “Two more droids on the gantry.”

“I’ll drive,” you said, surprising yourself.

Sev angled his helmet. “Can you?”

“Committee on Combat Logistics. I made sure senators kept their pilot’s certs current.”

Boss tossed you the cockpit datakey. “Then fly it like you filibuster—fast and ruthless.”

⸻

The gunship thundered out of the sub‑level exit just as Scorch vaulted aboard, demo‑satchel first, Fixer broken‑armed behind him. Sev slammed the side hatch; Boss took the troop bay guns.

City lights blurred past. Sirens dopplered below. Somewhere behind, your shattered apartment flickered with fresh explosions—Scorch’s parting gift.

Sev crouched beside the cockpit, shoulder braced against the bulkhead. “Secondary safe‑house is eighteen klicks. We’ll clear traffic for you.”

You tightened your grip on the yoke. “Appreciate it. Next housing allowance better cover blast windows.”

“That, or we install the windows we like—three metres thick, transparisteel.” His tone was almost light. “Adds character.”

You glanced back, met his visor. “And here I thought I was the expensive one in this arrangement.”

“Worth every credit, Senator,” he said—and for the first time you heard a smile in RC‑1207’s gravelled voice.

Outside, the dawn line crept over Coruscant’s horizon—crimson, like Sev’s war‑paint—while Delta Squad regrouped in the hold, bruised but intact. The war would send more droids, more nights like this, but for now you flew toward the rising light, the commando’s words lingering like an unspoken promise.

⸻

The scarlet bloom of predawn still clung to Sev’s visor as Delta Squad escorted you across the durasteel bridgeway toward the Sienar Senatorial Cutter waiting in docking cradle G‑43.

You’d only decided an hour ago—papers signed, aide‑team recalled—that it was time to go home: to the domed foundries of your world, to the committees that actually listened. Coruscant could keep its marble tombs.

Fixer had already swept the cutter’s nav‑core; Scorch grumbled that the fuel cells were “too clean, suspiciously sober.” Boss, always by the datapad, had plotted the twenty‑six‑hour jump. Sev walked at your left flank, rifle slung but senses wired tight.

“I still think the Senate Medical Board could clear you in two days,” he said through the vocoder, voice low.

“And I think if I stay two days more, the war will veto me permanently.” You managed a wry smile. “Besides, your safe‑house couch is murderous on the lumbar.”

“Could requisition a better couch.”

“You’d blow it up for target practice.”

“Fair.”

A claxon whooped overhead, routine pre‑launch. Hangar crews gave thumbs‑up as they sealed the cutter’s boarding ramp, crimson Republic insignia catching the light.

Scorch jogged back from the refuel pylon, yellow armor bright against the grey deck. “All green—ship’s thirstier than a cadet, but she’s topped.”

Boss nodded. “Mount up. We launch in eleven.”

You rested a hand on the cool hull, exhaled. Going home. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened.

A muffled whump—more vibration than sound—rippled underfoot. You frowned; Sev’s helmet snapped toward the cutter. An instant later a second, deeper concussion rolled across the ring. Cries echoed; deck crew scattered.

Sev’s shout hit like blaster fire: “DOWN!”

He tackled you behind a cargo skid just as the Senatorial Cutter blossomed into white‑hot shrapnel. The blast‑wave hammered the gangway, ripping durasteel like foil. Chunks of hull screamed overhead, flaming arcs against the pale sky.

Boss’s orders barked through squad‑comms—“Perimeter! Trawl for secondaries!”—even as Fixer dragged a stunned tech from the collapsing ramp. Scorch ran straight into the haze, thermal scanner up, searching for unexploded ordnance.

Your ears rang. Liquid fire licked the wreck thirty meters away; atmosphere pull whipped the flames sideways until emergency force‑screens slammed down.

Sev’s weight still covered you, armour shielding against stray shards. Heat washed over the two of you; the copper tang of scorched electronics filled your lungs.

He leaned close, voice pitched for your ears only. “Senator, you all right?”

Heart hammering, you forced a nod. “Yes.” The word came thin. “Our ship—”

“Gone,” he said, absolute. “Someone timed a shaped charge for pre‑board.”

You felt the knot snap tight again—rage this time, not fear. “That hangar was Level Three clearance. Only Republic personnel.”

“Or someone wearing their code cylinder.” Sev’s visor reflected the inferno. “Saboteur’s still out there.”

Fire‑suppression foam oozed from ceiling vents; med‑droids hissed down the smoke‑curtains. Boss herded survivors past you, every gesture clipped, professional.

“Saboteur planted thermal baradium in the starboard fuel neck,” Fixer reported, one gauntlet cradling his bandaged arm. “Timed off the pressure equaliser—no remote signal.”

Scorch skidded up, visor flecked with soot. “Found partial detonator casing. Separatist‑pattern, but tractable.”

Boss looked to you. “Senator, the ring isn’t secure. I recommend immediate extraction to Defender‑class corvette Vigilant—Command has a cabin we can hard‑seal.”

You opened your mouth—I still have to reach my planet—but Sev cut across gently, “Your world can wait eight more hours. You can’t if there’s a second bomber.”

You met his visor, saw your own shaken reflection. A breath in, out. “Corvette it is.”

The Vigilant detached from the ring on emergency vector, hyperdrives spooling. Through the small viewport the docking cradle burned, a smear of smoke against the stratosphere.

You sat on a cot, jacket singed, palms trembling. Sev posted at the door, Boss conferring with the bridge. Fixer typed one‑handed at a forensic padd; Scorch fussed, pulling charred slivers from his pauldrons.

“You know the irony,” Scorch called across the room, irrepressible even now. “Hangars scare me more than battlefields. Too many things that go ‘boom’ when they’re supposed to behave.”

Fixer grunted. “Statistically still safer than letting you cook ration bars.”

You managed a weak laugh, rubbing temples. “Gentlemen, please—one trauma at a time.”

Sev stepped forward, offered a flask of electrolyte water. “Sip slowly.”

You obeyed, then asked, “Anyone else hurt?”

“Minor burns only,” Boss answered, approaching. “But the Separatists just escalated. Cutter’s manifest leaked thirty minutes ago—only a very short list knew you’d leave today.”

“Which means,” Sev finished, “there’s a mole in Republic logistics.”

Silence pressed in, broken by the corvette’s hyperdrive howl—the stars outside stretched to lines.

You set the flask aside, straightened. “So we find them.”

Boss inclined his helmet. “That’s the plan.”

Sev’s voice dropped, meant only for you. “And until we do, no transports. No public schedules. We move when we control every variable.”

A beat. Then you asked, quietly fierce, “Does that include better couches?”

The sniper’s helmet tipped, the faintest nod. “And blast windows thick enough for a rancor.”

Despite everything—the smoke, the dead crew, the gut‑deep dread—you felt a spark of something steadier than fear. Delta had you. And you weren’t done fighting.

Outside, hyperspace opened like a blue fracture, swallowing the Vigilant—but not the promise Sev had made, soft as a sniper’s breath: They’d failed to kill you twice. Third time would never come.

⸻

The Vigilant slipped into hyperspace hours ago, but sleep never boarded with the rest of you.

When the muted corridor lights dimmed for ship‑night, you found yourself drifting—restless—until the muffled clank of a familiar gait guided your steps.

Most racks were dark, humming behind containment fields, yet one bench lamp burned low. Sev sat there, helmet off, the harsh light carving shadows along the scar that split his right temple. He was field‑stripping the DC‑17m with the same care a jeweler gives crystal.

You halted at the threshold. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Crimson eyes flicked up—tired, alert, softening when they found you. “Blaster lubricant’s cheaper than sedatives.”

You ventured closer, palms tucked in your sleeves to hide the tremor still living there. “I wanted to thank you. You put yourself between me and—” You gestured at empty air that smelled faintly of ionized smoke. “Everything.”

He reassembled the last actuator, set the rifle aside. “That’s the job.”

“I know when duty ends and choice begins.” You lowered onto the next bench. “Saving me was duty. Staying here polishing gun parts at three a.m.—that’s choice.”

For a moment the only sound was the distant thrum of hyperdrive coils. Sev’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re still shaking.”

“Adrenaline’s a stubborn tenant.”

He reached into a med‑pouch, produced a flat stim patch. “Cortical calmative. Won’t knock you out—just tells the nerves the shooting’s done.”

You accepted it, hesitated. “Could put it on my own neck, but I imagine you’re more precise.”

His expression did something rare—softened into a hint of a smile. He peeled the backing, brushed your hair aside with surprising gentleness, and pressed the patch below your ear. Heat bloomed, then a slow coolness spread through muscle and marrow alike.

“Better?” he asked, thumb lingering against your pulse as if counting the beats to be sure.

“Getting there.” You studied the scar on his temple—white against tan skin, the kind Kamino med‑droids never fully erased. “Geonosis?”

He nodded once. “Turret ricochet. Left a mark. Reminds me to keep my head down.”

“You kept mine down today.”

A silence stretched, warm instead of awkward, until he said, low: “When the cutter blew, time slowed. Thought—if that’s the last thing I do, it’s enough.”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” His hand dropped to the bench between you, open‑palmed—an invitation without expectation.

You laid your fingers across his. Armor‑calloused knuckles felt like forged durasteel, but the grip he returned was careful, almost reverent.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, “that ‘enough’ didn’t end there.”

His lips curved—a small, earnest thing. “Me too, cyar’ika.” The Mandalorian endearment slipped out before he caught it; color touched his cheeks. “Sorry”.

“Don’t be.” You squeezed his hand. “I speak fluent subtext.”

From the passageway came Scorch’s distant voice complaining about ration bars; somewhere Fixer muttered diagnostics. But inside the armory a hush settled—two steady heartbeats, the scent of cleaning solvent, the promise of unexploded tomorrows.

Sev reclaimed his rifle, but his other hand never left yours. “Stay a while. The patch works better with company.”

You leaned your shoulder to his, felt the tremor finally subside, and decided the armory was, for tonight, the safest place in the galaxy.

Hello! I gotta say I love how you write the banter between the clones and it honestly is so funny and cute. Could I get a Fox or Wolfe x reader where maybe he goes to wear something that he doesn’t know reveals a few marks from you the previous night and his brother notices and tease him? That’s the main request but I’d love if you’d add anything else plot wise to make it more full and complete Xx

“Battle Scars”

Wolffe x Reader

Wolffe didn’t go out often. Boost and Sinker practically had to drag him to 79’s that night, not because he hated it, but because he hated the noise, the chaos, the unwanted attention.

But mostly?

He just preferred being alone with you.

Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for everyone else—Sinker had shouted something about “you owe us after ditching two poker nights in a row,” and now he was stomping toward the bar in a casual black shirt (one you may or may not have helped him out of the night before), grumbling like a man headed to execution.

He hadn’t noticed that the neckline sat just a little wide across the collarbone. Or that a certain faint purple mark was blooming just below the edge of the collar on the left side. Or that there were more—not too obvious, but definitely visible if you were looking.

And Boost and Sinker? They were looking.

“Kriff, Wolffe,” Sinker said, the moment they’d taken a booth and ordered drinks. “You finally let off some steam, huh?”

Wolffe blinked, raising a brow. “What?”

Boost leaned in with a sh*t-eating grin. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I can see the bruise on your neck from here.”

Wolffe stiffened. “It’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sinker cut in. “That’s either a love bite or you got in a fight with a Nexu.”

Boost sipped his drink, eyes glinting. “And judging by the one just peeking above your collar? Our dear commander got wrecked.”

Wolffe growled, yanking his collar up slightly. “Shut it.”

“Who’s the lucky one?” Sinker asked, already leaning across the table like he was digging for state secrets.

“None of your damn business,” Wolffe muttered.

“That means it’s definitely someone we know,” Boost said with delight.

“Is it one of the medics?” Sinker mused.

“Maybe that intel officer with the legs?”

“I bet it’s—wait.” Boost froze, grinned wider. “It’s that civvie he always walks to the transport bay, isn’t it? The one with the nice voice—what was her name again?”

Wolffe looked like he was calculating murder odds.

“[Y/N]!” Sinker snapped his fingers. “She’s always smiling at you. Maker, I knew it.”

Wolffe stayed dead silent, drinking his beer with the expression of a man who would rather fight General Grievous shirtless than have this conversation.

“Wolffe,” Boost said slowly, “you sly di’kut. You’ve been holding out.”

“You’re smiling,” Sinker said, pointing. “Look at him, he’s smiling. That’s a post-blissful-night smile.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are,” Boost confirmed, nodding sagely. “You look like a man who got thoroughly appreciated. Several times.”

“You know what,” Sinker said, raising his glass, “I’m just proud. Our boy’s finally unclenched.”

Wolffe muttered, “I will kill both of you.”

⸻

It was well past midnight when you heard a familiar knock—two short, one long—on your door.

You opened it to find Wolffe standing there, looking deliciously rumpled. His black shirt was half-untucked, collar slightly askew, his hair a little mussed, and that glare in his eye… the one that always meant either someone pissed him off, or he was thinking about you.

He stepped in without a word, the door hissing shut behind him. You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall, hiding your grin.

“Well, hello to you too, Commander.”

Wolffe stopped in front of you, eyes narrowing.

“You,” he said lowly, voice rough with exhaustion and a hint of that familiar gravel. “Left marks.”

You blinked innocently. “Did I?”

He arched a brow. “Sinker counted three. Boost said one looked like it bit back.”

You tried—really tried—not to laugh. “I told you not to wear that shirt.”

“It was the only clean one,” he growled.

You shrugged with mock innocence. “Not my fault your brothers have eyes.”

Wolffe stepped in closer. His voice dropped, heated now. “They wouldn’t shut up.”

“Poor you,” you cooed, lifting your hand to his collar and gently tugging it further aside to admire your handiwork. “But if it’s any consolation…”

You leaned in, lips brushing just under his ear.

“I’d be very happy to leave more.”

Wolffe stilled for a moment. Then you felt the sharp exhale of his breath, the way his hands suddenly found your hips, firm and possessive.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smirked. “Not tonight.”

His mouth was on yours before you could get another word out, rough and hungry and just the right kind of desperate. You didn’t mind. You’d apologize for the marks never.

And judging by the way he walked you backward toward the bedroom?

Neither would he.

Hello, hope this is an ok ask but I was wondering if you could Omega and Fem!Reader where the reader takes an omega on a mother-daughter outing? And the boys see just how much of having a mother figure in omegas life is beneficial? Maybe omega has some attempts of trying to set you up with one of her brothers so you have a reason to stay? Funny shenanigans ensue as omega tries to push her brothers toward you (and succeeds with one of them, your choice of who)

Hope this makes sense! ♥️

“Operation: Stay Forever”

The Bad Batch x Reader

Omega was practically vibrating with excitement as she tugged your hand through the streets of Pabu, her curls bouncing and her voice a mile a minute.

“We’re gonna get snacks, and go to the market, and you have to help me pick a new dress—Hunter says all mine are covered in grease stains but I think they’re just lived in—and maybe we can do something with my hair later! Do you know how to braid? Of course you do, you’re amazing!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, heart full. “I do know how to braid. You want one with beads or ribbons?”

Omega gasped like you’d just offered her the throne of Naboo.

“Beads. Obviously. Ribbons are for formal events. This is casual fabulosity.”

You smiled, following her into the plaza. “Of course. Casual fabulosity. My mistake.”

Hunter squinted as he watched the two of you walk away, Omega’s hand in yours, already talking your ear off.

“…She never talks that much to Tech.”

Wrecker laughed. “That’s ‘cause Tech tried to explain fabrics to her like he was listing battle specs. She just wanted to know if it was twirly.”

Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “She needed this.”

“She’s had us,” Crosshair said simply, though he looked less like he was arguing and more like he was observing.

Echo’s brow lifted. “She’s had four brothers and a droid. That’s not the same thing as having a mother figure.” He glanced at Hunter. “Which I keep telling you. For years.”

“Oh, come on,” Wrecker grinned. “You were basically the mom until she met [Y/N].”

Echo didn’t miss a beat. “And you were the big toddler I was babysitting.”

Hunter snorted. “Can’t argue there.”

⸻

Omega twirled in her new outfit—a bright tunic you’d helped her pick, complete with beads braided into her hair. You’d spent the last hour painting your nails and hers, sipping local fruit teas, and chatting about everything from your favorite foods to who the you thought the cutest clone was.

“So…” Omega said slowly, squinting up at you with faux innocence. “Do you like anyone?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know. Like like.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Because I think one of my brothers likes you.”

You choked on your tea. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Well, it’s obvious. Everyone likes you. But I think Echo likes you. Or maybe Hunter.” She tapped her chin. “Definitely not Crosshair. He’s weird. He called feelings ‘tactical liabilities.’”

You laughed despite yourself. “That sounds about right.”

“But you could be the mom! Then you’d have to stay! I’ve decided.”

You raised a brow. “That why you’ve been dragging me by the hand all day like a trophy?”

“Yes,” she said proudly.

⸻

You returned to the Batch’s quarters just in time to find the guys lounging around post-dinner. Omega skipped ahead of you, proudly showing off her outfit and beads.

“Look what we did! She’s so good at braiding, and she picked this out, and—oh!” She turned, sly grin in place. “You know, she really likes men who are good with kids.”

Hunter arched a brow.

Echo narrowed his eyes.

Crosshair rolled his.

Wrecker leaned forward excitedly. “Ooooh. Is this one of those matchmaking things again?”

“Again?!” you hissed, turning to Omega.

Omega threw her hands up. “I’m just trying to help! She’s amazing, and you all need help with social cues.”

Echo blinked slowly. “I’m going to get blamed for this, aren’t I?”

Hunter sighed, rubbing his temple. “Omega—”

“I mean,” Omega went on innocently, “she is pretty, and Echo’s the responsible one, but maybe a bit too serious. Hunter, you’re too emotionally constipated—”

“Hey!”

“Crosshair’s a walking red flag—”

“Not inaccurate,” Echo muttered.

“—and Wrecker’s a brother to everyone. Which means Echo is the best option. Or maybe Hunter if he could manage one emotional conversation without running off into the jungle.”

Hunter looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices. “Omega, you’re grounded.”

“You can’t ground me. I have diplomatic immunity,” she beamed.

Wrecker burst out laughing.

You were crying with laughter now, face flushed. “I can’t believe you just called Crosshair a red flag.”

“She’s not wrong,” Crosshair said, leaning back with an almost-smile.

Echo, still composed, finally looked your way. “You’re really good with her.”

You smiled. “She’s easy to love.”

He paused. “Yeah. She is.”

Your eyes met. The moment hung—just long enough for Omega to wiggle her eyebrows dramatically in the background like a gremlin.

Echo sighed. “Omega, if you don’t stop matchmaking, I’m going to let Crosshair do your next math lesson.”

Her horror was immediate. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would.”

Crosshair smiled slowly. “I’ll make flashcards.”

⸻

Later that night, you were helping Omega with her beads and hair.

“Did I mess it up?” she asked suddenly. “Trying to push things?”

You looked at her in the mirror and smiled softly.

“No. You just reminded me how lucky I am to be here.”

She smiled back, cheeks a little pink. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”

You pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Not unless Crosshair actually makes those flashcards.”

“Please don’t leave,” she said dramatically, “I’m not ready for that.”

Neither were you.

And honestly?

You weren’t going anywhere.

⸻

The next morning, you found Omega hunched over the small dining table with a data pad, scraps of paper, crayons, and a very serious expression. Wrecker walked by, glanced at the mess, and raised a brow.

“Whatcha doin’, kid?”

“Mission planning,” Omega said without looking up.

“For what, exactly?”

She tapped the screen with finality. “Operation Wedding Bells.”

Wrecker blinked. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

By midday, Hunter had found out.

Because Omega had tried to get his measurements.

“For the suit, obviously,” she said.

Hunter rubbed his temples like he had a migraine. “What suit?”

“For the wedding. Between Echo and [Y/N].”

You nearly dropped the tray of food you were carrying. “Omega.”

She held up the data pad and pointed to a crude drawing of a beach, some flowers, and what you assumed was Echo in some sort of tuxedo with his armor still on. “Do you want a sunset wedding or a moonlight one? I can make either happen. I’ve already got Crosshair assigned to security. And I told Tech that he could officiate.”

Echo stared at her blankly. “Why Tech?”

“He’s got that ‘wise old man’ vibe now.”

“I’m no older then the rest.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the vibe.”

Hunter sighed. “You’re grounded.”

“You can’t ground me,” Omega said, standing up and striking a dramatic pose. “I’m planning a wedding.”

⸻

The sun was setting, warm orange light spilling over the ocean, casting long shadows across the sand.

You were sitting quietly, sipping a cool drink and letting the breeze brush across your skin, when Echo stepped out and joined you. He had something in his hands—a small, folded piece of paper, clearly drawn by Omega.

“She gave this to me,” he said, handing it to you.

You opened it.

It was another “wedding plan.” The two of you were stick figures holding hands, surrounded by a bunch of questionably drawn flowers, and what looked like Wrecker as a ring bearer. At the bottom, in bold handwriting, Omega had written:

“You’re already a family. This just makes it official.”

Your heart squeezed.

“She really wants you to stay,” Echo said softly, sitting beside you. “We all do.”

You glanced at him. “You too?”

He met your eyes, and there was something vulnerable there—an honesty he didn’t often allow himself to show.

“I think I’ve wanted that since the moment you helped her with that first braid. You made her feel… safe. And seen. That means everything to me.”

You smiled, heart thudding. “You know she called you the responsible one, right? Said you were the best option.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. “Guess I’ve got her endorsement.”

You nudged his arm lightly. “I’d take it seriously. She’s planning outfits now.”

Echo chuckled, quiet and warm. “Of course she is.”

The silence between you stretched into something comfortable, like warmth curling around your chest.

“She’s not wrong though,” you said softly.

Echo turned to you, brows lifting just slightly. “About what?”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the man who had lost so much, given so much, and still stood tall—quiet, steadfast, kind.

“That you’re the best option.”

There was a beat. Then another.

He reached out, hesitating only for a second before his gloved fingers brushed yours.

“I’d like to prove her right.”

You didn’t need any more words than that.

Your fingers laced with his as the sun slipped below the horizon.

Back inside, Omega leaned over the data pad and added a final touch to the sketch.

A heart.

Right over where your stick figures stood, holding hands.

She beamed.

“Mission success.”

⸻

“Caf Break”

Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader

Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.

One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.

You didn’t get many clones here.

Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.

Except one.

Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.

You didn’t know his name.

So you called him Greenie in your head.

And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.

Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.

He told himself it was logistical.

The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.

It made tactical sense.

But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.

Observing.

You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.

And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”

He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.

The next day, he came back.

And the next.

And today, too.

You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.

“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”

He paused.

“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.

You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

It became routine.

You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.

Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.

That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.

He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.

He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.

So he stayed quiet.

He came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.

“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”

He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”

“You’re not on a mission right now.”

“I’m always on a mission.”

You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”

He hesitated.

“…Fixer.”

You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”

He nodded.

He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.

He knew too much. But not enough.

⸻

A few days later, the war came closer.

There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.

And he was there—immediately.

Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.

You looked up.

“…Fixer?”

He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.

“Status?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.

You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”

There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.

“I’m glad.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.

“Good,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. Not verbally.

But he didn’t let go.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.

Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.

But then—

“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”

Boss.

Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.

He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.

You blinked. “Fixer—?”

But he was already backing away, rifle primed.

“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”

He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.

“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”

Fixer was gone.

⸻

Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.

A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.

Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.

“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”

“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”

Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”

Fixer nodded. “On it.”

“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”

Fixer didn’t respond.

Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”

Boss sighed. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”

“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.

“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”

There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.

Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.

“Contact,” he said coolly.

The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.

Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.

“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”

“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”

Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”

“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”

“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.

Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.

But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.

It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.

Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.

The blaster charge lit up red.

Fixer ducked—too slow.

The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.

“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.

“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”

“You good?” Scorch piped up.

“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.

But he wasn’t angry.

Not really.

He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.

You.

⸻

Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.

You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.

And worrying.

He had said he was always on a mission.

But now, you were his distraction.

And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.

Not yet.

But you planned to find out.

The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.

Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”

“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”

You frowned. “Then why is it black?”

“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”

He hesitated.

The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.

“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.

You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded once.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”

“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”

You looked up. “By what?”

He paused.

“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.

The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.

Ding!

“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.

Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”

You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.

“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.

“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”

“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”

Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”

“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”

“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.

You tried very, very hard not to laugh.

Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”

“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”

“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”

“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.

Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.

“Sorry about them,” he said simply.

“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”

“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.

Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”

Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”

Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”

Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”

“Looking forward to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.

“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.

The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.

And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.

Hiiiii

I had an idea for a Rex x reader where he's very obviously in love with her and everyone around him can tell but he doesn't want to admit it bc he's afraid she wont feel the same. And its basically just him being completely in love with her and everyone mercilessly teasing him about it.

(and maybe she overhears this teasing and just walks into the conversation like, "you know im in love with you too right?")

I just got this idea into my head and i needed someone to write it ok bye my darling :)

“501st Confidential (Except It’s Not)”

Captain Rex x Reader

You were, in the words of Fives, “the reason Rex turns into an emotionally repressed marshmallow with a death wish.”

The captain of the 501st was an impeccable soldier—composed, sharp, calm under fire. Until you walked into the room.

Then? He forgot how doors worked. Forgot how his voice worked. Forgot how to exist like a functioning adult.

Like this morning.

“Hey, Captain,” you called, brushing past him in the mess. “Sleep okay?”

Rex nearly dropped his tray. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Slept. I slept.”

You gave him a soft little smile. “Good.”

Fives watched the exchange with his spoon frozen in the air, like he’d just witnessed a holo-drama plot twist.

The second you left, Jesse leaned in. “Was that a stroke or a confession?”

“Shut it,” Rex muttered, flustered.

“Come on, Captain Crush,” Kix snorted. “You smiled so hard you got an extra forehead line.”

“I did not,” Rex snapped.

“It twitched,” Echo deadpanned.

“Just admit it,” Fives drawled, draping himself across the table. “You’re in love with her.”

Rex didn’t answer, which—by 501st standards—was practically a marriage proposal.

“Oh no,” Jesse whispered. “He’s so far gone. He’s at the ‘she smiled at me and I heard music’ phase.”

Rex ran a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

“Affectionately,” Echo added.

⸻

Later, in the hangar, the teasing reached critical mass.

Rex was checking the gunships. He thought he was alone.

He was wrong.

“Y’know,” came Fives’ voice from behind him, “the last time you stared at someone that long, you were planning a tactical assault.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Oh? My bad. Meditating on the meaning of her eyes, then?”

Jesse joined them, arms crossed. “Pretty sure he’s composing poetry in his head.”

“I don’t write poetry,” Rex grumbled.

“Then what’s this?” Fives produced a crumpled piece of flimsi. “‘Her voice is like a thermal detonator to my self-control—’”

Rex lunged for it. “Give me that—!”

“—detonating everything in me but discipline. Wow. Wow.”

“I will demote you.”

Fives grinned. “You’d have to catch me first—”

“What’s going on here?” Anakin’s voice cut in as he strolled over, arms folded, suspicious.

“Captain’s in love,” Jesse reported instantly.

“Painfully,” Echo added helpfully.

“Unprofessionally,” Kix muttered as he passed, shaking his head.

Anakin raised a brow at Rex. “Really?”

Rex, red-faced, said, “It’s nothing. They’re being ridiculous.”

“You know you’re terrible at hiding it, right?” Anakin said, half-laughing.

Fives leaned over like he’d been waiting for this. “Oh, and you’re one to talk?”

The group roared.

Rex folded his arms, finally smiling. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah,” Jesse added. “We’ve got bets on how long before you and Senator Secret Marriage finally kiss in front of Obi-Wan.”

“I will write all of you up,” Anakin threatened weakly.

“Sure, General,” Fives smirked. “You can fill out the paperwork on your next secret rendezvous.”

Anakin muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Echo saluted his retreating back. “True love never hides well.”

Unbeknownst to them all, you had heard every word.

You had paused just behind the stacks of crates when you heard your name—and then just… stood there, eyes wide, heart pounding, as your entire crush was dissected and laid bare by a group of very loud, very meddling clone troopers.

You waited until Rex tried to escape the roasting.

And then you stepped into view.

“…Hey,” you said sweetly.

Six heads whipped around. Fives looked like he was about to choke.

“(Y/N),” Rex breathed, stunned.

“Just dropping off the new tactical rotation schedules.” You held up a datapad, then let your eyes drift casually toward Rex. “But, uh… I heard a very interesting conversation.”

Fives whispered, “Oh no.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You boys gossip more than the Senators.”

Rex looked like he might pass out. “I—we didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” You walked toward him, stopping just close enough to see the panic in his eyes soften into something gentler.

“I just figured I should say something before one of them exploded from holding it in.”

“Say what?” Rex asked, barely above a whisper.

You reached out, tugging lightly at the edge of his kama. “That I’m in love with you, too.”

The silence was immediate.

Then chaos.

“WHOOO—”

Fives dropped to the floor like he’d been sniped.

Jesse started clapping. “About time!”

“I am a trained medic,” Kix muttered, pointing at Rex. “And even I don’t know if his heart can take this.”

Rex was frozen, then slowly—so slowly—his expression melted into the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“…Really?” he asked.

You nodded, brushing your fingers against his gloved hand. “Really.”

He glanced at the others. “Do we… have to have this moment with them here?”

“Yes,” Fives said, still on the floor. “Yes, you do.”

You grinned, lacing your fingers with Rex’s. “Well, Captain? What do we do now?”

Rex looked at you like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

“…I’m going to take you to get caf. And not drop my tray this time.”

And with your hand in his, he turned to the squad—flushed, proud, and finally not hiding anything.

Jesse saluted with two fingers. “Permission to say ’called it’?”

“No.”

“Denied,” Fives chimed. “We’re saying it anyway.”

Hey! I’m not sure if you’re still doing requests if not completely ignore this lol

But if you are I would love to see a version of TBB x reader where she falls with tech during Plan 99 and they have to survive together and make it back ♥️

“The Fall Doesn’t End You”

The Bad Batch x Reader

You saw it happening too late.

Tech’s voice—calm, resolved, final—echoed over the comms:

“When have we ever followed orders?”

And then he shot the cable.

You screamed his name as the rail car detached and plummeted.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just ran and jumped.

The world turned into chaos. Smoke. Fire. Wind tearing at your skin. The others were screaming over the comms, but it all became static in your ears.

Your jetpack roared to life, catching you mid-fall. You dove through the air, scanning through smoke and debris—

There.

Tech was falling fast, arms flailing for balance, unable to stabilize.

“I see him—” you gasped.

You slammed into him midair, arms locking tight around his chest.

The jolt nearly knocked the breath out of you both. He twisted in your grip, shocked, eyes wide behind those cracked lenses.

“You—what are you doing?!”

“Saving you, obviously,” you grunted, arms straining as the added weight pulled hard against your pack.

The thrusters shrieked in protest, struggling to adjust. Too much mass. Too much speed.

“I’m going to burn the stabilizers!” you snapped. “Hold on!”

The blast from the pack kicked against the drop, slowing your descent—but not enough. The treeline raced up toward you. Your HUD flashed a critical warning. You’d burn out before you cleared the ridge.

You flipped, twisting mid-air to cushion him as much as you could.

Then—

Impact.

A scream tore from your throat as the world shattered around you. Dirt. Leaves. Stone. The smell of ozone and blood. Something cracked inside your chest. Your pack gave a final shuddering pop before it died completely, hissing smoke.

You rolled, skidding through the underbrush. Your helmet cracked against the earth, and the world blurred at the edges.

Everything hurt.

But you were alive.

And so was he.

You groaned and dragged yourself up, muscles screaming. Your armor was scorched, one gauntlet bent out of shape, ribs probably cracked.

“Tech,” you rasped, blinking through your visor. “Tech—are you—?”

He was lying a few meters away, not moving.

Panic surged in your throat. You stumbled over to him, dropping to your knees.

He groaned—loud, agonized.

Good. Groaning was good. That meant breathing.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, fingers trembling as you touched his faceplate, carefully pried the helmet off. His brow was bleeding now, from the impact, not the fall. His lip was split.

“Left leg…” he grit out. “Something’s wrong. I heard a pop. Possibly dislocated. And my wrist…”

“Don’t move,” you said, voice hardening as you hit your survival mode.

He looked at you, dazed. “You—you caught me.”

“Yeah.” You pulled a half-smirk. “Might wanna say thank you when you’re not bleeding.”

He gave a sharp, breathless huff that might’ve been a laugh.

Then his eyes flicked to your pack, lying in a heap of fried circuits and blackened wires.

“…You’re not flying us out of here, are you?”

You glanced at the damage and exhaled grimly. “Not a chance.”

Your wristplate buzzed. The comm was faint, barely functioning, but you caught Hunter’s voice—choppy, panicked. Static swallowed most of it.

You switched it off. If you could hear them, the Empire might too.

You looked back at Tech. His hand was already moving to retrieve his broken goggles. Always thinking. Always working.

You knelt beside him, breath still ragged, and said low, “We’re not dying here.”

His gaze met yours. Quiet. Sure. Familiar.

“No,” he said. “We aren’t.”

You tightened your grip on your blaster, your hand brushing his for a second longer than necessary.

“Then let’s move.”

⸻

The forest was dense and unforgiving, branches clawing at your armor like hands trying to drag you down. Your muscles burned, and your ribs throbbed with every breath, but you carried Tech over your shoulder, his leg now firmly splinted with scavenged durasteel rods and cloth from your ruined cape.

He didn’t complain once.

He never did.

Even bleeding and pale, his mind was sharp.

“There’s a decommissioned Imperial scout outpost approximately 6.2 kilometers north. If they haven’t wiped the databanks, I might be able to reroute a distress beacon—or override one of their transports.”

“You’re bleeding out,” you grunted. “And I can’t run on half a lung, so let’s just focus on getting there without dying.”

A pause.

Then softly, dryly:

“You’re quite bossy when you’re in pain.”

“You only just noticing?” You smirked through your cracked visor.

“Your wrist?” you asked, eyes scanning the treeline as you pushed through the brush.

“Relocated,” he muttered, breathless but focused. “Painful, but functional.”

“Good.”

His lip twitched. That half-smile — the one that barely anyone else ever noticed.

It was there for you.

You found the outpost by nightfall, hidden beneath a rock shelf, half-collapsed and long abandoned.

It wasn’t empty.

Two scout troopers still patrolled its perimeter—lazy, inattentive. You took them both out silently. One to the throat, the other dropped with a knife to the back.

You dragged Tech inside. He immediately began work at a busted console while you blocked the entry with a broken speeder and set charges at the entrance — just in case.

“Can you fly a Zeta-class transport?” he asked from the shadows.

You blinked. “I can break a Zeta-class in six different ways. Flying one? Yeah.”

He nodded once, expression unreadable, even as he struggled to stay upright.

“Good. There’s one still intact on the lower dock.”

His hands moved fast, bloodied fingers typing commands and bypass codes. “If we time this right, we can access the flight deck and use their call codes to leave under the guise of a refueling run.”

You stared at him. “You think of all this while hanging off my shoulder in the forest?”

He didn’t look up. “I had time.”

There was a moment of silence between you both.

“You shouldn’t have jumped,” he said suddenly, voice soft.

You didn’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have fallen.”

A beat of silence.

“…Statistically, your survival odds were—”

“Tech.”

He paused.

You finally turned to him. “If you say the odds were against me, I’ll break your other leg.”

His eyes flicked down. Another twitch of his lips. “Noted.”

⸻

The escape was anything but smooth.

You blasted off the dock just as alarms blared through the ruined outpost. A TIE patrol picked up your trajectory within minutes, but your flight path was erratic and unpredictable — Tech feeding you nav data mid-chase, even while clutching his leg and gritting his teeth through the pain.

One TIE clipped your right engine.

“We’re going down.”

“Not on my watch,” you hissed, flipping switches, forcing power to the thrusters with every ounce of skill you’d ever learned. The transport rocked violently but didn’t fail.

It took every dirty flying trick in the book, but you broke atmosphere, hit lightspeed, and screamed into the void.

Only when the stars elongated in the viewport did you sag back into the pilot’s seat, chest heaving.

From the co-pilot’s chair, Tech exhaled, his head resting against the panel.

“See?” you whispered. “Told you we weren’t dying.”

His voice came softly. “You’re infuriating.”

You gave him a faint grin. “You’re welcome.”

⸻

When you limped off the stolen transport at the far end of the Ord Mantell hangar, the world felt both heavier and lighter.

You barely took two steps before Wrecker barreled into view, yelling your names like a freight train.

“TECH?! (Y/N)?!”

You barely had time to raise your hand before you were scooped up in a Wrecker hug, your cracked ribs screaming in protest.

Tech was half-carried by Echo, who swore under his breath and held him like he was glass.

Hunter came in slower, quieter—eyes wide with disbelief. He said nothing at first, just looked at you both, jaw tight.

You gave a tired nod.

“We made it.”

“You jumped after him,” Hunter said hoarsely.

“I wasn’t letting him go alone.”

“We thought we lost you both.”

You shrugged, voice rough. “You almost did.”

Then, Omega burst through the crowd.

She barreled past the others, braid flying, and threw herself at Tech, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She collided into Tech so hard it nearly knocked him over—arms thrown around his waist, sobbing into his chestplate. He froze for half a second.

Then, slowly, awkwardly—he put his arms around her.

“I thought you were gone,” she choked out.

He glanced at you over her shoulder. His voice was soft, quiet, and full of something he didn’t have a name for.

“I was. But she caught me.”

Omega pulled back, blinking through tears.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

You froze for a second, unsure how to respond.

Then you rested your gloved hand on her head. “Couldn’t leave him. Not even if he wanted me to.”

“But,” you added, “I did have to carry him across half of Eriadu. That’s worth something.”

Tech, for once, didn’t have a comeback. He simply looked at you with those calculating, unreadable eyes of his.

And in that quiet moment, you understood each other completely.

Later That Night Tech sat beside you on the Marauder ramp, stars glittering overhead.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then, softly, he spoke.

“You risked everything.”

You leaned back against the hull, shoulder grazing his. “So did you.”

He hesitated. “You don’t… expect me to say anything emotional, do you?”

You snorted. “Stars, no.”

“…Good.”

Another silence.

Then, your fingers brushed his — just slightly. Not grabbing. Just there.

And his hand… stayed.

hi!! I adored your recent tech fic “more than calculations” abd was wondering if I could request something between tech and a reader who doesn’t flirt or do all the romance things kind of how tech is? I love the idea of them having the same way of showing each other love and they just understand each other even if others don’t really understand how they are together! I hope that made a bit of sense 🙈🩷 thank you!! 💗

“Exactly Us”

Tech x Reader

“Are you two… together?”

Omega blinked up at you, head tilted with that signature mix of innocent curiosity and surgical precision, like she was investigating the oddities of adult behavior again.

Tech glanced up from his datapad, not the least bit ruffled. You didn’t look away from the gear you were calibrating, either. A beat passed.

“Yes,” you both said in perfect unison.

Omega squinted, unconvinced.

“But you don’t do anything!” she exclaimed, arms flailing slightly. “No hand-holding, no kissing, no—ugh—staring at each other like Wrecker and that woman from the food stalls!”

You shrugged. “We fixed the water pump system together last night. That was plenty.”

Tech nodded. “And we enjoy our shared quiet time between 2100 and 2130 hours. Typically on the cliffside bench.”

Omega made a face. “That’s it?”

“That is a significant amount of bonding,” Tech replied, tapping at his datapad. “Just because it doesn’t conform to more overt romantic displays does not mean the bond is any less valid.”

You added, without looking up, “We don’t need to prove anything.”

Omega grumbled and wandered off, muttering something about how weird grownups were. You smirked faintly.

When the datapad made a soft chime, Tech turned it toward you. It was a thermal reading—your shared analysis project on the geothermal vents near the northern cliffs.

“You were correct,” he said, adjusting his goggles. “There is a secondary vent system. I suspect it branches beneath the island’s reef shelf.”

You leaned closer to the screen. “Nice. That’ll stabilize the water temps around the farms. You wanna go check it out?”

“Affirmative,” he said. Then, after a pause: “I enjoy when we do these things together.”

You looked up at him and nodded, your version of “I do too.”

The two of you set out across Pabu, walking in companionable silence. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t have to. There was a rhythm, an ease to your presence beside each other. When you handed Tech a scanner without being asked, or when he adjusted your toolbelt with a small, thoughtful flick of his fingers — that was your version of affection.

Sometimes, Wrecker would nudge Crosshair (visiting, grumbling, but always watching) and whisper, “How do they even like each other?”

Crosshair would reply, “They don’t need to. They get each other.”

Later, the sun dipped low, casting warm gold across the cliffs. You and Tech sat side by side on your usual bench. No words. Just a datapad between you, exchanging quiet theories, occasionally pointing at the sea when a bird swooped or a current shifted strangely.

Tech finally broke the silence.

“Most people… expect something different from a relationship. More expression. More effort.”

You looked at him. “This is effort. Just a different kind.”

His lips curled slightly at the edge — his version of a full grin.

“I concur.”

After a moment, he added, “You are the first person I’ve encountered who does not require translation of my silence.”

You gave a small smile and leaned just enough to bump your shoulder against his. “And you’re the first person who doesn’t expect me to say things I don’t feel like saying out loud.”

He reached over and adjusted your sleeve where it had folded weirdly. Not romantic. Not flashy. Just… quietly right.

Behind you, somewhere near the beach, Omega was laughing, chasing a crab and antagonising Crosshair.

But here, in this quiet little corner of peace, you and Tech sat in absolute understanding.

No need to explain. No need to perform. Just existing.

Exactly as you were.

Exactly together.

Hiya! Since you do song fic requests I was wondering if you could do a Rex X reader with the song Smile by Uncle Kracker? Hope this is ok! You’re the best! Xx -🤍

“Smile”

Captain Rex x Reader

The battle was over, the stars above silent witnesses to the quiet aftermath. The field lights flickered, the hum of med droids and murmurs of relief blending into a lullaby of war’s end — at least for tonight.

You found him alone near the gunship, helmet off, back turned, shoulders tight with exhaustion. Captain Rex. Leader. Brother. Soldier. And lately… something more.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing your hand along his arm as you stepped beside him.

He turned, and despite the dirt smudged across his face, the faint blood along his jaw, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes — he smiled.

A slow, crooked thing. Honest. Rare.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he said.

“I could say the same for you.”

You watched each other in silence for a breath, the night pressing close around you both. You’d seen that look before — not pain, not exactly. More like weariness that went bone-deep. The kind that made you want to reach in and hold someone’s soul together.

“You’re always around when I need it most,” Rex said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve told you how much that means.”

You smiled, heart tugging.

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “I know.”

He took a half-step closer, eyes searching yours like he was afraid the war would take you too if he blinked. But you weren’t going anywhere. Not tonight.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Someone who makes me forget… even if just for a moment.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently, thumb brushing the edge of the scar near his eye.

“You don’t have to forget,” you said. “Just… let me be the good part.”

Rex leaned into your touch. For once, he let go of the weight, let you be the anchor.

“You make me smile,” he murmured, voice cracking like it surprised even him. “Without even trying.”

Your heart ached and lifted at once. That song you’d played for him once — just once — on a shared night off at 79’s, came back to you. He hadn’t said a word when it played. But you’d seen it: the way his fingers stilled around his drink, the flicker in his eyes. He’d been listening.

And now he remembered.

“I’m not going to promise I’ll always be okay,” Rex said, brow furrowing slightly. “But I want to try. With you.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“We’ll be okay together,” you said.

And there, under the stars and the dust of a hundred wars, Rex smiled again.

Just for you.

⸻

“Grizzer’s Choice”

Sergeant Hound x Reader

Coruscant’s upper levels were all steel and structure, but down here—beneath the polished platforms and Senate façades—was the Coruscant Guard’s territory. Order in chaos. The pulse of the city was felt more than seen, vibrating faintly under your boots as you stepped into the Guard kennel compound for the first time.

You took a slow breath. It smelled of durasteel, sanitizing agents, and wet fur.

Perfect.

You’d worked with animals your whole life. Big ones. Aggressive ones. Ones people gave up on, called dangerous or impossible. That’s how you landed the job—new mastiff handler for the Coruscant Guard’s prized unit.

A few troopers passed you with curious looks—some respectful, some dismissive. It wasn’t common for civilians to be embedded here. It was rarer still for one to be given a job involving him.

Grizzer.

The massiff lay in the shadowed corner of the compound, head lifted, ears twitching. His yellow eyes locked on you immediately.

The massiff was a fixture in Guard circles. A creature bred for control, raised on structure, trained in pain response and patrol aggression. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a soldier, either. He was something in between—lethal and loyal, the way a war dog should be.

And he didn’t like anyone but his handler. The clone in crimson-striped armor waiting for you outside the kennels stood with arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt, posture sharp as a vibroblade.

“[Y/N]?” he asked, voice clipped.

“Yes, sir. Reporting for assignment.”

“Sergeant Hound,” he introduced. No small talk, no smile. “You’ll be assisting with behavioral oversight and training reinforcement for the precinct’s massiffs. That doesn’t mean taking liberties. You observe. You follow orders. You stay out of the way.”

Not exactly a welcome mat.

You nodded. “Understood.”

He turned on his heel and led you inside.

The kennels were quiet—clean, organized. The soft shuffle of claws on durasteel echoed from a side corridor. Grizzer was massive—thick-muscled, scarred, and alert. His hackles rose the moment his yellow eyes landed on you. His lip twitched in a soundless growl.

You kept your posture loose but grounded. Not threatening. Not submissive.

“Don’t speak,” Hound said quietly. “Just kneel. Hands visible.”

You obeyed without hesitation.

Grizzer approached—slow, ears rotating slightly. You didn’t reach out. You simply held your ground, steady, and let him scent the air between you.

Then, to Hound’s quiet surprise, Grizzer sat. Not completely relaxed. But watching you, calm.

Hound blinked.

“He doesn’t do that,” he muttered.

You finally glanced up. “He does now.””

⸻

Grizzer had taken to you faster than anyone expected. It was subtle—he didn’t become affectionate or eager—but he tolerated your touch, followed your directions, even mirrored your body language during patrol drills. The clone officers noticed. Fox himself dropped a comment during one of the rotation briefings.

“Grizzer’s got a new favorite,” he muttered as he passed you.

You caught Hound watching you more often now—sometimes in silence during shift changes, sometimes while adjusting Grizzer’s gear. Not hostile. Just… thoughtful. Assessing.

That night, while off-duty, you found yourself sitting on the edge of a service stairwell overlooking the lower hangar levels. A small moment of quiet between patrols.

Boots echoed behind you.

“You’re off duty,” Hound said, approaching. “You could be sleeping.”

You smirked without looking back. “You could be too.”

He stood beside you for a moment, then sat—grudgingly, like it offended him to admit he needed rest.

Silence lingered. But not heavy this time. Companionable.

“I’ve seen Grizzer bite men for less than standing too close to me,” he said eventually.

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” He paused. “That’s what’s strange.”

A beat passed.

“He trusts you,” Hound continued. “That’s not something I trained into him. That’s something he chose.”

You studied him—his scarred knuckles, the stiffness in his shoulders that never fully eased. A soldier first. A handler second. A man… somewhere beneath all of that.

“Then I guess he’s smarter than both of us,” you said softly.

Hound looked at you.

Not sharply. Not critically.

Just looked. And for the first time, you saw something tired in him. Not weak. Just worn down from too many deployments, too many arrests, too many shifting rules in a galaxy that didn’t make sense anymore.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe he just sees what I’m too used to ignoring.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

“You care. And you don’t ask for anything in return.”

Another pause. A flicker of something in his gaze.

“That’s rare in this job,” he added.

Grizzer padded over from the shadows and laid his heavy head on your lap, letting out a slow sigh.

Hound stared at the massiff, then at you again.

“I was wrong about you,” he said simply. “You’re not here to handle the animals.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re here to remind us we’re more than just uniforms.”

You didn’t respond.

Grizzer’s weight was comforting. His head rested on your lap, massive chest rising and falling in sync with your breathing. You absently scratched behind his coarse ears, your fingers finding the notch from some old skirmish or riot bite. Hound had gone quiet beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed.

He was still wearing half his armor—greaves, chestplate, the red markings catching the glow from the hangar lights below. He looked tired. But not worn down. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet soldiers earned, not feared.

“You always this silent off-duty?” you asked gently.

Hound exhaled a faint laugh—just enough breath to make it real. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin something.”

You turned toward him slightly. “Ruin what?”

He met your gaze. And something about it—about the lack of armor in his eyes—made the silence between you shift. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his hand lifted—callused and gloved—almost as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. But he stopped, fingers hovering just near your cheek.

“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “You don’t have to be.”

A breath passed.

He leaned in—barely. The kind of lean that spoke of hesitation, of a soldier measuring risk, calculating damage, even here. Even now.

And you leaned in, too.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. But the space between you narrowed to a thread, the kind you didn’t want to break. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.

Then—

“Sergeant.”

The voice cracked the moment apart like a blaster round through glass.

Both of you jerked slightly apart, tension resetting in your shoulders. Grizzer lifted his head from your lap, a low rumble forming deep in his throat.

Commander Fox stood at the top of the stairwell, arms folded, expression unreadable. His helmet was clipped to his belt, and his voice was flat.

“We’re short a patrol on Sector C-14. I need you on rotation, now.”

Hound’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once, efficient and emotionless.

“Copy that.”

Fox’s gaze slid to you, then to Grizzer—who was now fully on his feet, hackles half-raised, eyes locked on the Commander like he was prey. A low growl echoed across the steel.

“Call off your mutt,” Fox said sharply.

“He’s not a mutt,” you said before thinking, standing slowly and resting a hand on Grizzer’s flank. “He just doesn’t like people who interrupt.”

Fox’s brow twitched. Hound gave you the faintest side-glance—half warning, half impressed.

“See that he’s leashed and off the hangar levels by 2200,” Fox added, then turned and walked off without another word.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same.

Hound rose to his feet beside you. Grizzer stayed close to your leg, still staring toward the stairwell.

You broke the quiet first. “Almost.”

He nodded, quiet.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you said it. You didn’t need to.

But as he stepped away, pausing just long enough for one last look, you caught the faintest flicker of something in his voice—something that sounded like hope.

“I’m on rotation ‘til 0300,” he said. “But I’ll be back.”

You nodded once, heart steady but loud. “I’ll wait.”

Grizzer huffed.

Hound gave the massiff a rare half-smile.

“Try not to bite Fox next time,” he muttered.

But even you could tell… he wasn’t entirely serious.

⸻

You were still awake.

The barracks were quiet. You’d been sitting on a folded crate just outside the kennel med bay, a stim-caf growing cold between your hands, eyes scanning the darkened corridor.

When the outer hatch hissed open, your breath caught.

Hound stepped through first—helmet on, armor dulled with soot and carbon scuffs. But it wasn’t him your eyes locked on.

It was Grizzer.

He limped in beside his handler, front right paw curled tight to avoid weight, blood drying in a jagged smear up his shoulder. His thick tail was low but not tucked—still alert, still proud, but hurting.

“Blaster graze,” Hound said as he approached, voice clipped, too calm.

You were already moving.

“I’m not a vet, but—bring him in. Now.”

Hound didn’t argue.

He followed you through the kennel’s side hall into the back medical stall—one of the few areas with proper light and clean storage drawers. You cleared the low bench, grabbing antiseptic, gauze, a med-spray from your locker.

Grizzer lay down without command, eyes tracking you but not fighting. You took that as trust.

You worked in silence. Gently shaving back the singed fur, dabbing the graze clean. It wasn’t deep, but it had burned skin—angry, red, raw.

You caught Hound’s hands twitching at his sides more than once.

“He’ll be okay,” you said softly. “No nerve damage. He’ll walk it off in two days.”

Hound crouched beside Grizzer, resting one hand on the massiff’s uninjured shoulder, his other brushing through the thick fur behind his ear.

The silence that settled wasn’t empty—it was full.

Full of the sound of breath evening out. Of blood pressure lowering. Of armor creaking as a soldier finally let go.

“You care about him like he’s more than a partner,” you said, not as a question.

“He’s the only constant I’ve had since Kamino.”

The way he said it—low, quiet, unsentimental—landed heavy.

“I get that,” you replied. “You lose enough people, the ones who stay matter more.”

Grizzer let out a tired huff and nudged your wrist with his nose.

You smiled. “And he’s got good taste in people.”

Hound looked up at you.

Not guarded this time. Not assessing. Just looking.

“You stayed up,” he said.

“I said I’d wait.”

He stood slowly, watching you as you finished wrapping the bandage. The space between you narrowed again—this time in quiet exhaustion, quiet care.

You didn’t flinch when he reached up—just brushed a hand over your cheek, gentle, almost reverent.

He exhaled.

Then you leaned into him.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate or sharp—just honest. The kind of kiss that says I trust you, the kind that follows after weeks of tension and hours of worry. You melted into it, letting your hand rest over the back of his neckplate, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Then—

Grizzer groaned and shifted between your legs, snout nudging the both of you apart. He pushed his head under your arm and leaned hard into your ribs, jealous and affectionate all at once.

You laughed, breathless. “You little saboteur.”

“He’s worse than Fox,” Hound muttered.

You and Hound both turned as the side hall door hissed open again.

“Oh for kriff’s—”

Commander Thorn stood in the doorway, a datapad in hand, brows raised.

He took one look at the scene—Grizzer crammed between the two of you like a possessive third wheel, Hound with his hand still at your waist, you flushed and tousled.

There was a long pause.

Thorn blinked once. Then he pivoted neatly on his heel.

“I don’t wanna know about it,” he said, walking off.

The door hissed shut again behind him.

Silence.

Then Hound let out a low chuckle—just a puff of breath, really, but it was genuine. He looked down at you, still holding your waist.

“At least it wasn’t Fox.”

You smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Grizzer gave one last grunt of satisfaction and nosed between you both again.

Hound shook his head, but his hand didn’t leave your side.

Not this time.

“Shadows of Theed”

Boss (RC-1138) x Reader

Theed’s skyline shimmered under the afternoon sun, its golden domes reflecting the light in a display of serene beauty. Yet beneath this tranquil facade, tension simmered. The recent assassination attempts on Queen Jamillia and Senator Padmé Amidala had prompted the Royal Security Forces to request additional protection from the Republic.

You stood at attention in the palace courtyard, your crimson uniform crisp, hand resting on the hilt of your blaster. As a member of the Royal Naboo Guard, your duty was to protect the monarchy and its representatives. Today, that duty extended to welcoming the Republic’s elite clone commando unit: Delta Squad.

The low hum of a Republic gunship grew louder as it descended, kicking up dust and causing your cape to flutter. The ramp lowered, revealing four armored figures stepping out in formation.

Leading them was RC-1138, known as Boss. His orange-striped armor bore the marks of countless battles, and his posture exuded authority.

Behind him, RC-1140, or Fixer, moved with calculated precision. His green-accented armor was immaculate, and his visor scanned the surroundings methodically.

To Fixer’s left was RC-1207, Sev. His armor bore red markings resembling blood splatter, a reflection of his grim sense of humor and reputation as a fierce sniper.

Bringing up the rear was RC-1262, Scorch. His armor was marked with yellow accents, and he carried himself with a relaxed confidence.

As they approached, Boss stepped forward, his helmet concealing his expression.

“Sergeant RC-1138, reporting in,” he stated, his voice modulated through the helmet’s speaker. “Delta Squad is at your service.”

You offered a formal nod. “Welcome to Theed, Sergeant. I’m Lieutenant [Y/N], Royal Naboo Guard. We’ve been briefed on your assignment.”

Boss inclined his head slightly. “Understood. Our primary objective is to ensure the safety of Queen Jamillia and Senator Amidala.”

“Correct,” you affirmed. “We’ll coordinate patrols and share intelligence. Your squad will be integrated into our security protocols.”

Behind Boss, Scorch leaned slightly toward Sev and whispered, “Think they have any good caf here?”

Sev replied dryly, “As long as it doesn’t taste like ration packs, I’ll consider it a luxury.”

Fixer, without looking up from his wrist-mounted datapad, interjected, “Focus, Deltas. We’re here for a mission, not a vacation.”

Boss turned his head slightly. “Maintain discipline. We’re guests here.”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Your squad has a unique dynamic.”

Boss’s tone remained neutral. “We operate efficiently.”

⸻

Over the next few days, Delta Squad integrated into the palace’s security framework. Joint patrols were established, and you found yourself frequently paired with Boss. His stoic nature made conversation sparse, but his presence was reassuring.

One evening, during a perimeter check, you decided to break the silence.

“Your squadmates have distinct personalities,” you observed.

Boss glanced at you. “They’re effective.”

“I’ve noticed,” you replied. “Scorch’s humor, Sev’s intensity, Fixer’s precision. And you—you’re the anchor.”

He paused, considering your words. “Leadership requires stability.”

You nodded. “It’s commendable.”

A brief silence settled before he spoke again. “Your team is well-trained.”

“Thank you,” you said. “We take pride in our duty.”

As the patrol continued, a comfortable silence enveloped you both, the foundation of mutual respect beginning to form.

⸻

The days turned into weeks, and the collaboration between your unit and Delta Squad deepened. Shared meals and joint exercises fostered camaraderie. Scorch’s jokes became a familiar background noise, Sev’s rare smirks were victories, and Fixer’s occasional nods signaled approval.

With Boss, the connection grew subtly. Shared glances during briefings, synchronized movements during drills, and the occasional exchange of dry humor.

One night, after a successful operation thwarting an assassination attempt, you found yourselves alone on a balcony overlooking Theed.

“The city’s peaceful tonight,” you remarked.

Boss nodded. “A welcome change.”

You turned to him. “Do you ever think about life beyond the war?”

He was silent for a moment. “Sometimes. But duty comes first.”

You smiled softly. “Always the soldier.”

He looked at you, his gaze intense. “It’s who I am.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping closer, “there’s more to you.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but the way his hand brushed against yours spoke volumes.

The city lights glittered below like the reflection of a thousand quiet thoughts. The silence between you and Boss wasn’t strained—it was gentle, natural. It had become that way over the last few weeks. You stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his armor radiating softly through the Naboo evening chill.

His helmet was still on, the ever-present barrier between his world and yours. But something in his posture shifted, a subtle drop in his shoulders, a small exhale that sounded more like a sigh than static.

Then—quietly—he said, “It’s strange.”

You turned to look at him. “What is?”

“Peace.” A beat. “This planet. The quiet.” He paused, like he was deciding whether to say more. “I’m used to marching into warzones. Places that smell like carbon and blood. Where the air’s thick with ash and tension. But here… it’s almost too quiet. Makes you feel like… something could go wrong any second.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised he was sharing this. “Maybe it’s not that something will go wrong. Maybe it’s just that you’ve never known anything but chaos.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, his hands came up to his helmet. You heard the hiss of pressure release before he pulled it off and cradled it against his side.

This was the first time you’d seen his face. You had imagined it—many times—but the reality was softer than you’d expected. Strong features, yes, but tired eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, too fast. He looked younger without the helmet, and older all at once.

He didn’t look at you right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline.

“I don’t usually take it off,” he admitted. “Feels… exposed.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t have to explain. But thank you for trusting me.”

His eyes finally met yours then, sharp and searching, but not cold. “You’re different from the officers I’ve worked with before.”

“Good different?” you teased softly.

He didn’t smile, exactly—but something softened around his mouth. “Real different.”

You leaned against the railing beside him, your fingers brushing his. This time, he didn’t move away. He turned his hand slightly until his gloved pinky hooked around yours.

“I don’t know what happens after this assignment,” you said quietly. “But I know I’ll remember this. You.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

The moment stretched—not romantic in the overly dramatic way holodramas would tell it, but intimate in its honesty. The weight of your fingers against each other. The hush of the Naboo breeze. The flickering of torchlight behind you, and the way his gaze lingered on your face like he was memorizing it.

And then, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from someone who rarely acted on impulse, Boss leaned in slightly—slowly, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. His forehead came to rest gently against yours. It was a simple thing. No kiss, no dramatics. Just contact. Shared breath. A moment stolen from the endless march of duty.

“I can’t afford to be soft,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But you make me want to be.”

You closed your eyes, forehead still pressed to his. “Then let this be the place where you can.”

His hand, calloused and heavy, rose to cup the side of your neck for a second before falling away. Not because he didn’t want more—but because he wasn’t ready yet. And maybe you weren’t either. But that was okay. It was enough.

Tonight, it was enough.

“Painted Gold”

Commander Bly x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Your lekku ached by the end of the day—dust, sun, and tension clinging to your skin like static. The Republic base on Saleucami wasn’t built for comfort, especially not for Twi’leks. The durasteel walls felt colder, the clone stares felt longer.

But not his.

Commander Bly didn’t stare. He observed. Quietly. Constantly. With that golden visor that gave nothing away—and still, somehow, everything.

You’d first met him patching up his troops in the med bay you ran. Your hands worked quickly—practiced, efficient—but Bly’s attention never left the soldier on the table. Not until you touched his shoulder.

“Commander,” you’d said, “he’s stabilized. You can breathe.”

His helmet turned slowly toward you. “I am breathing.”

You hadn’t been so sure.

Now, weeks later, you’d come to expect him. He brought his troopers in for treatment like clockwork. Always formal. Always quiet. Always… watching.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Too quiet. Even the droids had stopped advancing—pulling back, regrouping. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones.

So could Bly.

He stood near the perimeter, hands behind his back, helmet off for once. His golden markings shimmered faintly in the dying sun, and his gaze was turned toward the horizon like it had something to answer for.

You walked up beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You always stand like that,” you said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re bracing for something to hit you.”

He was quiet a moment.

“I usually am.”

You turned to look at him. His face was as hard as durasteel, but the lines were tired. Older than he should be. Too much war. Not enough sleep. Not enough peace.

“You’re not just watching the horizon, are you?” you asked. “You’re thinking.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

“About what?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“About you.”

That stopped you.

“I’ve seen a lot of medics,” he continued, his voice low, gravelly, careful. “But I’ve never seen someone patch a man up like she’s stitching together something sacred. You treat every soldier like they matter.”

“They do matter.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

You looked away, heart tight. “Because they die?”

“Because I could.”

You turned back. He was staring at you now—truly staring. No visor. No armor. Just him.

“And if I did,” he said, softer now, “I wouldn’t want to go without… knowing what this is.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I don’t know how to say it right,” he added. “Never learned. But when I see you—it’s like there’s a part of the war that isn’t ugly.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t need to say it right, Bly. You already did.”

His hand curled around yours. Warm. Rough. Real.

And there, on the edge of battle, surrounded by silence and fading light, Commander Bly leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to yours—Twi’lek to clone, soldier to healer, broken to breaking.

And you let him.

Because love didn’t always come with declarations.

Sometimes, it came painted in gold.

⸻

YAAA IM SUCH A HUGE FAN OF YOUR TBB WORK AND I FINALLY HAVE A REQUEST IDEA…

Mandalorian reader who speaks in Mando’a to herself when she thinks she’s alone, and one day cf 99 overhears her!!

tysm if you do this, like I said I love your work and I’m so excited to read more <3 take care lovely!!

Thank you x

I hope this is somewhat close to what you had in mind.

“Secrets in the Shadows”

Bad Batch x Reader

The cantina was loud as usual, reeking of stale spotchka and poor decisions. You sat in the corner booth at Cid’s, helmet off but gauntlets still on, nursing a cheap drink and a cheaper job. You’d just come back from a run that paid in credits so light they could float off your palm. Figures.

You muttered to yourself, low and in a tongue most beings on Ord Mantell didn’t understand.

“Kriffing dikkut,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for your own ears. “Ni ru'kir not even cuyir sha borarir today… bal par meg”

You swirled your cup, leaned back with a scowl. In your mind Cid’s got no honor, no plan. Just her greasy fingers in every job on this rock.

Another sip. You were speaking louder now. You thought you were alone. “Meh Ni had options, Ni Ru'kel tettar kaysh shebs off a roof”

“Interesting,” came a voice just behind you.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head—and saw the familiar faces of Clone Force 99. Hunter stood with his arms folded, head tilted. Tech was already tapping on his datapad. Crosshair had a toothpick in his mouth and that smug glint in his eye. Wrecker was smirking like you just said something hilarious. Echo said nothing, but his gaze was sharp.

“You speak Mando’a,” Tech noted, without looking up. “Quite fluently.”

You stood quickly, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“No osik,” you snapped. “Didn’t exactly mean for the whole squad to eavesdrop.”

Crosshair chuckled. “You talk to yourself in a dead language, and we’re the weird ones?”

Your visor snapped down. “It’s not dead. Just sleeping. Like a rancor with teeth.”

Hunter took a step closer. “Why keep it quiet?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared, then finally said, “Because it’s mine. Because people like Cid don’t deserve to hear it. Because you aruetiise don’t know what it means to carry a name that was earned, not assigned.”

Wrecker looked genuinely hurt. “Hey, we’ve fought with you, bled with you—”

“Doesn’t make us vod,” you interrupted. “Not yet.”

Echo stepped forward, quieter than the rest. “We’re not trying to be something we’re not. But we do understand what it’s like to have your culture stolen and your purpose used.”

That made you pause.

You looked at him for a long time, the words catching in your throat. Then, finally, you said it—soft, but clear.

“Ni ven, ori’vod. But you tell that chakaar Cid if she lowballs me again, I’ll weld her bar shut.”

Crosshair’s smirk widened. “I’ll get the torch.”

Hunter let out a rare chuckle. “Fair enough. Next time, maybe just let us know when you’re venting in Mando’a. We’ll knock first.”

You gave a subtle nod and walked past them, muttering under your breath again.

“I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

But your pace slowed at the door. Just for a second.

And none of them missed it.

Bad Batch/Clone Force 99 Material List 🖤♠️💀🩸💋◾️

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

The Bad Batch

- x Jedi Reader “About time you showed up” 🏡

- x Reader “permission to feel” 🏡

- x Fem!Reader “ours” ❤️/🏡

- x Fem!Reader “Seconds”🏡

- x Fem!Reader “undercover temptation” 🌶️

- x reader “Say that again?”❤️

- x reader “Echoes in Dust” ❤️🏡

- x Reader “Secrets in the Shadow”

- “The Scent of Home”🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Hunter

- x Mandalorian Reader pt.1❤️

- x Mandalorian Reader pt. 2❤️

- x Pabu Reader❤️

- x reader “good looking”❤️

- x reader “Ride” 🌶️

- x reader “What is that smell”❤️

- x Plus sized reader “All the parts of you” ❤️

- x Reader “Flower Tactics”

Tech

- x mechanic reader ❤️

- x Jedi Reader “uncalculated variables”❤️

- x Reader “Theoretical Feelings” ❤️

- x Reader “Statistical Probability of Love” ❤️

- x Reader “Sweet Circuits” ❤️

- x Reader “you talk too much (and I like it)”

- x Fem reader “Recalibration” 🌶️

- x Jealous Reader “More than Calculations”

- x Reader “There are other ways”

-“Exactly Us” ❤️

- “The Fall Doesn’t End You” 🏡/❤️

- “Heat Index” ❤️

- “Terminally Yours” ❤️

Wrecker

- x Shop keeper reader❤️

- x Reader “I wanna wreck our friendship”❤️

- x Reader “Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”❤️

- x reader “Big enough to hold you”❤️

- x Torguta Reader “The Sound of Your Voice”❤️

- “Heart of the Wreckage” ❤️

Echo

- x Senator!Reader❤️

- x reader “safe with you”❤️

- “Operation: Stay Forever” ❤️

Crosshair

- x reader “The Stillness Between Waves❤️

- x reader “just like the rest”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “Right on Target” 🌶️

- “Sharp Eyes” ❤️

Captain Howzer

- x Twi’lek Reader “Quiet Rebellion”❤️

- “A safe place to fall” ❤️

Overall Material List

212th material List🧡🍑🍊🔶🏵️

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Commander Cody

- x Twi’lek Reader❤️

- x Queen Reader❤️

- x Jedi reader “meet me in the woods”❤️

- x Jedi Reader “Cold Wind”❤️

- x Bounty Hunter Reader “Crossfire” multiple chapter❤️

- x GN Mandalorian Reader “One Too Many” ❤️

- “Diplomacy & Detonations” ❤️

- “I Think They Call This Love”

Waxer

- x Twi’lek Reader “painted in dust”❤️

Overall Material List

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

- Rebels Wolffe x reader “somewhere only we know”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

- x Reader “hit me (like you mean it)”❤️

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List

501st Material List 💙🦋🛋️🥶

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Overall

- “The Warmth Between Wars”🏡

- “Your What?!"🏡

- “Armour for the Skin” 🏡

- “Hearts of the 501st” ❤️

Arc Trooper Fives

- x bounty hunter reader pt.1❤️

- x bounty hunter reader pt.2 ❤️

- x reader “This Life”❤️

- x reader “Name First, Then Trouble”🌶️

- x Sith!Reader “The Worst Luck”❤️

Captain Rex

- x Jedi Reader❤️

- x Villager Reader ❤️

- x reader “what remains”❤️

- x Sith Assassin Reader “only one target”❤️

- x Reader “Ghosts of the Game”

- x Bounty Hunter Reader “Crossfire” multiple characters ❤️

- x Jedi Reader “War On Two Fronts” multiple parts

- “Smile”❤️

- “501st Confidential (Except it’s Not)” ❤️

Arc Trooper Echo

- x Old Republic Jedi Reader❤️

- x Old Republic Jedi Reader pt.2❤️

- “A Ghost in the Circuit” 🏡❤️

Hardcase

- x medic reader ❤️

Kix

- x Jedi reader “stitches & secrets”❤️

- “First Name Basis” ❤️

Overall Material List

Delta Squad Material List🧡❤️💚💛

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Boss

- x reader “directive breach”❤️

- x Reader “Shadows of Theed”❤️

- x Reader “Duty Calls, Desire Waits”❤️

Sev

- x Reader “still just a rat in a cage”❤️

- x Reader “Storm and Starlight”❤️

- x Reader “Vertical Evac”❤️

Scorch

- x reader “Pull the Trigger”❤️

- “Where’s your head at” 🏡/❤️

Fixer

- x Reader “Caf Break” ❤️

Overall Material List

Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Commander Fox

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️

- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️

- x reader “command and consequence”❤️

- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️

- “Red Lines” multiple parts

- “soft spot” ❤️

Commander Thorn

- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️

- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️

Sergeant Hound

- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”

Overall Material List

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

“Diplomacy & Detonations”

Commander Cody x Village Leader Reader

Their ship barely had time to land before blaster rifles were pointed at them.

“I told you I didn’t want help,” came a voice from the treeline—sharp, challenging, full of attitude.

Commander Cody raised a hand to signal the 212th to hold. From behind him, Obi-Wan calmly stepped forward.

“We’re not here to interfere, only to support your defense—”

“You are interference,” the voice snapped.

Then you stepped into view.

A whirlwind of belts, loose straps, feathers, and leather. Goggles shoved to your forehead, hands on hips, expression full of contempt. You looked at the fully armored, clean-cut clones like they were an invasive species.

Obi-Wan bowed slightly. “You must be the village leader—”

You held up a hand. “No, no, don’t butter me up with that Jedi etiquette crap. You’re uninvited.”

“I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say,” Cody said, stepping forward.

You blinked at him. Then walked slowly around him, circling like a predator.

“Mm. Square jaw. Soldier posture. Serious as a stun baton to the ribs. You’re the commander?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Unfortunate.” You gave a nasty grin. “I was hoping for someone I could beat in an argument.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re welcome to try.”

You smirked.

Just as you squared your shoulders, ready to argue—maybe throw a punch—a group of kids came tumbling out from the trees. A little one tugged your coat.

“Boss! Are we really getting Republic soldiers? That means laser tanks, right? And hot rations?”

You didn’t even turn. “Not now, shitheads, I’m busy beating up strangers.”

Cody blinked. Waxer coughed to hide his laughter. Ahsoka’s eyes went wide. Anakin mumbled, “Oh, Force.”

Later, around a crackling fire in your chaotic half-open planning tent (made of repurposed sailcloth and wire), Obi-Wan laid it out clearly.

“The Separatists are planning a full invasion. Three battalions of B1 units, two AATs, and an orbiting cruiser for support.”

You sipped from a cup of what smelled like fermented jungle fruit and blinked slowly. “So… what you’re saying is… there’s gonna be a fight?”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll be… big?”

“Yes.”

You sat up straighter. Your grin turned hungry.

“Fine. I accept your help.”

Cody raised a brow. “That fast?”

You threw your arms out dramatically. “You brought me violence! You should’ve led with that!”

Boil leaned over to Waxer. “She’s gonna get us all killed, isn’t she?”

Waxer whispered back, “Yeah. But it’ll be fun.”

⸻

Two days later, you were mid-dismantle of a thermal sensor when Cody approached.

“You shouldn’t be in the blast zone. This isn’t standard military procedure.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face and smirked. “I’m not a standard anything, Commander.”

Cody exhaled. “You’re reckless.”

You held up a small grenade. “I call it chaotic innovation.”

“It’s dangerous.”

You grinned. “So are your cheekbones, but I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

He blinked. “…What?”

You tossed the grenade to him. He caught it reflexively.

“Good hands,” you said. “I like that.”

He stared down at the live grenade in his palm.

“Is this—armed?”

You winked. “Might wanna disarm before you end up splattered on that wall.”

⸻

When the droids finally attacked, you were thriving.

You rode into battle standing on a makeshift hover-skiff, brandishing a long spear with fireworks tied to it, cackling like a banshee.

Cody shouted into the comm: “Can someone please get her out of the crossfire?”

Waxer replied: “We tried. She bit Boil.”

Boil yelled: “She did NOT! I just tripped—!”

“You tripped because she kicked you!”

⸻

Later that night, after the battle, the village lay safe. The droids were in pieces. And you sat on a fallen log with your knees tucked up, staring at the jungle.

Cody approached, helmet off.

“You did well today.”

You sighed. “Don’t ruin it with compliments.”

He smirked. “I’m trying to be civil.”

You eyed him. “Why? Planning to ask me to dinner?”

A pause.

“…Would you go?”

You stared.

Then laughed. “Commander. If you take me to dinner, I’ll probably start a bar fight and make you pay the tab.”

“Noted.”

You tilted your head. “You’d really take me?”

Cody shrugged, voice quiet. “You fight for your people. You’re unpredictable, reckless… and you’ve got guts. I respect that.”

You squinted. “That’s either the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me… or the scariest.”

He held out a hand.

You took it, grinning wide. “Alright, Tensejaw. Maybe I’ll let you stick around.”

Hello! I saw that you do song fics and I had the idea for a Cody X Reader with the song “I think they call this love” by Elliot James. Been obsessed over this song for awhile and I think it would be really cute! Xxx (and if it’s possible to add a few of the others clones teasing Cody even obi wan?)

“I Think They Call This Love”

Commander Cody x Reader

Coruscant at night was too loud for someone trying not to fall in love.

Cody wasn’t even sure when it started. It might’ve been the day you were transferred to his unit. Might’ve been the first time you fixed the aim on a malfunctioning turret like it was nothing. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the first time he heard you hum.

You always did that—murmured little melodies under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention. You’d tap your fingers along your belt or your mug, shoulders swaying lightly to some old Core World tune. It was never full-on singing—just enough to hook in Cody’s brain like a memory.

And tonight? You were humming that one again.

“I think they call this love… I think they call this love…”

You were dancing with Waxer near the bar at 79’s, laughing so hard your drink almost spilled, one hand gripping his vambrace as he attempted to twirl you—poorly. Boil leaned against the counter, snickering into his glass.

“I swear, she’s gonna break your neck,” Boil said. “And then Cody’s gonna have to fill out the paperwork.”

Cody sat a few stools down, arms crossed, pretending very hard that he wasn’t staring.

“You know,” Boil added loudly, “if Cody glared any harder, he’d melt the floor.”

“Shut up,” Cody muttered.

“Yeah, sure. Real subtle, Commander,” Waxer called over, catching your hand before you nearly toppled him over. “You’ve been watching her like she’s a walking war crime.”

Wolffe chuckled beside Cody, taking a long sip of his drink. “He gets like this every time. We’ve placed bets. So far, Obi-Wan’s winning.”

Cody turned slowly. “Obi-Wan’s betting on me?”

As if summoned by sass, Obi-Wan appeared behind them, raising a glass like he’d been lurking all night. “Only because I believe in you, Cody. Also because I know how utterly incapable you are at expressing your feelings.”

“Fantastic.”

“Don’t worry,” Rex added dryly. “You’ve got time. She only flirts with you every time she breathes.”

Cody groaned and looked back toward the dancefloor—and you were already walking his way.

Boots light, smile glowing, music catching the end of your latest hum as you slid into the stool beside him. You didn’t look at the others. Just him.

“You okay there, Commander?” you asked, head tilted. “Or should I get you a medic for whatever emotional crisis you’re currently going through?”

Cody blinked. “I—what?”

You leaned closer, voice lower now. “They’re not exactly subtle,” you said with a smile. “And neither are you.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” Boil chimed in behind you.

Waxer raised his hand. “Respectfully, he’s been staring for about four months.”

You laughed under your breath and turned fully to Cody, your knees brushing his. “You gonna keep letting them talk for you?”

Cody exhaled slowly. You were so close. Your eyes searched his, not playfully now—but curiously. Hopefully. The hum of the bar faded as your presence filled his whole damn world.

“I think…” he started, voice a little hoarse. “I think I’m in love with you.”

A pause.

Then you grinned. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just relieved.

“That’s funny,” you said softly. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”

And then—you kissed him.

Quick, warm, but everything changed in that second. His hand slid to your waist before he could stop it, and you smiled against his lips like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

Behind you, cheers erupted.

“Finally!” Waxer crowed.

“You owe me twenty credits!” Rex shouted at Wolffe.

Boil let out a low whistle. “Hope you’re ready to be the only thing Cody stares at now.”

Obi-Wan raised his glass and added, “It’s about time our fearless Commander admitted he had a heart.”

You didn’t even look back. You just pressed your forehead to Cody’s and whispered, “Don’t let go of me, okay?”

He didn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

The music swelled again behind you, and for once, Cody let himself listen.

“If this is what they call love…”

He smiled.

Then he wanted all of it—with you.

“Side Streets and Solitude”

Commander Neyo x Reader

You saw him before he ever ordered a drink.

Most clones came into 79’s loud, rowdy, aching for some distraction. But he walked in alone—always alone—helmet tucked under his arm. He wore that long coat like armor, even off duty, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight no one else could see. He never smiled. Not once.

You didn’t ask his name. You just called him “the usual?” and he’d nod once, wordless. Whisky. Neat. Never touched the beer.

He sat at the far end of the bar, not too close to anyone, but never hiding. Just… existing in the silence between laughs and music and the rest of the Guard forgetting the war for five minutes. He never joined them. Just drank. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.

You learned to stop wiping the counter when you passed him. He didn’t like the sudden movement. You figured that out after the first night, when his hand twitched toward the blaster holstered at his side.

Some clones called him Neyo. Commander. You didn’t use it. He didn’t correct you either way.

“You ever smile?” you asked once, half-joking, late in the night when the place had thinned out and the hum of the room softened. You were stacking glasses, looking at him across the lip of the bar.

He didn’t look up. “Not much to smile about.”

You let that hang. You knew a man carrying ghosts when you saw one.

“Yeah. I get that.”

He glanced at you then, just once. A flicker. Like he didn’t expect to be understood. You didn’t need to tell him your story—he didn’t want it, probably—but that look said he clocked it. That you weren’t like the others either.

You lived in the same city, drank the same watered-down liquor, but both of you were walking some kind of empty road no one else could see.

For a long time, you just stood in silence. Him with his drink. You with your rag and your thoughts.

Finally, he said, “I come here because it’s quiet. Even when it’s loud. You know?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s a good place to feel alone. But not… completely.”

He blinked, slow. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t expect him to. But he came back the next night. And the next.

Always alone. Always quiet. But now, when he sat down, he looked at you first.

Not a smile. But maybe something close.

⸻

He didn’t come back for two weeks.

You didn’t ask where he went. You knew better than to ask questions like that. Especially with the GAR—especially with him.

But when he came back, he had blood on his gloves. Not his. You could tell by the way he moved.

You poured his drink before he reached the bar.

“Rough one?” you asked, voice low, like if you spoke too loud it might break whatever fragile tether kept him standing upright.

He sat. Took the glass. Didn’t answer right away.

“Lost a good man.”

You nodded. “They always are.”

A long silence followed. The kind that settled in your chest.

“They say we’re not supposed to get attached.” His voice was flat, but his hands were tight around the glass. “Doesn’t matter. You feel it anyway.”

You didn’t say I’m sorry. That phrase meant nothing in a place like this. Instead, you grabbed another glass and poured one for yourself.

“To the good ones,” you said, raising it halfway.

He didn’t lift his, just looked at you. Then, after a second, knocked it back.

That became a new ritual. Not every time. Just sometimes. When the grief sat too heavy in his coat.

Over time, you learned the little things.

He preferred the quiet of the back booth when the place wasn’t packed. He never danced, never flirted, didn’t touch the food. When the music got too loud or too fast, he’d drift outside for air. You started meeting him out there with a second drink, standing beside him under the flickering streetlamp, neither of you talking unless the silence needed it.

“Most people see clones as one thing,” you said once, after a few too many customers had made too many dumb jokes about regs. “But you’re all different. You especially.”

He stared ahead, helmet under his arm again, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter if we are. Not to the people who give the orders.”

You looked at him. “Does it matter to you?”

That made him pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. Then added, “I remember every face I’ve lost. That’s how I know I’m still me.”

And that—more than any long-winded speech—told you everything you needed to know about him.

He wasn’t a man of many words. But what he gave, he meant.

And still, he never stayed long. One night here, three days gone. A week of silence, then another appearance. No promises. No warnings.

But when he did come in, he’d glance toward the bar before scanning the room. Like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping you’d still be there.

You always were.

One night, close to closing, the place was empty. Rain tapped at the windows, slow and rhythmic. Neyo was sitting at his usual spot, coat slung over the chair.

You brought him his drink, and this time, slid a datapad across the bar.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A list,” you said. “Of my shifts. So you don’t have to wonder.”

He looked at it. Then at you.

That unreadable look again.

You smiled. “I know you won’t always show up. But if you do… I’ll be here.”

His fingers grazed the pad, slow. He didn’t smile. But he held your gaze a little longer this time.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. A rare thing, that word.

You poured him another drink and stood across from him, matching his silence.

The war hadn’t ended. The streets were still cracked. The dreams were still broken. But for now, in this little corner of the galaxy, you both had somewhere to walk that wasn’t so lonely.

⸻

Neyo wasn’t the kind of man who noticed absence.

He was trained to move forward. To endure loss like gravity—constant, inevitable, unavoidable.

But when he walked into 79’s that night and saw someone else behind the bar, something shifted.

She was too talkative. Young. Smiled too much. Had never poured him a drink before, and made it obvious by asking, “What’ll it be, sir?”

Sir.

He blinked. Something cold crept up his spine, not fear, not anger—just dissonance.

He sat down anyway. Same stool. Same spot.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

She nodded, turned, poured. A splash too much.

He looked at the drink. Didn’t touch it.

You never asked what he wanted. You already knew.

“Is [Y/N] around?” he asked, voice low, forced casual.

The bartender blinked. “Oh—they called in sick tonight. First time I’ve worked with their section, actually.”

Called in sick.

He sat back slowly, fingers tightening just slightly on the glass. He told himself it didn’t matter. People got sick. People missed shifts.

But you never had before.

He stayed longer than usual that night, even though everything felt… wrong. The lights too bright. The music too upbeat. He didn’t finish his drink. Just let it sit there, the amber catching light, untouched and warm.

The new bartender tried to make conversation once—asked something about the war. He ignored her.

Eventually, he stood, paid without a word, and walked out into the rain.

He didn’t know where he was going until he got there—corner street, flickering streetlamp, just outside the side entrance. Where you used to stand with him when it got too loud.

You weren’t there, of course.

He leaned against the wall anyway.

Rain pattered onto his shoulders. Steam curled off the street like breath.

He didn’t understand it—why the night felt heavier without you in it. He didn’t have the words for that kind of absence. But it gnawed at him, that sudden space you left behind. The silence you weren’t filling.

He looked down at the datapad in his coat. The one with your shift list, still saved.

Tomorrow, you’d be back. Probably.

And if you weren’t… he didn’t want to think about that.

⸻

You came back on a quiet night.

No fanfare. No apology. Just walked in through the back door, tied your apron, and started cleaning a glass like you hadn’t missed a beat.

But Neyo saw it.

The way your eyes didn’t search for him first. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

When he took his usual seat, you were already pouring his drink. But your hands moved slower.

“You were gone,” he said, voice steady.

You nodded. “Yeah. Needed a night.”

He didn’t reply. Just watched you slide the glass across to him, fingers brushing, not quite touching.

Then you said it—quietly, like it was a confession.

“I handed in my resignation.”

He blinked once. “What?”

“I start somewhere new next week. Smaller place. Little more out of the way. Less noise.” You looked at him, trying to read him like you always did, but his expression didn’t shift. “I just… I needed a change.”

A long silence followed. You hated the way it stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Where?”

You told him the name of the place. A lounge bar tucked into one of the upper levels—not exactly seedy, but not exactly clone-friendly either.

He stared at his drink. “They don’t serve clones there.”

Your breath caught. “Yeah, I know.”

Another silence.

“I didn’t choose it because of that,” you said quickly. “It’s just… different. It’s quiet. Thought maybe I’d try something new.”

He didn’t look at you.

“You won’t see me there,” he said plainly. Not cruel. Just fact.

You nodded. “I figured.”

You wanted to say more—to explain that it wasn’t about him, that you weren’t abandoning him, that the weight of every war-worn story and every heavy silence was starting to drown you. But you didn’t. Because that would be unfair. Because you knew what he’d say.

He lifted the glass and drank. Then sat it back down with a soft clink.

“When?”

“Three days.”

He gave a short nod.

You looked at him for a long time. “I’ll miss this.”

He didn’t answer.

But his jaw clenched. Just barely.

Then, softer than you’d ever heard from him: “So will I.”

That was the closest thing to goodbye you were ever going to get.

And somehow… it hurt more than if he’d said nothing at all.

⸻

It was your last shift.

The bar felt the same, but you didn’t. Everything had a weight to it now. The laughter, the music, even the way you wiped down the counter—it all carried finality.

And he was there.

Neyo showed up just before midnight. Sat at the end of the bar like always, helmet on the counter, armor dull with wear. He didn’t say anything when you slid him his drink. Just gave you a long look.

You didn’t need words tonight.

You served your last table, handed over the till, and untied your apron with tired fingers. The place was quieter than usual. The other bartender took over, giving you a soft wave as you shrugged into your coat.

You turned to leave—and saw him waiting at the door.

Outside, the street was cool and quiet. Your boots echoed against the duracrete. Neyo walked beside you, silent as a shadow.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you said softly.

He glanced over. “Didn’t want you walking alone.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re sweet when you’re trying not to be.”

He didn’t respond—but you could’ve sworn his jaw loosened, just a bit.

You walked in companionable silence, the kind that only came from two people who had said more in silence than they ever could aloud.

When you reached your building, you stopped at the steps and turned to him.

“If you ever need a drink…” you started, watching his face, “you’re welcome to come around.”

He stared at you. Not in the usual guarded way, but with something else in his eyes—something uncertain, almost… longing.

Then you added, “Want to come up?”

It hung there, a gentle offer, nothing more.

For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. It was written in his posture—the way he stood like he might turn away.

But then… he nodded.

You didn’t smile. Just opened the door and led the way.

Your apartment was small, cluttered, warm. You threw your coat over the back of the couch and kicked off your boots.

Neyo stood just inside the door, helmet under his arm like a shield he didn’t know where to put.

“You can sit,” you offered.

He did—hesitantly, armor creaking as he lowered himself onto the couch. You poured two drinks from a half-finished bottle on the counter and handed him one.

“You sure you’re off duty?” you teased lightly.

His eyes met yours over the rim of the glass. “I’m never off duty.”

You sat beside him, the air thick with things unsaid. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“Why’d you really wait for me?” you asked, voice softer now.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t want to regret not saying goodbye.”

You swallowed. “You saying goodbye now?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or practiced—it was urgent, restrained, the way a man kisses when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again. Your fingers curled into his blacks, and his gloves dropped to the floor. The helmet followed. You pulled him closer, and for once, he didn’t resist.

His hands were calloused, unsure, but when they found your skin, they lingered like he was memorizing every inch. You guided him, slow but certain, until his barriers fell—not just the armor, but the weight he carried behind his eyes.

He wasn’t a soldier in that moment.

He was a man. Tired. Raw. Desperate for something real.

And you gave it to him.

Bittersweet. Fleeting.

The kind of night that lingers like the echo of a song you almost forgot—until it finds you again in the quiet.

His mouth was still warm against yours when he pulled back, breath shallow, eyes unreadable.

You stayed close, barely inches apart, your fingers still resting against the edge of his undersuit.

“Neyo,” you whispered, searching his face. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye.”

His jaw clenched. Not in anger—just habit. A response to something he didn’t know how to process.

He looked away, eyes dragging across the room like he was already retreating. Like he had to remind himself where he was. Who he was.

“I don’t get to stay,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I don’t have that kind of life.”

You leaned in again, gently, slowly, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

“I’m not asking for forever,” you said. “Just… don’t shut the door before you’ve even walked through it.”

He looked at you again, and something flickered behind his eyes. It wasn’t hope—but it was something close.

“I don’t want to leave and forget this ever happened,” you added. “I don’t want to pretend like you never came in out of the rain, like we didn’t sit under that streetlight all those nights like we were the only two people left in the world.”

His breath hitched—but barely.

“You don’t talk much,” you said softly, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye. “But you stayed. You showed up. Every time. That’s gotta mean something.”

Neyo closed his eyes, just for a second. When he opened them again, he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it wasn’t a goodbye either.

And for someone like him, that was more than enough.

You stayed like that for a while—still dressed, still halfway caught in that space between war and peace, silence and what could be.

Then, finally, he spoke. A whisper. A truth you weren’t expecting.

“I’ll come find you.”

You nodded, even as your chest tightened. “Good.”

Because you weren’t sure when—or if—he would. But you believed him.

And maybe, for one of the first times in his life, so did he.

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Epic the musical and the song “There are other ways” but I was thinking a Tech X Reader where he gets lost and comes across a sorceress and she seduces him and it’s very steamy? Lmk if this is ok, if not feel free to delete. Xx

“There Are Other Ways”

Tech x Reader

Tech had been separated from the squad before. Statistically speaking, given the volume of missions they undertook in unpredictable terrain, the odds were precisely 3.8% per assignment. He should have been more prepared for it—should have accounted for environmental disruptions, latent electromagnetic fields, or the possibility of the forest itself being… alive.

Still, none of that explained why his visor fritzed out the moment he crossed the river.

Or why the fog grew thicker when he tried to retrace his steps.

Or why the trees whispered his name like they knew him.

“Tech…”

He halted. The voice came from ahead—feminine, melodic. Not from his comm. And certainly not Omega playing a prank. She didn’t sound like a dream.

His grip tightened on his blaster. “Reveal yourself.”

And you did.

You stepped from the mist as if you belonged to it. Bare feet sinking into moss, the water licking around your ankles. The moon crowned you, making the fine threads of your cloak shimmer like woven starlight. Your gaze was ancient. Curious. Smiling.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice like silk over steel.

Tech’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. “Statistically improbable, considering I had no intention of entering this region of the forest, nor becoming separated from my unit.”

“Perhaps I saw what you could not,” you said, tilting your head. “Or perhaps I called, and you listened.”

He ran a diagnostic scan. No lifeforms detected. No hostile readings. The air was too quiet.

“Are you… Force-sensitive?”

You laughed—a soft, knowing sound that made his stomach tighten.

“I’m something like that. Does it matter?”

“It very much does. If you are a threat, I am obligated to neutralize—”

But you were closer now. He hadn’t seen you move. Your fingers touched the edge of his armor with something like reverence.

“I’m not a threat unless you ask me to be.”

His breath hitched. Just once. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re… a clone trooper. The mind of your little unit.” You circled him slowly. “Always calculating. Always thinking. Never letting go.”

“I find control to be preferable to chaos,” he said sharply.

“And yet,” you whispered, stepping behind him, your hand brushing the nape of his neck, “you walked into the chaos anyway.”

His fingers twitched. He should have stepped forward. Should have recalibrated his scanner. Should have moved—

But he didn’t.

Because something about your presence tugged at the part of him he kept locked away. The part he filed under unnecessary. Indulgent. Weak.

“Your body,” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “wants what your mind won’t allow.”

He stiffened.

You smiled, warm and wicked, stepping in front of him again, your fingers now brushing the soft lining between his chest armor and undersuit. “You wear this like a wall. But you’re still a man beneath it.”

“I am not… easily manipulated,” he managed, though his voice had dropped, deeper than he liked.

“I’m not manipulating you, Tech.” You met his gaze. “I’m offering you a choice. You can walk away. Return to your mission. Your team. Your purpose.”

You stepped closer, and his breath caught as your hand slid beneath the edge of his cowl, your touch feather-light. “Or you can let go. Just for one night. Just this once.”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He could list a hundred reasons why this was an anomaly. A deviation. A risk.

And yet—

His hand came up, slowly, almost shaking. Not to stop you. To touch you. To feel you. To confirm you were real.

You leaned in.

“I can show you other ways,” you whispered.

Then your lips brushed his—tentative at first, waiting. And when he didn’t pull away, you deepened the kiss, slow and exploratory, as if trying to map the mind he kept so tightly wound.

Tech’s world tilted.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

And when he let his blaster fall to the moss, when his hands found your waist and pulled you against him, when he kissed you back with a desperation he didn’t know he had—

He wasn’t the mind anymore.

He was a man.

His breath stuttered.

Tech wasn’t used to this—not the heat rising in his chest, nor the sensation of lips ghosting down his neck like a whisper meant only for the softest, most hidden parts of him.

Your eyes drank him in—not with hunger, but with reverence. His freckles, his sharp cheekbones, the slight twitch in his jaw that betrayed the storm behind his glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” you said softly.

Tech blinked. “That is… an illogical observation.”

You smiled. “Then your logic needs reprogramming.”

He made a noise—half protest, half breathless laugh—but it caught in his throat when your hands touched the bare skin of his collarbone. Your thumbs pressed lightly into the muscles of his neck. Tech didn’t realize how tense he always was until he felt himself melting beneath your touch.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

“I…” His voice caught. “I cannot.”

You nodded, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you—desperately this time, hands curling at your waist as if anchoring himself to something real, something grounding in the swirling chaos of magic and sensation.

You pressed against him, warm and solid and devastatingly soft. One hand curled into his hair, the other sliding beneath the edge of his armor as you slowly coaxed it free. Piece by piece, you helped him shed it—not forcefully, never rushing. Like a ritual. Like he was something sacred.

When the last plate fell into the moss with a thud, he stood before you stripped of all defenses, chest rising and falling in quiet, stunned silence.

“You’re still thinking,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his.

“I—always think,” he breathed.

“Then let me think for you tonight.”

He didn’t protest when you led him backward into the moss, the magic of the forest warming the ground like a living bed. You straddled his lap, kissing him slow, deep, like you wanted to memorize every stifled sound he made.

Tech’s hands roamed—tentative, reverent, needy. He touched like a man learning to live in his own skin for the first time. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble you pulled from him was a tiny rebellion against the order he clung to.

And gods—how he clung to you instead.

Your magic hummed beneath your skin, wrapping around his ribs like silk. It didn’t control him. It didn’t bend his will. It simply amplified everything he was already feeling, pulling him deeper into you, into this—the illusion, the escape, the exquisite loss of control.

Your mouths met again and again. His glasses were somewhere in the moss. His hands splayed along the curve of your back. And when you whispered his name, over and over, like it was the only truth left in the galaxy—

He whispered yours back like a prayer.

Like he had always known it.

Like logic had never mattered at all.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.8 (Final Part)

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The cantina had never felt so alive.

Over the last several weeks, she had joined the Bad Batch on a few of Cid’s more difficult jobs. Recovery runs, extractions, a few tight infiltration missions—each one forging a subtle bond between them. She and Hunter found common ground in silent understanding, Wrecker made her laugh despite herself, and even Tech, with his logic and curiosity, had started asking her opinion more often than not.

Cid still didn’t know her full story. The Trandoshan just assumed she was another burned-out merc who’d gone to ground after the war, hiding her past in the quiet monotony of bar work. And that suited the her just fine. The fewer people who knew, the safer everyone was.

But on one mission—one where they’d helped two bold sisters named Rafa and Trace Martez—she’d felt it again. That familiar pull in the Force, that reminder of what she used to be. Rafa had seen it too, maybe not for what it was, but she’d looked at her like someone who knew the fight wasn’t over yet. Trace had even asked if they’d ever met before.

She had only shaken her head. “Not in this lifetime.”

Now, back at Cid’s, sweaty and aching and dusty from another run, the Batch filed in ahead of her. Her boots dragged slightly, exhaustion settling in her bones like old echoes. She was about to hang her blaster at the rack when her breath caught—sharp, immediate, deep.

She felt him before she saw him.

The Force surged like a wave just under her skin. A presence wrapped in memory and loyalty and grief. Her head snapped up.

Standing in the corner of Cid’s parlor, talking low with Hunter, was Captain Rex.

He hadn’t changed much—still clad in familiar white and blue armor, cloak drawn over one shoulder, a little more wear on his face, a little more heaviness behind his eyes. His gaze was sharp as ever.

And then his eyes locked with hers.

The world fell away.

She didn’t breathe. Neither did he.

“Rex?” she said, barely a whisper.

Cid squinted at her. “Wait—you two know each other?”

Neither answered.

“Holy kriff,” Wrecker muttered.

The room fell into silence. Even Tech looked up from his scanner, blinking rapidly.

She took a step forward, heart in her throat. He took one too.

“…You’re alive,” Rex finally said.

“So are you,” she whispered back.

Rex’s voice broke just slightly. “I thought I lost you on Mygeeto.”

She wanted to say a thousand things. She wanted to cry. Or maybe scream. Instead, she smiled—tight and aching.

“You almost did.”

“You were reported dead,” Rex said, his voice lower now, almost reverent. “The logs said your ship was shot down before it cleared Mygeeto’s atmosphere. That you never made it off-world.”

She blinked, her mouth parting as if to speak, but nothing came at first. Her throat tightened.

“No,” she said finally. “That… never happened. I made it out clean. No damage. No one even fired at my ship.”

Rex stared at her, confusion shadowing his face. “That doesn’t make sense. That kind of discrepancy… someone altered the report.”

Her heart began to pound harder now, a slow, rising pressure like air being sucked out of the room.

A beat passed.

“…Bacara,” she said aloud, but not to Rex—more like to herself. The name slipped out like a bitter taste on her tongue.

It didn’t make sense. And yet, it did. The moment on the battlefield, when his blaster had locked on her with terrifying precision—then hesitated. Just for a breath. And she had felt something underneath the chip-induced obedience. A pause. A struggle.

And then the fake report.

Did he lie? The thought whispered through her like a crack of light through stormclouds. Did he lie to protect me?

But the thought was gone as quickly as it came—burned out by the searing heat of Rex’s presence.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, shaking it off, forcing herself back to the now. “I survived. That’s what matters.”

Rex wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking past her, to the others.

To the rest of the Batch.

His body tensed, like a wire pulled too tight.

“…You haven’t removed your chips,” Rex said suddenly, voice sharp and cold as a vibroblade.

The Bad Batch stilled.

“What?” Echo stepped forward. “Rex—”

“I said,” Rex growled, stepping into the middle of the group, “you haven’t removed your inhibitor chips. After everything we’ve seen—after what happened to her—you’re still walking around with those things in your heads?”

“We haven’t had an episode,” Tech offered calmly. “We believe our mutation suppresses its effectiveness.”

Rex’s hand hovered near his blaster now.

“Belief isn’t good enough. You’re a threat to her.”

The reader stepped between them, her heart in her throat.

“Rex—”

“No,” he said, not to her, but about her. “She barely survived the last time a squad turned on her. You really want to gamble her life again?”

Hunter met Rex’s fury head-on, calm but firm. “We’re not your enemy.”

“Not yet,” Rex snapped. “But I’ve seen what those chips do. I felt it tear my mind apart. You think just because you haven’t activated, it won’t happen? You don’t get to risk her.”

The reader put a hand on his chest, stopping him, grounding him.

“I can take care of myself,” she said quietly. “They’ve had plenty of chances. And they haven’t.”

But Rex’s gaze didn’t soften. Not yet.

“I lost everything,” he said, finally looking at her again. “Don’t ask me to stand by and watch it happen again. Not to you.”

⸻

The makeshift medbay in the old star cruiser felt colder than the cantina ever had. The surgical pod hissed softly as Tech monitored the vitals, his face pale in the glow of the console.

Wrecker sat on the edge of the table, visibly uneasy.

“I really don’t like this, guys,” he muttered, voice strained. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Hunter stepped forward, voice calm. “You’ll be okay. We’ve all done it now, Wreck. You’re the last one.”

The reader stood to the side, hands clasped tightly. She had helped on this mission, grown close to them over the weeks. The thought of any of them hurting her—or Omega—was almost impossible. But she’d seen what the chip could do. She had lived it.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Omega asked softly, standing near Wrecker’s knee.

Wrecker gave her a pained smile. “’Course I do, kid.”

She left his side reluctantly as Tech activated the procedure.

Then it began.

Sparks of pain registered on the screen—neural surges, error readings. Wrecker groaned, clutching his head.

The reader’s breath hitched.

“Tech?” Echo stepped forward. “That’s not normal—”

Wrecker’s growl cut through the room. His hands gripped the edges of the table until they bent under his strength.

He lunged.

Tech hit the emergency release—but too late. Wrecker was up, snarling, wild-eyed.

“You’re all traitors!” he shouted.

Hunter shoved Omega behind him. “Wrecker, fight it!”

“In violation of Order 66!” he bellowed, locking eyes with the reader.

She barely had time to ignite her saber as he charged.

They clashed hard—fist to blade. Sparks flew. Her heart pounded. He was trying to kill her.

He wasn’t Wrecker anymore.

“You don’t want to do this!” she cried, dodging as he smashed a console.

Echo and Hunter tried to flank him, but he threw them aside effortlessly. He moved toward Omega next—drawn to the Jedi-adjacent signature she carried.

“No!” the reader screamed, hurling him back with the Force.

That dazed him just long enough for Tech to line up the stun shot—two bursts of blue light—and Wrecker dropped to the ground, unconscious.

The silence afterward felt deafening.

Omega rushed into the reader’s arms, trembling.

“I-It wasn’t him,” she whispered. “That wasn’t Wrecker…”

The reader just held her tightly, blinking away her own tears.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

The cruiser’s medbay was quiet again, the hum of the equipment the only sound as Wrecker stirred.

He groaned, eyes fluttering open, then blinked blearily at the harsh lighting above. The reader stood near the far wall, arms crossed, eyes guarded. Omega was asleep in a nearby chair, curled up beneath a blanket.

Wrecker sat up slowly, then immediately winced. “Urgh… what happened?”

Hunter leaned forward, cautious. “You don’t remember?”

Wrecker rubbed his temple. “Just… pain. Then nothing.”

Tech stood near the console. “Your inhibitor chip activated. We had to stun you to prevent serious harm.”

Wrecker glanced around, gaze slowly landing on the reader. His heart dropped.

“I—I hurt you, didn’t I?” he rasped.

She didn’t speak at first. Her jaw was tight, her knuckles white where they gripped her sleeves.

“You tried to kill me,” she said quietly. “Tried to kill Omega.”

Wrecker’s shoulders slumped, devastated.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “I couldn’t stop it… I wasn’t me. I’d never hurt you. Or her.”

The reader finally stepped closer. “I know,” she said. “It wasn’t you. It was the chip.”

“But it was me,” Wrecker insisted. “It was my hands. My voice. I said those things…”

Omega stirred then, blinking awake. She saw Wrecker sitting up and scrambled over, hugging him fiercely before anyone could stop her.

He held her gently, cradling her as if she were made of glass. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’m sorry, kid.”

“I forgive you,” she murmured.

The room went still.

The reader watched them, throat tight. The bruises on her arms still throbbed. But the sincerity in Wrecker’s voice, the pain in his eyes—it reached something inside her.

She gave a small nod. “So do I.”

Wrecker looked up, eyes glassy. “Really?”

She stepped closer, touching his shoulder. “You were the last one with that thing in your head. It’s over now. You’re still Wrecker.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Echo gave him a nod. “You’re one of us. Always.”

Tech cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all… unchipped, we can begin operating more freely. No more sudden execution protocols.”

Hunter placed a hand on Wrecker’s arm. “We move forward together.”

Wrecker nodded slowly, and Omega curled back up beside him, calmer now.

The reader stepped back, quietly observing them.

Something had changed in her too. Watching them risk everything for one another, seeing how hard they fought to stay together, to be together—it stirred something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time:

Hope.

⸻

Ord Mantell’s night air was thick with the scent of dust and ion fuel, the stars low and heavy above the cluttered skyline.

She stood alone on the overlook behind Cid’s parlor, arms folded against the breeze, her lightsaber weighing heavy at her side. It was the first time she’d clipped it there in months.

She didn’t flinch when Rex approached. She felt him before she heard him.

“You sure?” he asked, stopping beside her.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a long time. The clatter of cantina noise bled faintly through the walls. Somewhere below, Wrecker was likely teaching Omega how to throw a punch without breaking her wrist. Echo would be reading. Hunter brooding. Tech lecturing some poor soul who made the mistake of asking a question.

They’d become a strange sort of family. And that made this harder.

“I’m not running,” she finally said. “Not from them. But I can’t keep hiding in a bar like the war never happened.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Rex said quietly.

She turned to look at him, really look at him—his expression weary, but his posture still sharp. There was always weight behind his gaze, but now it was heavier. Lonelier. She recognized it. She felt it too.

“I think I owe them a goodbye,” she said.

⸻

Inside, the Batch were gathered around the table. She stood before them, her saber now visibly clipped to her hip.

They all turned. Omega was the first to speak. “You’re leaving?”

“I am,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. “With Rex.”

A beat of silence.

Hunter stood. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “You all gave me something I didn’t realize I needed. But I can’t stay here while there’s still a fight out there.”

Tech removed his goggles briefly, nodding with rare sincerity. “You’ve always been capable. I suspected it the moment I saw you cleaning barstools like you’d rather stab someone.”

That earned a faint laugh, even from her.

Wrecker stepped forward, wrapping her in a careful, crushing hug. “Just don’t get shot or anything.”

“I’ll try not to,” she muttered into his chestplate.

Echo approached last, meeting her gaze with quiet understanding. “Stay safe. And if you ever need us—”

“I’ll find you,” she said. “I promise.”

Omega flung herself into her arms, teary-eyed but brave. “Will you visit?”

“If I can,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”

⸻

Outside again, Rex waited by the speeder. She joined him in silence, the saber at her hip now humming softly against her side.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”

Rex smirked faintly. “Good answer.”

They mounted the speeder, and as it took off into the dark, she didn’t look back.

Not because she didn’t care.

But because it hurt too much.

And because the future waited.

⸻

*Time Skip*

The AT-TE creaked in the dry wind, its repurposed hull groaning like an old man settling into bed. Panels of mismatched metal were welded over the gaps, creating a patchwork home that had weathered years of storms, dust, and silence. A line of vapor-trapped cables ran down from a salvaged power generator, and the front cannon had long since been converted into a lookout perch—with an old caf pot hanging just beneath it.

Out here on Seelos, nothing moved fast—except time.

She sat alone atop the forward deck, legs dangling over the edge, her lightsaber in a locked case at her feet. She hadn’t opened it in years. Some days she forgot it was even there. Other days, her hand would rest on it unconsciously, like a phantom limb that still itched.

Behind her, laughter echoed from inside—Gregor’s wild cackle, Wolffe grumbling that something in the stew “smelled too fresh,” and Rex… softer now, slower in his step, but still unmistakably him.

He didn’t wear armor anymore. Not really. The old pauldrons were used as patch plates on the AT-TE, and his helmet rested on a shelf with a layer of dust thick enough to write in. His hair was white now, and his back bent a little more with each passing year. She could see the toll the war had taken on his body—clones weren’t built for longevity. But his eyes? Those still held that sharp, earnest fire when he looked at her.

They had made a quiet life together. A small garden. A stripped-down comm dish for the occasional transmission. She cooked. He read. Some mornings they sat in silence with caf, the sun rising red over the Seelos horizon like blood on sand.

And yet, there were moments—when the wind howled just so, or when night came too quiet—when her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To him.

To Bacara.

She hadn’t seen him since Mygeeto. Since she watched him gun down Master Mundi without hesitation—since he turned on her with no emotion at all, like a stranger wearing a familiar face. But sometimes, she wondered. He’d lied in his report. She was sure of it. He said her ship was shot down before it breached the atmosphere… but it wasn’t. He let her go.

Why?

And where was he now?

Did he ever think about her? Did the chip ever break like it did in Rex? Or did he die a soldier, still bound to the Empire? Still hunting Jedi in the shadows of a life that used to mean more?

She shook the thought away.

She had Rex.

And this peace… this was real.

The perimeter alarm chirped—one long tone, then two short. A ship. Small. Civilian or rebel-modified. Old programming still made her spine go rigid.

She stood, heart steady but alert, as the vessel descended into view. The dust curled beneath it, kicking up into the dusk-lit sky.

By the time it touched down, she was already at the foot of the AT-TE, hand hovering instinctively near the saber case tucked behind the front hatch.

Then the ramp lowered.

She felt it.

The Force.

Before they even stepped out.

Two Jedi.

A Mandalorian.

And a Lasat.

Ezra Bridger emerged first, cautious and respectful. Sabine Wren followed, helmet in hand, and Zeb let out a low grunt of approval at the sight of the old war walker.

And then him.

The Jedi.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not because he was a stranger.

Because he wasn’t.

Caleb Dume.

He didn’t look the same—not exactly. Older now, guarded. His hair longer, beard fuller, movements tighter like someone who had lived on the edge too long.

But she knew those eyes.

“Kanan Jarrus,” he introduced himself, stepping forward.

She didn’t return the greeting immediately. Her voice was quiet. “I knew you as Caleb.”

He stiffened, face unreadable. The others exchanged a glance. The Lasat’s hand twitched near his weapon, but Hera gently put a hand on his arm.

Kanan didn’t deny it. “Then you’re…?”

“I was with Master Mace Windus second padawan,” she said. “I remember you at the Temple. You were small. Loud. You used to sneak into the archives to look at holos of war reports.”

His expression softened. “That sounds like me.”

“You survived.”

“So did you.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The past stretched like a shadow between them.

Ezra finally stepped in. “Do the numbers CT-7567 mean anything to you? Ashoka Tano said he might help us establish a network… fight back against the Empire.”

Behind her, footsteps thudded—Rex stepping out of the AT-TE, wiping his hands with a rag, eyebrows raised as he spotted the group.

“Told ya they’d find us eventually,” Gregor called from the hatch, cheerful as ever.

The reader didn’t take her eyes off Kanan.

He was studying Rex, but his focus kept flicking back to her.

She could feel the tension like a storm behind his eyes. The chip. Order 66. Old scars. Unspoken pain.

She understood. But this wasn’t about the past anymore.

This was the beginning of something new.

A new hope.

⸻

Previous Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.7

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

War had a way of compressing time—days blurred into nights, missions into months. And somewhere in the quiet pockets between battles, between orders and hyperspace jumps, something had bloomed between the you and Bacara.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy.

But it was real.

They didn’t speak of love. Not openly. That would be too dangerous. Too foolish. But in the stolen moments—fingers brushing during debriefings, wordless glances across a war room, a hand on the small of her back as they passed each other in narrow corridors—it was undeniable.

He wasn’t good with words, not like Rex had been. Bacara showed his affection in action: the way he checked her gear before missions without asking, or how he always stood between her and enemy fire, whether she needed it or not. He never said “I love you.” But when she bled, he bled too.

She caught herself smiling as she boarded the cruiser for Mygeeto. Her datapad buzzed with her new orders—assist Master Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Bacara for the Fourth Siege. The final push.

She hadn’t seen Bacara in weeks. The campaign on Aleen had separated them again, followed by a skirmish in the mid-rim, but her heart pulled northward like a magnet toward Mygeeto. Her fingers tightened around her travel case as she stepped aboard the assault cruiser, heart quickening.

When she entered the command deck, Bacara stood over a strategic map display, armored and severe as ever. Mundi stood beside him, still every bit the stoic Master she remembered, though his greeting was warmer this time.

“General,” Mundi said with a nod. “Good to have you back.”

Bacara said nothing at first, just glanced up—his expression unreadable. But then, a flicker. The tiniest softening in his eyes that only she would notice.

“General,” he echoed in his clipped tone, nodding once.

Later, when the debrief was done and the hallways had quieted for the night, she found him waiting near the barracks. They stood in silence at first, just listening to the hum of the ship, the distant thrum of hyperdrive.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He gave the barest of shrugs, then looked at her. Really looked.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His jaw flexed. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat from his armor. “But I needed to see you before everything starts again.”

There, in the half-shadowed corridor, his hand brushed hers. A silent agreement.

That night, she didn’t return to her quarters.

They didn’t speak of the war. They didn’t speak of what might happen next. They existed only in that moment, a breath of peace before the storm.

In the dim lighting of the officer’s quarters, he kissed her again—firmer this time, as if grounding himself in the only certainty the war hadn’t taken from him.

When she fell asleep curled into his side, Bacara stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

Because tomorrow, they dropped on Mygeeto.

And nothing would be the same after that.

⸻

Mygeeto was a graveyard.

Shards of glass and collapsed towers jutted from the ice like bones. The wind howled endlessly, scouring the broken streets with frozen dust. The Fourth Siege had begun days ago, and already the Republic’s grip was tightening.

The reader moved through the war-torn ruins beside Bacara, her boots crunching through frost, her senses prickling with unease she couldn’t name.

Even Bacara seemed quieter than usual.

Their squad had pushed deep into the southern district, routing droid forces and holding position near the abandoned Muun vaults. Mundi was coordinating an assault to breach the city’s primary data center. Every minute was another layer of pressure, another reason her gut twisted tighter.

And then, the transmission came through.

It was late. The squad had returned to their mobile command shelter to regroup and patch injuries. Bacara was at the long-range transmitter when the encrypted message chimed in. She approached just as he turned, helmet off, eyes dark.

“It’s confirmed,” he said.

“What is?”

“Kenobi.” A beat. “He killed General Grievous.”

The words didn’t register at first.

The breath in her chest caught. “So… it’s over?”

“Almost.”

She sat slowly, bracing her elbows on her knees. “We’ve been fighting this war for three years. And now it just… ends?”

Bacara didn’t sit. He stood near the entrance flap, staring out into the howling cold.

“I don’t think it ends. Not really.” His voice was low. “Something’s coming.”

She looked up at him. “You feel it too.”

He nodded.

The Force was thick, oppressive. The kind of quiet that comes before a scream.

“Have you heard from Mundi?” she asked.

“Briefly. He wants us to hold until his unit circles back to regroup. We deploy again in the morning.” He paused, then added, “He was… unsettled.”

That alone chilled her. If Mundi was unsettled, it meant something was very wrong.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Bacara outside the tent, cloaked against the wind, their shoulders brushing.

“Whatever’s coming,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No matter what?”

She didn’t flinch. “No matter what.”

And somewhere far away, across the stars, a coded transmission began its journey to clone commanders across the galaxy.

Execute Order 66.

But it hadn’t reached them yet.

Not yet.

⸻

The morning was bitter cold.

Frost crackled beneath their boots as they moved out in formation, the clouds above Mygeeto hanging low and grey, like a lid waiting to seal the planet shut. The reader walked just behind Master Mundi and beside Bacara, her cloak drawn tight against the wind.

Mundi was speaking, his voice cutting through the comms. “This push will be final. The Separatist defense grid is thinning—we press forward, clear the vault entrance, and signal the cruiser for extraction.”

The reader nodded slightly. Bacara said nothing, but she could feel the tension in him—coiled tighter than usual.

They advanced through the ruins in a steady column. Mundi led the charge across a narrow bridge, lined on both sides with jagged drops and half-fallen towers. The droids emerged first, as expected. The clones fanned out, taking cover and returning fire in sharp, well-practiced bursts.

It felt normal.

But something was wrong. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how—but the Force around her buzzed like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Then, it happened.

A static shiver through the comms. A code, sharp and cold.

“Execute Order 66.”

Her head snapped to Bacara. He was silent. His helmet was already on.

Mundi turned. “Come on! We must push—!”

The first bolt hit him in the back.

She froze.

The second bolt pierced Mundi’s chest, dropping him to his knees. He reached out, shocked. More fire rained from above, precise, emotionless, cutting him down mid-step.

The clones didn’t hesitate. Bacara didn’t hesitate.

Her breath caught in her throat, the world slowing to a nightmare crawl. “Bacara—?” she whispered.

He turned.

And opened fire.

She moved on instinct. A Force-shoved wall of ice rose between them as she leapt off the bridge’s edge, tucking and rolling onto a lower ledge as blasterfire trailed her path.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Her squad. Her men.

Him.

She fled, ducking through ruined alleys and broken vaults, chased by the echoes of boots and bolts and the question clawing at her chest:

Why?

Nothing made sense. No signal. No warning. Just sudden betrayal like a switch flipped in their minds. Like she’d never mattered. Like they’d never fought beside her.

She kept running until her legs burned and her heart broke.

Mygeeto burned around her.

The vault city trembled with explosions and echoing blasterfire. The sky had darkened with the smoke of betrayal, and her boots slipped on shattered crystal as she ran through what remained of the inner ruins.

She had no plan. No backup. No Jedi.

Only survival.

The Force screamed through her veins, adrenaline burning hotter than frostbite. Behind her, the clones advanced in perfect formation—ruthless, silent, efficient. Just as they’d been trained to be. Just as she’d trusted them to be.

Her saber ignited in a flash of defiance. She didn’t want to kill them—Force, she didn’t—but they gave her no choice.

Two troopers rounded the corner, rifles raised. With a spin and a sharp, choked breath, her blade cut through one blaster, then the clone behind it. The second she disarmed with a flick of the Force, sending him slamming into a pillar. He didn’t rise.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, but there was no time for grief.

She sprinted through the lower vault district, rubble crunching beneath her. Her starfighter wasn’t far—hidden in a hangar bay northeast of the city edge. She was almost there.

Almost.

Then he found her.

Bacara.

He dropped in from above like a specter of death, slamming her to the ground with brutal precision. Her saber clattered across the ice. His weight bore down on her, a knee to her chest, his DC-15 aimed square at her head.

His visor glinted in the frost-glow, his silence more terrifying than a scream.

She stared up at him, panting, hurt. “You were mine,” she rasped.

No answer.

His finger moved toward the trigger.

The Force pulsed.

She thrust her hand upward and a wave of raw power flung him off her, launching him into a support beam with a sound like breaking stone. He dropped, groaning, armor dented, stunned.

She didn’t stop to look. She grabbed her saber and ran.

Two more troopers blocked her path to the hangar. She deflected one bolt, then two—but the third she sent back into the chest of the clone who fired it. His body fell beside her as she charged the next, slashing his weapon before delivering a stunning kick that sent him flying.

The hangar doors groaned open.

She threw herself into the cockpit of her fighter, fingers flying over the controls, engines screaming to life.

Blasterfire pinged against the hull as more troopers swarmed the bay. She closed her eyes, guided by instinct, by pain, by loss—and took off into the cold, storm-choked skies.

Mygeeto shrank behind her.

And with it, the last pieces of everything she’d trusted.

⸻

The stars blurred past her cockpit like tears on transparisteel.

She didn’t know how long she’d been flying—minutes, hours. Her hands trembled against the yoke, white-knuckled, blood-slicked. The silence in the cockpit was deafening. No clones, no saber hum, no Bacara breathing just behind her. Just the thin rasp of her own breath and the stinging wound of betrayal burning behind her ribs.

Mygeeto was gone. Bacara was gone.

They were all gone.

She barely made it through hyperspace. Her navigation systems stuttered, and she’d been forced to fly blind, guided only by instinct and muscle memory.

The planet she chose wasn’t much—Polis Massa. An old medical station and mining outpost on the edge of the system. Remote. Quiet. Forgotten.

Safe.

Her ship touched down with a shudder, systems coughing and sparking. She slumped against the controls, body aching, mind fractured.

She stumbled out into the cold, sterile facility. No guards raised weapons at her, no sirens screamed Jedi. Just quiet personnel, startled by her bloodied robes and wild, hollow stare.

They gave her a room. She didn’t ask for one.

The medics patched the worst of her wounds. Someone gave her water. A blanket. A moment.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, everything hurt. Her skin, her bones, her heart. She sat upright on the small cot, still in half armor, saber clipped loosely at her hip. Her communicator blinked on the nearby table—flashing red.

Encrypted message.

She nearly dropped it trying to pick it up. The code was familiar. Old. Republic-grade clearance. She swallowed and activated it.

The holoprojector buzzed—and then there he was.

Kenobi.

His projection flickered in the dark, singed, exhausted, speaking quickly and low.

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen. With the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Her stomach clenched.

“…The clone troopers have turned against us. I’m afraid this message is a warning and a reminder: any surviving Jedi, do not return to the Temple. That time is over. Trust in the Force.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“We will each find our own path forward now. May the Force be with you.”

The message ended. Just a small flicker of blue light, fading into silence.

She stared at the projector long after it dimmed, her face unreadable. Then she whispered, as if the stars might still be listening:

“…What did we do to deserve this?”

⸻

Coruscant.

The city-world pulsed under a grey sky, its endless towers casting long shadows over the Senate District. Republic banners were being torn down and replaced with crimson. No one called it the Republic anymore. Not truly. Not after the declaration.

Bacara stood at attention in a high-security debriefing chamber, helmet under his arm, armor still caked in the dust and ice of Mygeeto. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes—something usually precise and locked in—seemed… dislodged.

His mission was complete. Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi was dead.

He had reported it cleanly, efficiently. Nothing of hesitation, nothing of how she escaped. Only that she turned traitor, resisted, killed his men. That she was lost in the chaos of the siege.

The brass accepted it. They always did. Too much war. Too many traitors.

He was dismissed with a curt nod from an officer in dark new uniform. The Empire moved quickly. No more Jedi. No more second guesses.

He exited the chamber with stiff precision, walking the stark halls of the former GAR command center—now flooded with black-clad officers, techs, and white-armored troopers with fresh paint jobs. A few bore markings he recognized, some didn’t. The old legions were being divided, repurposed. Branded anew.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two familiar faces in a side hallway.

“Commander Wolffe. Cody.”

Wolffe gave him a once-over, eye narrowed. “Bacara. You’re back from Mygeeto.”

“Confirmed. Mundi is dead. Target neutralized.”

Cody didn’t smile. He rarely did these days. “And the other Jedi?”

“Escaped,” Bacara said curtly. “Presumed dead. Ship went down in atmosphere. Unconfirmed.”

Wolffe raised a brow, but let it go.

The conversation would have ended there—cold and flat—but a datapad in Cody’s hand flashed. He frowned, tapped the screen, then muttered, “Damn…”

“What is it?” Bacara asked.

Cody handed him the pad.

“Captain CT-7567 — Status: KIA. Location: Classified. Time: Immediately post-Order 66.”

Bacara stared at the words, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

Wolffe crossed his arms, jaw tight. “It’s spreading fast. Some say Ashoka killed him. Some say it was Maul. No one knows. But there were no survivors.”

Cody shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone.”

Bacara looked away, jaw grinding. Rex was dead. That’s what the record said.

He should’ve felt… nothing. Relief, maybe. One less problem. One less thorn in his side.

But the silence between the three of them said otherwise.

“Shame,” Wolffe muttered. “He was one of the good ones.”

She loved him.

The thought hit Bacara like a gut punch, but he gave no sign.

He offered a stiff nod. “He did his duty.”

And walked away.

⸻

The Outer Rim.

No one looked twice at the battered Y-wing that landed half-crooked in the backlot of Ord Mantell’s grimiest district. The ship hadn’t flown since. She’d let the local rust take it. A relic no one asked about. One more ghost among the debris of a fallen Republic.

Three months.

That’s how long she’d been hiding on this dusty, low-grade world, tucked into the shadows of a run-down cantina operated by a sharp-tongued Trandoshan named Cid. Cid wasn’t friendly—but she wasn’t curious either. That alone made her safer here than anywhere near Coruscant.

The cantina was dim, the stench of stale ale thick in the air. Smoke curled from a broken vent in the ceiling. Old Clone War propaganda still clung to a wall like a molted skin. No one talked about the war anymore. They drank to forget it.

She moved quietly between tables, clearing empty mugs, wiping down grime, keeping her head down. Her once-pristine Jedi robes had been traded for utility pants, a threadbare top, and a scuffed jacket a size too big. Her lightsaber was hidden—disassembled and buried in a cloth bundle under the floorboards of her bunk behind the kitchen. Sometimes she reached for it at night, half-asleep, still expecting it to be on her belt.

Every day she woke up expecting to feel the warmth of the Force beside her.

And every day, she didn’t.

She missed them. All of them. Even him.

Bacara.

His face still haunted her. The betrayal. The way his blaster hadn’t even hesitated when he gunned down Mundi. The way he’d turned on her—stone-faced and unfeeling, as if their moments together had meant nothing. She hadn’t had time to ask why. Only to run. To survive.

And Rex… she didn’t even know if he was alive. The transmission from Kenobi hadn’t mentioned him. The Temple was gone. The Jedi were gone. She was gone.

No one had come looking. Not the clones. Not the Empire. Not Bacara.

Not Rex.

Not even Mace—though maybe she’d never expected him to.

At first, she’d been sure someone would come. That the galaxy couldn’t forget her so quickly. But three months had passed. No wanted posters. No troopers sweeping the streets. No shadows at her door.

Nothing.

She was no one here.

She wiped the same table twice before realizing she’d been staring through it, lost in memory. The war felt like another lifetime.

But even the Force had gone quiet. As if it, too, had moved on.

“Hey!” Cid’s sharp voice cracked through the cantina. “You forget how to carry a tray, or you just feel like decorating my floor with spilled ale again?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

Cid snorted. “You’re always sorry.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much of herself left to defend anymore.

The streets outside were quieter than usual. A dust storm had rolled in from the western flats, coating everything in a layer of filth. She stepped out back after her shift, sitting on a crate and staring up at a sky smothered by clouds.

It was strange how peaceful nothing could be.

No orders. No battles. No war.

No one looking for her. No one needing her. No one remembering her.

It should have felt like freedom.

But it didn’t.

⸻

The bell above the cantina door jingled.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But her breath hitched in her chest. She heard the unmistakable weight of clone trooper boots on the wooden floor—too heavy to be locals, too careful to be drunks.

She didn’t need to look. She knew those steps by heart. Years of war had taught her how clones moved—each one slightly different, and yet the same at the core. And somehow… somehow they were here.

In Cid’s.

In her nowhere.

She ducked behind the bar a little more, scrubbing the same patch of wood with trembling fingers, her face hidden beneath a cap and the dull glow of the overhead lights.

“Cid?” a calm, steady voice asked.

That one—Hunter.

Cid didn’t even look up from her datapad. “That depends on who’s asking.”

“We were told you could help us.”

“By who?” Cid’s tone was suspicious, as always.

“Echo,” Hunter said, motioning slightly.

She froze. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Echo.

She dared a glance over her shoulder.

There he was—taller now, armor more modified, with half of his head and legs taken by cybernetics. He looked different. Paler. Haunted. But it was him. And he was staring.

Right at her.

Her stomach dropped.

But he didn’t say anything. His expression barely changed, just narrowed eyes and a twitch of something she couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or disbelief.

Either way—he wasn’t saying her name. And she didn’t dare say his.

She ducked her head again and retreated to the back counter, trying to blend in.

The squad spread out, letting Cid do her usual banter. Tech scanned things. Wrecker picked something up and nearly broke it. Omega stood in wide-eyed awe of the dingy place.

And then, like a quiet ripple in the Force, she felt Omega’s presence behind her.

“Hi,” the girl said.

The reader turned just slightly, trying not to panic. “Hi.”

“You work for Cid?”

She nodded, hoping it was enough.

“I’m Omega.”

The girl was painfully sweet. The kind of pure the galaxy hadn’t seen in years.

“You got a name?”

“…Lena,” the reader lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the burn behind her eyes.

“That’s pretty,” Omega said, hopping up onto the stool across from her. “Are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” She kept her eyes down.

Omega tilted her head. “You feel sad.”

That startled her. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant—your eyes look sad,” Omega said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The reader forced a smile. “You didn’t.”

Echo walked by again. His gaze lingered on her for one long second. But again, he said nothing.

She didn’t know if he was sparing her or trying to figure her out. Maybe both.

She went back to cleaning.

And for the first time in months, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

⸻

Echo watched her from the corner of the cantina as she quietly wiped down a table in the far back, avoiding all eye contact, keeping her presence small.

Too small.

He leaned slightly toward Tech, lowering his voice so Cid and the others wouldn’t catch it. “Do you recognize her?”

Tech didn’t even glance up from his datapad. “The worker? No.”

“She looks familiar,” Echo said, arms crossing over his chest plate. “I’m not sure from where, but… I think she’s a Jedi. Or—was.”

That got Tech’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. “A Jedi?”

“She fought with the 501st a few times. A long time ago,” Echo said. “I was still… me.”

Tech considered that for a long moment, then looked over toward her discreetly. “You’re certain?”

“No. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t tell if she’s someone I actually remember or if it’s a glitch in my head from… everything.” He gestured vaguely to his augmentations.

Tech nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the datapad. “I’ll run a scan. Discreetly. If she is a former Jedi or officer, her face might still be buried in the Republic’s archived comm logs. Assuming the Empire hasn’t wiped everything yet.”

Echo nodded once, still watching her.

She never once looked back.

Tech sat back slightly, the datapad in his lap casting a faint glow on his face. The scan had taken time—far more than he liked. Most of the Jedi archives were either firewalled or fragmented. But a clever backdoor through an old 501st tactical log had revealed what he needed.

The image was slightly grainy, pulled from a recording during a battle on Christophis. A Jedi—young, lightsaber ignited, issuing commands beside Captain Rex.

Her.

Tech adjusted his goggles, double-checking the facial markers. Ninety-nine-point-seven percent match.

He glanced across the cantina where she was wiping down a counter with feigned disinterest, like she hadn’t felt the moment his eyes landed on her. But he knew better. Jedi always felt when they were being watched.

He stood and approached casually, careful not to spook her. “I take it this isn’t your preferred line of work.”

She stiffened slightly, then looked over at him with cool neutrality. “Not really, no. But it’s honest.”

“Curious,” Tech said. “That honesty would be your refuge. Especially for someone like you.”

She paused. The rag in her hand stilled. “Someone like me?”

“A Jedi Knight,” he replied plainly. “Confirmed through tactical footage of Christophis. You served alongside Captain Rex.”

Her throat worked once, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be looking into me.”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said, calm and even. “And cautious. After all, fugitives tend to attract the Empire’s attention.”

“You’re fugitives too,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Then why out me?” she asked, voice quieter, with the weight of exhaustion clinging to it.

“I didn’t say I would. But perhaps… we could be of use to each other.”

That made her blink. “You want to align with a Jedi?”

Tech pushed his goggles up slightly. “You have experience. Strategic value. And the Empire has already labeled us traitors. I see no logical reason not to align with someone equally hunted—especially someone who once fought for the same Republic we did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the rag before setting it down.

“I’m not who I used to be,” she said.

Tech tilted his head. “Neither are we.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.4

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The skies of Aleen burned amber with the coming dusk. Ashen winds carried whispers through the forests — voices of a people you’d once sworn to protect. Now you were back again, years older, far more jaded, but somehow still the same.

Your boots pressed into soft moss as you walked alone through the dense forest paths. Lanterns swung overhead, casting warm halos across carved stone shrines and winding wooden bridges. You knew every bend of this land—every whisper between the trees.

It was surreal returning here without a battalion behind you. No clones. No Jedi. No command structure. Just you, your words, and your past with these people.

You passed a familiar tree with painted markings—children had once drawn them when you’d last been stationed here. A flutter of warmth struck you as an elder spotted you.

“Master Jedi,” their leader said with a soft smile.

You bowed your head. “It’s good to see you again.”

Your mission was simple in theory: rekindle an alliance with the people before Separatist influence reached them again. But nothing about this place, or this war, was ever simple.

And as the nights stretched on, you missed… them.

Bacara. Rex. Each so different. One who rarely spoke but always saw. One who listened, even when you didn’t speak. Neither here. Just you—and the echo of everything unspoken.

⸻

Commander Bacara stood at parade rest beside Master Ki-Adi-Mundi as mission projections flickered across the holotable. Opposite them, Rex stood beside Anakin and Ahsoka, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm.

None of them spoke at first. The map of the outer rim planet hovered between them—a quiet reminder of who wasn’t in the room.

“She’s managing well on her own,” Ahsoka said lightly, breaking the silence. “The locals trust her. That’s half the battle already won.”

Mundi offered a nod, but Bacara’s gaze never shifted from the holo. “It’s dangerous. Alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Rex said, just a little too sharply.

Anakin caught it.

So did Mundi.

A beat passed before Ki-Adi-Mundi turned, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Commander Bacara, has General [Y/N] reported any signs of Separatist movement?”

“Negative,” Bacara said without pause. “But she’s a Jedi, not a negotiator. These types of missions require—”

“She’s handled far more volatile diplomacy than this,” Rex interrupted. “And better than some council members.”

Mundi raised a brow. “Careful, Captain.”

Rex’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.

Ahsoka looked between the two clones, then stepped forward, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be fine. She’s got that Windu resilience.”

Bacara’s shoulders barely moved, but Anakin noticed the tick in his jaw. “You don’t agree?” Skywalker asked.

“She’s not indestructible,” Bacara said.

“No,” Anakin replied, coolly. “But she’s not your burden, Commander.”

The room quieted again. Cold. Sharp-edged.

Finally, Mundi spoke. “Personal entanglements have no place in war. This is why Jedi do not form attachments.”

Neither Rex nor Bacara responded.

But Ahsoka’s eyes flicked between them—both still as stone, both burning with something just beneath the surface.

The kind of storm you didn’t see until it was already overhead.

⸻

You hated caves.

You hated the stale air, the way sound echoed wrong, the weight of stone pressing down on your shoulders like a ghost. The Aleena had guided you this deep to show the root of the problem—something poisoning the waters, causing tremors in their cities, and killing their sacred roots.

You knelt beside the cracked fissure, reaching out with the Force. What answered was not nature.

Something foreign slithered beneath. Something droid.

You rose quickly, turning to the elder at your side. “The Separatists are here,” you said. “Or they were.”

The elder clicked his tongue anxiously. “Many of our kind are trapped deeper down. The tremors sealed the path. We can’t reach them. We cannot fight.”

Of course. That was why you were here. No army. No squad. Just you.

You weren’t enough this time.

You stepped away, pulling out your comm and staring down at it for a long moment.

Your gut said Rex. He’d listen. He’d come. He’d believe you.

But this… this wasn’t a clone problem. This wasn’t about blaster fire or tactics.

This was about digging, about seismic shifts and local customs. This was about the Force.

You hated what came next.

You toggled to the channel you never used.

“Master Mundi.”

A pause.

“Yes, General?”

“I need assistance on Aleen.”

A beat passed. Long enough for you to imagine his smug expression. But when he replied, his voice was firm, professional.

“What’s the situation?”

You relayed the details quickly, keeping emotion out of your tone. You didn’t need him judging your fear or frustration.

“I’ll divert reinforcements immediately,” he said. “Commander Bacara is with me. He’ll lead the extraction.”

Of course he would.

“Understood,” you replied. “Coordinates sent. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“You won’t have to for long.”

You hated that he sounded almost… kind.

You ended the call and stood still, listening to the rumble of distant tunnels. Soon, Bacara would be back in your orbit. And despite everything between you, you were more afraid of what you might feel than what you’d face below ground.

⸻

The gunship kicked up waves of dust and gravel as it touched down on Aleen’s rocky surface. Commander Bacara descended the ramp first, helmet sealed, pauldron stiff against his broad shoulders. Behind him strode Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, robes whipping in the wind, brows drawn tight as he surveyed the landscape.

“Where is she?” Mundi asked, stepping up beside Bacara as clone troopers fanned out to secure the perimeter.

Bacara didn’t answer right away. He was already scanning the data feed on his wrist, synced to the coordinates you had sent. When he finally spoke, it was short and clipped. “She went in alone.”

Mundi’s tone sharpened. “Of course she did.”

The tension between the two men crackled like static in the charged Aleen air. Bacara said nothing more, but the slight shift in his stance suggested something deeper than frustration. He’d read the logs. He’d heard the tail end of your conversation with Windu. He’d heard everything.

“Troopers!” Bacara barked. “Sub-level breach—two klicks east. Move out.”

The team entered the caverns in formation. The air was thick, choked with the scent of burning oil and scorched stone. Laserfire echoed ahead.

Then, they found you.

You stood alone at the center of a collapsed chamber, half your robes burned, saber lit and crackling. At your feet were the remains of a Separatist tunneling droid. Around you, the wounded Aleena were huddled in the shadows, their eyes wide with awe and fear.

Bacara moved first.

He didn’t speak—just stepped forward, rifle raised as another wave of droids charged through a side tunnel. You looked back only briefly, the flicker of recognition passing quickly.

“Finally,” you said, flicking your saber back up. “Miss me?”

Bacara didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

He opened fire.

Mundi moved next, stepping past you with deliberate purpose. “You disobeyed protocol,” he said, even as he slashed down a droid mid-step.

You parried a blow, spun, and exhaled. “Tell me after we survive this.”

The last droid fell. The smoke lingered.

You sat on a low stone, wiping your bloodied hand with a torn sleeve. Bacara stood nearby, silent as always, his armor dusted with ash and black carbon scoring.

He finally turned to you.

“You should’ve waited.”

You didn’t look at him. “I didn’t have time.”

“You could’ve died.”

You finally met his eyes.

“And you would’ve what? Reassigned me posthumously?”

He stiffened, jaw flexing behind the helmet. Mundi, overhearing, shot you both a look of utter exhaustion.

Bacara didn’t answer your jab. Instead, he just said:

“You held the line. Noted.”

He walked off, leaving you staring after him with a knot in your stomach—and a question in your chest you weren’t ready to ask.

⸻

The camp was quiet under the fractured sky. Fires burned low in shielded pits, and the wounded slept in narrow tents beneath emergency tarps. You sat apart from the clone medics and Jedi tents, nursing a shallow burn on your forearm with a stim salve. The adrenaline had worn off; all that was left now was the ache and the silence.

Heavy footfalls crunched the dirt behind you. You didn’t look. You already knew it was him.

“Commander,” you said softly, eyes still on your bandaged arm.

“General.”

A beat passed. You waited for him to walk away. He didn’t.

You finally turned to see Bacara standing there, helmet off, held against his side. His expression was as unreadable as ever—sharp eyes, tighter lips, a soldier carved from ice and iron.

“You need something?” you asked, voice thinner than you wanted.

He studied you. Not in the way a soldier sized up a threat—but in the way someone searched for a word they weren’t used to saying.

“You did well.”

You raised a brow. “Is that praise?”

“It’s an observation,” he replied.

You didn’t look up. “If you’re here to defend your spying again, don’t. We already did that.”

“No,” Bacara said. His voice was calm. Flat. “I’m not here for that.”

You glanced up at him. “Then what?”

He stood for a beat too long before finally sitting down on the opposite crate, across the fire from you. No one else was nearby. The clones had given you space—not out of fear, but respect. You’d earned that today. Even if Bacara hadn’t said a word about it.

You sighed. “You gonna judge me for my actions like Mundi too?”

“No.”

You finally looked at him properly. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t closed off, exactly. Just guarded. Like a soldier on unfamiliar terrain.

“What then?”

“I don’t think he sees what you see,” Bacara said, eyes flicking to the fire. “But you’re right about one thing—he sees potential in you that he’s never been able to define. That’s what makes him so… rigid around you.”

You blinked. “That sounds almost like an apology.”

He met your eyes. “It’s not. Just honesty.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You ever think about just saying what you mean without flanking it like an airstrike?”

“Too dangerous.”

You smiled, but only a little. “So what do you mean now?”

“I mean,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re reckless. Frustrating. You talk too much and question everything.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. This is going well.”

“But,” he added, and you stilled, “your instincts are good. Better than most Jedi I’ve fought beside.”

A pause. You stared at him.

“And,” he added again, almost like it hurt, “you weren’t wrong to call for help.”

You tilted your head. “You mean from Mundi, or from you?”

He didn’t answer. That was an answer in itself.

You softened a little, let yourself lean forward over the fire. “I was alone. Outnumbered. You would’ve done the same thing.”

“Probably,” Bacara admitted.

“But you’d still call me reckless for doing it.”

“Yes.”

You gave him a long look. “I said worse things about you to Mace, you know.”

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean all of it,” you said.

“I know that too.”

Another silence.

Then, from him, just barely audible:

“You’re not what I expected.”

You sat back, a flicker of heat rising to your cheeks. “You either, Commander.”

The silence settled between you again, less like tension this time—and more like something trying to become peace.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, The city-world glittered below, a sea of metal and movement. But inside the Temple, it was unusually quiet.

Rex stood just outside the Council Chambers, arms crossed behind his back, helmet off. His posture was military-perfect, but his eyes flicked to the arched window at the far end of the corridor every few seconds.

The last time he’d stood here, you were beside him, teasing him about being too stiff, too formal. He’d barely responded, but the corner of his mouth had twitched.

“Waiting for someone?”

Rex turned. Ahsoka approached, arms folded. She wasn’t smiling—just curious.

“General Skywalker asked me to debrief after the Christophis campaign,” Rex replied. “He’s late.”

Ahsoka stopped beside him and glanced up. “You seem… off.”

Rex gave her a sidelong look. “Do I?”

“You always do that thing with your jaw when you’re annoyed.” She mimicked him poorly, exaggerating the motion. “It’s like you’re chewing invisible rations.”

Rex chuckled, just barely. “That obvious, huh?”

Ahsoka leaned against the wall. “This about the General?”

Rex didn’t answer at first. Then: “Which one?”

Her smile faded. “So her.”

He looked down at his helmet. “Something changed on Aleen. I can’t explain it. But the way she looked when we saw her at the base… something’s different.”

“She looked tired,” Ahsoka said quietly. “And like she was holding something back.”

“Bacara was watching her the entire time,” Rex said, sharper now. “Like he was waiting for something.”

Ahsoka nodded slowly. “And you were doing the same.”

The silence stretched. Rex didn’t deny it.

“I’ve felt something,” Ahsoka said, lowering her voice. “A kind of… ripple in the Force. Like she’s a pebble that hit water and the waves are just now reaching us.”

Rex turned toward her. “You think she’s in danger?”

“I don’t know.” Ahsoka’s brow furrowed. “But something’s pulling at her. Pulling her toward something big. Or breaking.”

Rex stared ahead, jaw tight again. “If she gets reassigned again without warning—”

“She won’t tell you if she does,” Ahsoka said gently. “You know that.”

“I should’ve said something when I had the chance.”

“Maybe.” She hesitated. “But she knows. Trust me—she knows.”

The doors to the Council chamber finally hissed open. Anakin stepped out, waving them both in. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked to Rex for a beat too long.

Even he had noticed.

As they stepped inside, neither of them said it aloud—but something was coming. And she was at the center of it.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.3

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Jedi Council chamber was cold, even in the glow of the Coruscant skyline. The debriefing had gone as expected: Ki-Adi Mundi gave a terse account of the victory, Master Yoda nodded gravely at the intel retrieved, and Master Windu—your master—remained silent, arms crossed, dark eyes steady.

It was only after the others had filtered out that he spoke.

“You’re making waves,” Mace said simply.

You dropped your formal posture and let out a sigh. “That’s what I’m best at, apparently.”

He stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back, regarding you not as the strict Council member—but as the father figure you’d missed for weeks. “You were chosen for that campaign for a reason. You understand people, not just the Force. But you also understand the cost of disobedience.”

You frowned. “If I hadn’t stepped in on that first op, Bacara’s squad would’ve been cut down.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe he had it handled in a way that wasn’t apparent to you.”

You bristled, but he continued before you could speak.

“I’m not saying you were wrong. But war isn’t just about what’s right. It’s about cohesion. Trust. And I can see it’s wearing on you.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t come here to cry on your robe, Master.”

“No,” Mace said softly. “You came here because you wanted someone to tell you that you’re not crazy. That it’s okay to be angry. Conflicted. Even… confused.”

You exhaled slowly. “He overheard us. Bacara. That night.”

Mace arched a brow. “And?”

“And now he won’t even look at me the same way. I mean—he barely looked at me before, but now it’s like I’m just… insubordinate and loud and—”

“You are insubordinate and loud.”

You gaped at him, offended.

But then he smirked. Smirked. A rare thing on his face. “You’re also brave. And stubborn. And too much for men like Bacara to understand—until they do.”

You blinked, unsure what to do with that. “So what? Wait for him to catch up?”

“No,” Mace said. “Live your life. He’ll either keep pace or fall behind.”

There was something final in his tone. Like the matter was settled.

You nodded and turned to go—but paused at the door.

“Thanks, Master,” you said. “For being on my side. Always.”

“I’m not on your side,” he said, but his voice was low, warm. “I am your side.”

⸻

That night, the base was quiet.

The city lights outside flickered like static, and the low hum of the barracks ventilation system was the only sound as you walked the hall in your off-duty robes.

You didn’t mean to pass the 501st’s barracks. Didn’t mean to pause. But there he was—Rex. Sitting outside on one of the stone ledges, helmet on the bench beside him, elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked.

“Didn’t try,” he answered, gaze still on the skyline. “You?”

You shook your head and sat beside him. “Been doing a lot of thinking.”

“About the campaign?”

You hesitated. “About a lot of things.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind that existed between two people who didn’t have to fill space with noise.

“They’ve reassigned me again. The Council’s spreading me thin.”

“I figured,” Rex replied. “It’s what they do with the ones they trust most.”

You looked at him, frowning slightly. “You don’t sound like you agree.”

“I’ve just seen what it does to people. To Jedi.” His voice was steady. But when he looked at you—really looked—you saw something vulnerable, unguarded.

“You seemed… close to him,” he said finally. “Bacara.”

You flinched. “He barely tolerates me.”

Rex looked down at his hands. “That might be why it bothers me.”

You inhaled sharply.

There it was.

Not said explicitly. Not a confession. But something just as dangerous.

Your voice was softer now. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” Rex murmured. “Me neither.”

You sat together in silence, the city breathing below, the war pressing in around you. Neither of you moved.

⸻

The Coruscant base was unusually quiet. War never truly paused, but the brief interlude between deployments lent a strange stillness to the barracks — as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Commander Bacara sat alone at one of the durasteel tables in the mess hall, untouched rations on his tray, helmet on the table beside him. He looked like he belonged more to the battlefield than this sterile, quiet place — broad-shouldered, scarred, always watching.

Captain Rex spotted him on the way out.

He paused, almost kept walking — but something made him stop.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else.

He walked over and sat down across from him without waiting for permission.

Bacara looked up, impassive. “Captain.”

“Commander,” Rex said coolly.

A long pause.

“You’re usually on the frontlines,” Rex noted, more observation than question.

“So are you,” Bacara returned.

Another pause. They weren’t men built for small talk.

Finally, Rex exhaled and leaned back slightly. “I heard she’s being reassigned again. Away from you.”

Bacara’s jaw flexed, just once. “So did I.”

“That bother you?”

Bacara’s eyes lifted slowly to meet his. “No. Why would it?”

Rex gave a half-smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

A muscle twitched under Bacara’s eye. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Good,” Rex said, not missing a beat. “Because I didn’t ask for an explanation.”

Another beat of silence. Tension curled in the air like static before a storm.

“She’s not like the others,” Rex said eventually, more quietly. “You know that.”

Bacara’s voice was colder now. “She’s reckless. Disruptive. Emotional.”

“She’s a Jedi,” Rex said firmly. “You’ve fought beside Jedi. You know they’re not all the same. And she’s more than that.”

Bacara’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly do you think she is to you?”

Rex didn’t flinch. “That’s not your concern.”

There was a long, brittle silence between them. The kind that dared one of them to make the next move.

Finally, Bacara looked away.

“You think I’m the one standing in her way,” he said. “But the truth is, she’s always been on the edge of something bigger than both of us.”

Rex’s expression shifted. “And you don’t want to be there with her?”

Bacara’s voice was low. Flat. “I don’t get to want things.”

Rex stood slowly, pushing his chair back with a controlled scrape. He leaned on the table just enough to close the space between them.

“Then you’ll lose her,” Rex said. “Because I do.”

And with that, he turned and walked out — leaving Bacara alone in the silence he seemed to prefer, and now couldn’t escape.

Bacara didn’t move for a long time after Rex left.

He sat in the stillness of the mess, half in shadow, staring through his untouched rations like they were a battlefield map. He replayed every word. Every expression. The way Rex spoke like someone who knew her — not just as a General or an officer. But her.

He should have let it go. Should have pushed it down and moved on like always.

But something in him bristled.

Not because Rex was wrong — but because he might’ve been right.

He stood, shoved the tray aside, and left the mess with clipped strides. He didn’t need food. He needed space. Or quiet. Or a sparring mat.

His boots echoed down the hallway, past quarters and security checkpoints. Troopers passed him and gave quick salutes, and he returned them with curt nods. His expression remained unreadable, his jaw set like duracrete.

But inside his head, it wasn’t silent.

He could still hear her laughing with the squad around the campfire that last night on the front. Her voice — all heat and light, challenging him even when she didn’t mean to. The way she moved, the way she saw people — not just as soldiers or pawns in the field, but people.

And how she’d looked at him when he snapped at her. Like she wanted to understand him — and that frustrated him more than anything.

She was everything he’d been trained not to trust.

Unpredictable.

Emotional.

Compassionate.

Too much heart for a war like this.

Too much heart for him.

And yet…

He ended up in the training ring without realizing it. The lights were dim, the room empty, just how he preferred it. He stepped into the center and let the helmet seal around his head with a soft hiss. Gloves on. Mind blank.

He activated one of the combat droids.

It rushed him in the next second.

He didn’t hold back. Not this time. Every strike he landed echoed like thunder. Every dodge was surgical. Methodical. Brutal. A clean release of everything he didn’t have the words for.

It was only after the third droid dropped, sparking and twitching on the ground, that he paused. He stood over it, chest heaving slightly beneath the armor.

He didn’t understand her.

And he hated that.

Because something about the way she smiled at him like he was still human had started to unmake everything the war had shaped him into.

And now, Rex — kriffing Rex — was standing in the middle of that same storm.

Bacara powered down the remaining droids and left the ring in silence.

He didn’t believe in feelings. But he did believe in instincts.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t trust his own.

⸻

You didn’t like the quiet.

Not this kind of quiet. Not the sterile hum of Coruscant’s military wing, not the half-hearted warmth of your small assigned quarters. Not when you were about to be sent back out.

You moved through your room restlessly — tucking gear into a pack, checking and rechecking the contents, fingers twitching against the fabric of your cloak.

The debrief from the Council had been brief. Too brief. No details, just an assignment: diplomatic assistance to a neutral system teetering toward Separatist influence. Jedi mission, yes. But they wanted someone… adaptable.

You, apparently.

You were still muttering about the phrasing when a soft chime came at the door.

“Yeah,” you called distractedly, expecting a messenger.

The door slid open.

“General,” came Rex’s familiar voice.

You turned — and instantly smiled, your posture easing. “Captain.”

He stepped inside with his helmet tucked under his arm, a slight smirk on his face. “Heard you were shipping out again.”

“You know me. Can’t stay in one place too long or I start throwing furniture.”

He laughed — and it wasn’t forced. Rex was good like that. Steady, grounded. He had this rare way of being present without pressing too much.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping in a little closer.

You gave a half-shrug, then nodded. “It’s better than being stuck in strategy meetings with Mundi and his ‘visionary foresight.’”

Rex grinned. “I’d take blaster fire over that.”

You grinned back.

And that’s when the second chime hit the door.

You blinked. “Expecting someone else?”

“No,” you said slowly.

The door slid open again.

Commander Bacara stood in the hallway, arms behind his back, helmet on, armor scuffed — looking like he’d just walked out of a warzone and right into a social situation he didn’t know how to navigate.

You stiffened instinctively. “Commander.”

“General.” His voice was flat.

Rex, ever the professional, nodded politely. “Commander Bacara.”

“Captain,” Bacara said, equally neutral.

The tension in the room thickened immediately.

You cleared your throat and gestured toward your half-packed gear. “Wasn’t expecting visitors.”

Bacara didn’t move from the doorway. “I came to… check in. Before your departure.”

You blinked. He hadn’t spoken more than a sentence to you at a time in weeks. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“I don’t do ‘thoughtful,’” he said stiffly. “Just wanted to ensure you were briefed properly.”

“I am,” you said gently. “But thank you.”

A long pause.

Rex glanced between the two of you. His brow furrowed just slightly.

You watched Bacara’s shoulders shift — only barely, but enough. He was about to say something else.

And then he saw Rex’s hand resting lightly on the edge of your desk. The proximity. The quiet ease in your posture. The subtle, familiar tension between people who understood each other.

Whatever Bacara had come to say died behind the visor.

“If you’re adequately prepared, I won’t take more of your time,” he said crisply.

You almost said something — but then he gave you a short nod and turned on his heel.

The door slid shut behind him.

You exhaled.

Rex didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, a small furrow between his brows.

“You okay?” he asked again — this time quieter.

You gave a strained smile. “Never better.”

But your eyes were still on the door.

And something about the way Bacara hadn’t looked back left you more shaken than you wanted to admit.

⸻

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