Captain Rex X Villager Reader

Hi! I was thinking a Rex or Cody x Gen!Reader(maybe they’re a bounty hunter or just a Mandalorian) where they’re working together and they get accidentally married in mandoa and don’t find out right away? 💕

This is probably not what you requested but hope you like it either way.

“One Too Many”

Commander Cody x GN!Mandalorian Reader

The campaign on Desix had been long, bloody, and miserable. So when word came that the Separatist holdouts had finally surrendered, Obi-Wan Kenobi declared the night a rare “official respite.”

The planet was a dustball at the edge of nowhere — the kind of place smugglers, bounty hunters, and desperate soldiers all stumbled through sooner or later.

You were there for work. Quick job, quick pay, quick drink.

You hadn’t expected to find half the Grand Army of the Republic crowded into the cantina. You especially hadn’t expected to find him — broad-shouldered, scarred, handsome in a way that was dangerous when someone was three shots deep.

Cody.

You didn’t know his name at first. Just another trooper, you thought — until you saw the way the others deferred to him. Until you saw the way he held himself, even off-duty.

Like a man carrying an entire war on his back.

You liked him immediately.

You were reckless like that.

The 212th’s celebration had started simple: a little victory, a little breathing room, a little dust-choked cantina at the edge of nowhere.

Then the liquor came out.

One drink turned into three. Three turned into seven.

You barely remembered how it started — one minute you were slumped over the bar next to a broad-shouldered, grim-faced trooper who was nursing a drink like it was going to run away, and the next you were both howling drunk, arms thrown around each other, laughing at something Waxer said about when Cody bought you a drink.

Mando’a started slipping from your mouth when you got drunk — curses, jokes, old wedding songs you half-remembered from your clan.

Boil dared Cody to kiss you.

You dared Cody to marry you.

And for some kriffing reason, Waxer got it into their heads that you should actually do it.

There was a chapel down the street.

A real one.

Old Outer Rim-style — rustic, rickety, still covered in someone’s half-hearted attempt at decorations from a wedding months ago.

“You won’t,” Boil slurred, clinging to Waxer.

“I kriffing will,” Cody said, jabbing a finger at you.

You were grinning so hard your face hurt. “You won’t.”

He grabbed your wrist and started marching, half-dragging you through the dusty street. Waxer and Boil stumbled after you, cackling like a pair of devils.

Behind you, Master Kenobi — General Kenobi, The Negotiator, Jedi Master, paragon of wisdom and serenity — trailed along with a wine bottle in one hand, sipping casually like he was watching a street performance.

“Should we… stop them?” Waxer hiccupped.

Kenobi just raised an eyebrow. “Why? It’s quite entertaining.”

Inside the chapel, some sleepy old droid still programmed for ceremonies blinked itself awake when you all stumbled through the door.

“Are you here to be joined in union?” it asked mechanically.

“Yeah!” Cody barked, waving his hand. “Get on with it!”

You were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. Waxer was sobbing into Boil’s shoulder from laughter. Boil was recording it on his datapad.

You were pretty sure you threatened to punch Cody halfway through the vows, and he threatened to throw you over his shoulder and “get this over with,” and Waxer tried to officiate at one point but got distracted by the ceiling lights.

The droid somehow got the basic requirements out of you: names, yes, consent, yes, promise to stick together, sure why not, insert your clan name here, slurred into nothing.

“By the rites of union under the local customs of Desix,” the droid droned, “you are now spouses.”

There was a long, stunned pause.

Cody blinked at you, bleary and still holding your wrist.

You blinked at him, grinning like an idiot.

Waxer whooped.

Boil flung rice he stole from the droid’s ceremonial basket.

Obi-Wan gave a golf clap, smiling into his wine bottle.

Cody tugged you in by the front of your shirt and kissed you square on the mouth.

It was clumsy and a little sloppy and completely perfect.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, chuckling low in his chest.

“Remind me to actually take you on a date next time,” he muttered.

You snorted, dizzy and stupidly happy.

“You’re such a cheap date,” you teased.

“You’re the one who married a clone after six drinks,” he shot back.

Obi-Wan’s voice floated lazily from somewhere behind you.

“This isn’t the first Mandalorian shotgun wedding I’ve attended.”

You flipped Kenobi off over Cody’s shoulder without looking.

⸻

Your head was killing you.

It was the kind of hangover that felt like someone had stuffed a live thermal detonator into your skull and set it to “gently simmer.”

You woke up sprawled across the pilot’s chair of your battered little freighter, helmet on the floor, boots still on, jacket half-off.

You groaned, clutching your head, trying to piece together what the kriff happened last night.

You remembered… the cantina.

Maybe some clones?

Drinks?

A lot of drinks.

And then — nothing. A void.

Total blackout.

You muttered a curse under your breath, shaking off the cobwebs.

“Not my problem anymore,” you said hoarsely, slamming the hatch controls.

The ship lifted off with a coughing rumble, engines flaring as you tore away from that cursed dustball of a planet without a single look back.

Freedom.

Peace.

Hangover and all, at least you—

—CLANG.

You jumped, hand flying to your blaster as something banged inside the ship.

You spun around, heart hammering, expecting a bounty hunter or a drunken mistake you forgot to ditch.

Instead, a half-dressed clone trooper stumbled out of your refresher.

You stared.

He stared.

Both of you looked equally horrified.

“What the kriff are you doing on my ship?!” you barked, blaster half-raised.

The clone — broad, buzzcut, golden armor pieces still strapped to one shoulder — squinted blearily at you.

“…Am I still drunk?” he mumbled, rubbing his face. “Or are you yelling?”

You pressed the blaster harder into your hand to resist the urge to shoot the ceiling out of pure frustration.

“Who the hell are you?” you demanded.

“Uh.” He looked down at himself, like maybe his armor would have answers. “Waxer.”

“Waxer,” you repeated flatly.

There was an awkward beat.

He looked around, frowning harder. “This… this isn’t the barracks.”

“No shit, genius,” you snapped. “It’s my ship.”

Waxer scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I… think I followed you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I dunno, vod. You seemed… fun?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose so hard you saw stars.

This was a nightmare.

You had to focus. Okay. One problem at a time.

“Do you remember anything about last night?” you ground out.

Waxer leaned heavily against the wall, thinking so hard it looked painful.

“Uh… bar… drinks… Boil dared Cody to…” He trailed off, brow furrowing. “Somethin’ about a chapel?”

You stared at him, ice sinking into your stomach.

“…A chapel?”

“Yeah,” Waxer said, rubbing his temple. “Pretty sure there was a wedding? Someone got married?”

You nearly dropped your blaster.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, pacing in a tight circle. “Not me. Not a chance.”

Waxer gave you a once-over, squinting.

“You do look like you got married,” he said, way too cheerfully for a man half-hungover in your ship’s corridor. “You got that, uh, post-wedding… glow.”

You shot him a look so poisonous he actually flinched.

“You’re lucky you’re not spaced already,” you growled. “Sit down, stay quiet. I need to figure out what the hell happened.”

You turned back toward the cockpit.

Waxer called weakly after you:

“Hey, uh… if you find out if I got married, let me know too, yeah?”

You groaned so loud it shook the bulkheads.

⸻

Cody woke up face-down on a crate in a supply room.

His mouth tasted like regret and sawdust.

His armor was half-missing.

His head felt like it had been used for target practice.

He groaned, dragging himself upright, squinting around.

Where the kriff—?

The door slid open with a hiss, and Boil stumbled in, looking just as rough.

“Commander,” Boil rasped, voice like gravel, “we’re…uh…we’re shipping out soon.”

Cody pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Where’s Waxer?” he croaked.

Boil blinked. Looked around like maybe Waxer would appear out of thin air.

“…I thought he was with you?”

Cody cursed under his breath. “We leave in an hour. Find him.”

Boil nodded, clutching the wall for balance, and staggered out.

Cody scrubbed a hand down his face.

Bits of last night floated in his brain — flashes of a bar, too many drinks, laughing until his ribs hurt — and then… nothing.

Total blackout.

He remembered someone — warm hands, a sharp smile — but it was blurry. Faded like a dream.

Before he could piece anything together, General Kenobi appeared, hands tucked casually behind his back, sipping calmly from a steaming cup of tea.

“Cody,” Kenobi greeted pleasantly. “Sleep well?”

Cody groaned. “Respectfully, sir, I feel like I’ve been run over by a LAAT.”

Kenobi smiled, maddeningly unbothered.

“Well, that’s what happens when you elope with Mandalorians,” the Jedi said casually, taking a sip.

Cody froze.

“…Sir?”

Kenobi gave him a sideways glance, the barest twitch of amusement on his mouth.

“Marrying someone you just met. Very uncharacteristic of you,” he mused aloud. “But then again, everyone needs a little excitement now and then.”

Cody’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“I… I what?” he managed.

Kenobi smiled wider.

“As your commanding officer and friend, let me be the first to congratulate you on your marriage.”

Cody stared at him, stomach dropping through the floor.

Kenobi clapped him on the shoulder once, almost kindly, and strolled off down the corridor, humming to himself.

Cody just stood there.

Brain utterly blank.

Marriage!?

Bits of the night started stitching themselves together in his pounding skull — the cantina, the drinks, the bet, the chapel,— a Mandalorian — a ring of laughter and shouting — a kiss that tasted like liquor and adrenaline—

His hands flew to his body, patting himself down.

There, on a thin chain tucked under his blacks, was a cheap metal band — hastily engraved, scuffed to hell — but there.

He was married.

To someone.

He didn’t even know their name.

“Kriff!” he swore, yanking the band out to stare at it.

Boil popped his head back around the corner.

“Commander, uh, bad news — Waxer’s missing.”

Cody’s eye twitched.

“Find him,” he growled. “Now.”

Because if anyone knew where the kriffing Mandalorian was — the Mandalorian he apparently married last night — it would be Waxer.

And Cody was going to kill them both.

⸻

Cody was stalking through the camp like a man possessed.

Clones scrambled out of his way — even Boil looked like he was about to duck and cover — but Cody barely noticed.

He jabbed at his comm unit again, teeth grinding.

“Come on, Waxer, where the hell are you—”

The comm crackled — and finally, mercifully, connected.

Except… it wasn’t Waxer’s voice that answered.

It was a dry, raspy groan, like someone dying a slow death.

“…Who the kriff is this?” a voice slurred over the line.

Cody stiffened.

That voice—

Mandalorian accent. Rough from a hangover.

Unmistakable.

“This is Commander Cody of the Grand Army of the Republic,” he snapped. “Where’s Waxer?”

A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker.

Then some muffled shuffling.

Finally, a different voice — Waxer’s — came on the line, painfully sheepish.

“Uh… hey, Commander.”

“Waxer,” Cody growled, “you have two minutes to explain why you’re not on the ground getting ready for departure.”

“Okay, so, uh…” Waxer sounded like he was desperately trying to piece his dignity back together. “Funny story, sir…”

“Waxer.”

“I’m on a ship. Not, uh, our ship. The Mandalorian’s ship.”

Cody’s eye twitched violently.

“You’re with them?” he hissed.

Waxer coughed, clearly embarrassed.

“Yeah. Turns out, I kinda… passed out in their refresher.”

In the background, you — the Mandalorian — muttered “Stop telling people that,” which Cody was definitely going to circle back to later.

Waxer hurried on. “They could drop me off at Nal Hutta — You know, least disruption, stay outta the battalion’s way…”

“Nal Hutta is a three-day detour,” Cody barked.

“Yeah, I said that too,” Waxer admitted. “They’re heading to Coruscant next, but it’s gonna take a few days.”

Cody paced like a caged rancor, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re telling me I have to leave you in the hands of a hungover Mandalorian,” he said through gritted teeth, “who I may or may not have married last night, and just hope you both make it to Coruscant alive?”

“…I mean, if you put it like that, sir,” Waxer said carefully, “it sounds worse than it is.”

There was a long pause.

Cody closed his eyes.

He could feel Kenobi’s amused stare from across the camp.

The General was lounging under a shade tarp, nursing another drink like he was personally invested in Cody’s suffering.

Cody opened his eyes.

Fine.

No choice.

“Copy that,” he ground out. “Transmit your vector when you make planetfall. We’ll regroup on Coruscant.”

“Yes, sir,” Waxer said, voice obviously relieved.

The comm clicked off.

Cody lowered the device slowly, breathing through his nose.

“Married,” he muttered to himself, in utter disbelief. “Married to a Mandalorian I don’t even remember meeting.”

Kenobi drifted casually closer, hands clasped behind his back, wearing the smuggest expression Cody had ever seen on his otherwise dignified face.

“Don’t worry, Cody,” the Jedi said lightly, voice positively dripping with humor. “Statistically speaking, most impulsive marriages have a fifty percent survival rate.”

Cody stared at him, hollow-eyed.

“That’s not comforting, sir.”

Kenobi took a sip of his drink, beaming. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

⸻

The ship’s hyperdrive thrummed softly as it hurtled through deep space.

You slouched in the pilot’s chair, wearing the hangover like a full set of armor.

Every noise was too loud.

Every light was too bright.

From behind you, Waxer was perched awkwardly on a crate, looking like he had a lot of questions he desperately wanted to ask — and not enough survival instincts to stop himself.

You groaned, slumping forward to rest your forehead against the control panel.

“Don’t say it,” you warned him, voice hoarse.

Waxer scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

“…Sooo,” he drawled, dragging the word out, “you and my commander, huh?”

You made a wounded sound into the console.

“I’m never drinking with clones again,” you mumbled.

Waxer chuckled under his breath, clearly finding way too much joy in your suffering.

“Hey, could be worse,” he said lightly. “At least it’s Cody. Solid guy. Good rank. Stable.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him, one eye peeking out from under your hair.

“I don’t even remember meeting him,” you hissed. “I woke up in my ship, there was a half-dead clone in my refresher, and now apparently I’m married to your kriffing commander.”

Waxer winced sympathetically, but he was absolutely biting back a laugh.

“Details, details,” he said. “You seemed real happy about it last night.”

“I was drunk!” you snapped.

Waxer shrugged, grinning. “Still. Smiled a lot.”

You buried your face back into your arms.

Maker.

You tried to scrape together anything useful from last night — but it was all a messy blur of shouting, music, the burning taste of spotchka, and — somewhere — a deep, rumbling laugh you could almost remember.

You groaned again.

Waxer leaned back against the wall, settling in comfortably like he was ready to spill all the juicy gossip.

“So…what’s the plan?” he asked, way too casually.

You lifted your head just enough to glare again.

“Plan?”

“Yeah, you know. Marriage stuff. Matching armor. Co-signing a ship mortgage.”

You pointed a finger at him.

“You’re lucky I don’t space you,” you muttered.

Waxer just smiled wider.

“Look, could be worse,” he said again, like he was helping. “General Kenobi didn’t even seem mad. He was kinda proud, honestly.”

You groaned and flopped back into your chair, draping an arm over your face.

“You clones are a menace.”

Waxer chuckled.

“Yeah, but you married one, so what’s that make you?”

You made a strangled sound.

The ship sailed on through the stars — heading straight for Coruscant and the world’s most awkward conversation with Commander Cody.

You didn’t know how that conversation was going to go.

But you were pretty sure you were going to need a drink for it.

⸻

The ship touched down at the GAR base on Coruscant with a smooth hiss of repulsors.

You barely waited for the ramp to finish lowering before you were all but shoving Waxer out.

“Go,” you said, practically herding him down the ramp. “Fly, be free.”

Waxer grinned, shouldering his kit bag.

“Thanks for the lift, mesh’la. Good luck with the husband.”

You shot him a murderous glare as he disappeared into the bustling crowds of clones and officers.

And then — standing at the base of the ramp — was him.

Commander Cody.

Still in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm, looking… somehow even more handsome sober.

His hair was tousled, his dark eyes sharp but… cautious.

You felt the smallest flicker of Oh no he’s hot panic spark in your gut.

Cody stepped forward, clearing his throat.

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for it.

“So,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “About… the marriage.”

You gave him a flat look.

“What marriage?” you said, a little too brightly. “I don’t remember a marriage.”

Cody cracked the faintest, tired smile.

“Right. Well. I’m sure there’s a way to… annul it. Or nullify it. Whatever the proper term is.”

You cocked your head, pretending to think.

“Could just say it wasn’t consummated,” you said casually. “Makes it non-binding in some traditions.”

For a half-second, Cody actually looked relieved.

You smirked.

Right up until a very distinct voice behind you both cleared his throat politely.

Both you and Cody turned at the same time.

There stood General Kenobi, sipping from a flask he definitely wasn’t supposed to have on base, looking immensely entertained.

“I’m afraid,” Kenobi said, with that Jedi-trying-to-sound-diplomatic tone, “that would not be accurate.”

You and Cody blinked at him.

Kenobi smiled a little wider, like he was delivering a death sentence.

“From what I recall — and from what half the battalion will never be able to forget — the marriage was…” He paused delicately. “…enthusiastically consummated. On multiple occasions. That night.”

Silence.

Absolute, crippling silence.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Cody’s face turned a shade of red you hadn’t thought possible for a battle-hardened clone.

You slowly turned your head back toward Cody, your expression completely numb.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Right,” he said finally, voice strangled. “Good to know.”

You choked on a sound that was half a laugh, half a groan.

Kenobi clapped Cody lightly on the shoulder as he strolled past.

“Congratulations again, by the way,” he added over his shoulder, absolutely relishing your suffering.

You and Cody just stood there on the landing pad, mutual trauma radiating off you in waves.

Finally, you blew out a breath.

“So,” you said hoarsely, “drinks?”

Cody stared at you.

Then — in the most defeated, exhausted voice you had ever heard — he muttered

“Please.”

Hi! I had an idea for a Bad Batch or even 501st x Fem!Reader where the reader has a rather large chest and when it gets hot she wears more revealing items and the boys get distracted and flustered? I love the stuttering and blushing boys and confidence reader stuff. Nothing too explicit or so maybe just flirting and teasing. Hope this is ok! If not I totally understand! Xx

“Too Hot to Handle”

Fem!Reader x The Bad Batch

You had a feeling the Republic’s definition of “temperate” varied wildly from your own. The jungle planet was a boiling mess of humidity and unrelenting heat—and your standard gear? Suffocating. So, you did what any sane woman would do: ditched the jacket, rolled up your tank top, and tied your hair up to survive the heat.

The result? Your… assets were on full display.

“Maker,” you heard someone mutter behind you.

You glanced back over your shoulder, smirking. Tech had walked face-first into a tree branch. Crosshair snorted.

“I told you to look where you’re going.”

“I was looking,” Tech replied, voice just a little too high-pitched to be believable, glasses fogging.

Hunter cleared his throat and tried very hard to keep his eyes on the map in his hands. “Alright. Let’s move out.”

“I don’t mind staying here a bit longer,” Echo said, then instantly regretted it when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” you asked, strolling up to him. “Because of the view?”

Echo flushed crimson from ears to collarbone. “I—I didn’t—I meant the trees. The foliage. The scenery. The mission. Definitely not you.” He looked like he wanted the jungle to swallow him whole.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, muttering something about “bunch of kriffin’ cadets.”

You leaned toward him, hands on your hips. “Not enjoying the view, sniper?”

He gave you a cool look. “I’ve seen better.”

But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you otherwise.

Wrecker, on the other hand, had absolutely no filter.

“You look awesome!” he beamed. “Kinda like one of those holonet dancers! Only cooler. And better armed!”

You laughed. “Thanks, Wreck. At least someone appreciates fashion.”

Hunter still hadn’t said anything. You stepped closer, just close enough that your shadow fell over him.

“Something wrong, Sarge?”

His gaze finally met yours. His pupils were slightly dilated. “You’re, uh… distracting.”

You grinned. “Good.”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s keep moving. Before someone passes out.”

You turned, leading the squad again with an extra sway in your hips—just for fun.

Behind you, a chorus of groans, a snapped branch, and Tech asking if overheating counted as a medical emergency confirmed one thing:

Mission accomplished.

⸻

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The jungle’s heat hadn’t let up, but neither had the effect your outfit was having on the squad. Sweat clung to your skin, your tank top clinging in all the right (or wrong) places. Every time you adjusted the strap or tugged your top down slightly to cool off, you heard someone behind you trip, cough, or mutter a strangled curse.

Crosshair was chewing on the toothpick like it owed him credits. Echo’s scomp link clinked against his chest plate as he tried and failed to keep his eyes off you. Tech had adjusted his goggles four times in the last minute and was now walking with a datapad suspiciously close to his face—like he was trying to use it as a shield.

And Hunter?

Hunter looked like he was in hell.

You’d catch him watching you—eyes flickering up and down, then away, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like he was trying to rein himself in.

“Everything alright, Sarge?” you asked sweetly, dabbing sweat from your neck and catching his gaze as it dropped.

His voice cracked. “Fine. Just… focused on the terrain.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping close, letting your voice dip low. “I thought the terrain was behind you.”

Crosshair choked.

Hunter exhaled, flustered and trying not to visibly short-circuit. “Focus, all of you. We’ve got a job to do.”

“Hard to focus,” Echo muttered under his breath. “Some of us are… visually impaired by distraction.”

“Visual impairment is no excuse for tactical inefficiency,” Tech said quickly, though his goggles were definitely still fogged.

“You need help cleaning those, Tech?” you offered, reaching for his face.

He actually jumped back. “N-No! That is—unnecessary! I am quite—capable!”

“Ohhh, she’s killing ‘em,” Wrecker laughed, totally unfazed. “This is better than a bar fight!”

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair growled, barely maintaining composure as you brushed past him.

You were leading again now, hips swaying slightly more than necessary, hair sticking to your damp neck in a way that was definitely catching eyes. You tugged your top lower again and heard an audible thunk—someone had walked into another branch.

“Seriously?” you called over your shoulder, amused.

There was silence, then a shame-filled voice: “…Echo.”

You bit back a laugh.

Hunter suddenly barked, “Break time. Ten minutes.”

The squad dropped like they’d been released from a death march.

You stretched languidly, arms up, chest forward, fully aware of the eyes glued to you.

“Maker,” Hunter muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You leaned in close, hand on your hip, voice like honey. “Want some water, Sergeant?”

He blinked at you. Twice. “If I say yes, are you going to pour it over yourself again?”

“…Maybe.”

He turned a deeper shade of red than his bandana. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And just like that—you turned and walked away, leaving five broken clones behind you, questioning every life choice that had led them to this mission.

I love how you write Tech! Could I request something with him and a super clumsy and oblivious reader please? Thank you!

Thank you! Sometimes I feel like I write him too robotic like ahaha

⸻

“Statistical Probability of Love”

Tech x Reader

⸻

Tech had calculated—twice, actually—that if he complimented you at least three times a day, you might eventually understand he was flirting. The odds weren’t stellar (34.7%, to be exact), but he was determined to try.

“Your ocular symmetry is… exceptionally pleasing,” he said one afternoon, eyes never leaving his datapad.

You blinked up at him, mid-attempt to carry a large crate that was clearly too heavy for you. “Uh… thanks? Are you saying my eyeballs match?”

“Precisely.”

You smiled, almost tripping over your own feet as you finally got the crate to the other side of the Marauder. “Cool. I like symmetry. Good for… art. And, like… walking straight.”

Tech stared after you, baffled. That had been his best one yet. He even rehearsed it.

⸻

Later, you were in the cockpit, absolutely tangled in the cords you were trying to organize. Wrecker had asked you to help. He did not, however, explain how not to fall into a mess of wires like some kind of malfunctioning protocol droid.

“You seem to find yourself in precarious entanglements at an impressively consistent rate,” Tech noted, crouching beside you with a slight smirk.

You groaned dramatically. “It’s a talent. Maybe I should join a circus.”

“I find it… endearing,” he muttered.

You were too busy trying to untangle your foot from a power cable to hear him.

⸻

It got worse.

He started trying “casual” physical contact. A light touch on the shoulder here, a hand on your back when guiding you through the hull. Subtle. Calculated. Measured. He was certain you’d notice.

You? You thought he was just awkward and accidentally touchy.

Once, he brushed your hand while passing you a tool. You jolted, dropped the hydrospanner on your foot, then thanked him for it.

“You—you thanked me?” Tech asked later, clearly flustered. “I caused minor bodily harm!”

“Yeah, but it kinda woke me up. I was zoning out hard.”

He turned away, muttering something about “social cues being an imprecise science.”

⸻

Hunter noticed first. “You gonna tell her you like her or keep complimenting her neural pathways until she dies of old age?”

“I am trying to initiate courtship gradually,” Tech replied, defensive. “She is just… uniquely unresponsive to conventional—or unconventional—methods.”

“She’s got no idea,” Echo chimed in, amused. “You could tell her she was beautiful in binary and she’d thank you for a firmware update.”

⸻

Eventually, Tech snapped.

“Your clumsiness is statistically improbable and yet, inexplicably, I find myself drawn to it. To you. In a—romantic sense.”

You blinked at him from the floor, where you’d just slipped on your own jacket.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. You’re… flirting with me?”

“I have been flirting with you.”

“For how long?”

“Seventeen days, four hours, and—”

“Tech. You should’ve just said something.”

“I did! Your neural symmetry, the entanglement commentary, the guiding hand—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s on me,” you admitted, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a bit slow.”

“Not slow,” he corrected. “Just… delightfully oblivious.”

“…Was that another flirt?”

“Affirmative.”

You laughed. “Okay, I’m catching on now.”

“Statistically overdue,” he muttered.

But you leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “Worth the wait?”

His ears turned red. “Yes. Highly.”

⸻

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.5

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The aftermath of an attack always came in waves.

Smoke cleared. Evidence was gathered. People lied. And then, the survivors were expected to sit in rooms like this and act like it hadn’t shaken them.

Bail’s office was quiet, the kind of quiet only the dangerously exhausted and the politically cornered could create. A few low-voiced aides bustled around the outer corridor, but inside the room, it was only the senators.

Organa stood by the tall window, arms crossed as he stared down at the Coruscant skyline with a frown etched deep into his brow. Senator Chuchi sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her shoulder bandaged from shrapnel. Padmé was leaned over the table, scanning a datapad and speaking in hushed tones to Mon Mothma. You stood near the bookcase, arms folded, trying to will the fire in your chest into something productive.

It wasn’t working.

“I’m tired of acting like we’re not under siege,” you muttered aloud.

Padmé looked up, lips pressed thin. “We are. We just haven’t named the enemy yet.”

Chuchi nodded slowly. “They know what they’re doing. Each strike more coordinated. Less about killing—more about threatening. Silencing.”

Bail finally turned, face unreadable. “They want us reactive. Fractured. Suspicious of each other.”

“We should be,” you said, pacing a slow line. “No one’s admitting what’s happening. The Senate hushes it up. Security leaks are too convenient. And somehow every target is someone with a voice too loud for the Chancellor’s comfort.”

That earned a moment of silence.

Mon Mothma spoke softly. “You think he’s involved.”

“I think someone close to him is.”

“We can’t keep pretending these are isolated,” you said finally.

“They know that,” Padmé murmured. “The question is: why isn’t anyone doing more?”

Bail, now standing at the head of his polished desk, didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was set. His gaze flicked over the datachart projected in front of him—attack markers, profiles, probable motives.

“They’re testing the Republic,” he said. “Or what’s left of it.”

“They’re testing us,” Mothma whispered, voice hoarse. “And if we keep responding with silence and procedural delays, they’ll push until there’s no one left to oppose them.”

The words sat heavy.

Outside the door, the crimson shadow of the Coruscant Guard stood watch—Fox and Thorn included, though you hadn’t glanced their way since entering.

But you could feel them. You always did now.

You turned slightly, voice low. “Have any of you gotten direct messages?”

Chuchi looked up sharply. “Threats?”

You nodded.

There was a beat of silence. Then Mothma sighed. “One. Disguised in a customs manifest. It knew… too much.”

Padmé nodded. “Mine was through a Senate droid. Disguised as a corrupted firmware packet.”

You didn’t speak. Yours had come days ago—buried in a late-night intelligence brief with no sender. All it said was:

You are not untouchable.

You hadn’t slept since.

“We need to pressure the Supreme Chancellor,” Bail said.

That earned a sour look from you. “He’ll deflect. Say it’s a security issue, not a political one.”

“Then we make it political,” Mothma said, finally sounding like herself again. “We use our voice. While we still have one.”

The room shifted then. A renewed sense of unity—brittle, but burning.

But in the quiet after, your gaze slipped—just for a moment—toward the guards stationed outside the door.

Fox stood perfectly still, helmet tilted in your direction. Thorn just beside him, arms folded. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

But their presence spoke volumes.

This was war.

And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, something else was taking root—dangerous, fragile, and very hard to ignore.

⸻

The room was dark, save for the steady pulse of holo-screens. Red and blue glows blinked over datafeeds, security footage, encrypted reports—layered chaos organized with military precision.

Fox stood at the center console, arms braced against its edge. Thorn leaned nearby, still in partial armor, visor down. Both men had discarded formalities, if only for this moment.

“This list isn’t shrinking,” Thorn muttered, scrolling through the updated intel. “If anything, it’s tightening.”

Fox tapped in a command, bringing up the names of every senator involved in the recent threats. Mothma. Organa. Chuchi. Amidala. And her.

He paused on her name.

No title. No pretense.

Just:

[FIRST NAME] [LAST NAME]

Planet of Origin: Classified. Access requires Level Six or higher.

Military Status: Former Commander, Planetary Forces, 12th Resistance Front

Notable Actions: Siege of Klydos Ridge, Amnesty Trial #3114-A

Designations: War Criminal (Cleared). Commendation of Valor.

Thorn let out a slow breath. “Well. That explains a few things.”

Fox didn’t speak. His eyes scanned every line—calm, deliberate.

“She was tried?” Thorn asked.

“Yeah. And cleared. But this…” Fox magnified a classified document stamped with a Republic seal. “She made decisions that turned the tide of a planetary civil war. But it cost lives. Enemy and ally.”

“Sounds like a soldier,” Thorn said.

“Sounds like someone who was never supposed to be a senator.”

They both stared at the glowing file, silent for a long beat.

“Why hide it?” Thorn asked. “You’d think someone with that record would lean on it.”

Fox finally replied, quiet: “Because war heroes make people nervous. War criminals scare them. And she was both.”

Thorn folded his arms. “She doesn’t look like someone who’s seen hell.”

“No,” Fox agreed. “But she acts like it.”

A beat passed.

Thorn tilted his head slightly. “You feel it too?”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re not the only one watching her, Thorn.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t angry. Just honest.

And for a moment, silence stretched between them—not as soldiers, not as commanders, but as men standing at the edge of something they couldn’t name.

Before either could say more, a message flashed in red across the console:

MOTHMA ESCORT CLEARED. STANDBY FOR NEXT PROTECTIVE ASSIGNMENT: SENATOR [LAST NAME]

Fox closed the file with one last look.

Thorn gave a tight nod.

But as the lights of the war room dimmed behind them, neither could quite forget the file still burning in the back of their minds—or the woman behind it.

⸻

It was hard to feel normal with three clones, a Jedi Padawan, and a Skywalker surrounding your lunch table like you were preparing to launch a military operation instead of ordering garden risotto.

The restaurant had cleared out most of its upper terrace for “Senatorial Security Reasons.” A ridiculous way to say: people were trying to kill you. Again.

Still, Padmé had insisted. And somehow—somehow—you’d ended up saying yes.

The sun was soft and golden through the vine-laced awning above, dappling the white tablecloths with moving light. The air smelled like roasted herbs and fresh rain, but not even that could soften the tension in your shoulders.

“You don’t have to look like you’re about to give a press briefing,” Padmé teased gently, reaching for her wine.

You let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. “It’s hard to relax when I’m being watched like a spice smuggler at customs.”

Across from you, Anakin Skywalker didn’t even flinch. He was leaned casually against the terrace railing, arms folded, lightsaber clipped at the ready. Rex stood a few paces behind, helmet on but gaze sharply fixed beyond the decorative trellises. Ahsoka was beside him, hands on her hips, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t completely bored.

Then there were your shadows—Fox and Thorn.

They stood just far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Both in full armor. Both still as statues.

You saw them watching everyone. Especially Skywalker.

“I’m just saying,” Padmé said, twirling her fork. “If I were an assassin, this place would be the worst possible place to strike. Too many guards. Too many eyes.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” you muttered.

Ahsoka leaned forward, chin in hand, curious now. “Senator Amidala says you don’t really need all this protection. That true?”

You blinked once. Padmé was smirking into her glass. Of course she was.

“Well,” you said smoothly, lifting your napkin to your lap, “some senators are more difficult to target than others.”

Ahsoka squinted. “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s politics,” you replied with a practiced grin.

From behind, Fox shifted slightly. Thorn’s head turned just barely. They’d heard every word.

Padmé laughed quietly. “She’s been dodging questions since she was seventeen. Don’t take it personally.”

Ahsoka grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But seriously—what did you do before the Senate?”

You took a slow sip of your wine. “I made a mess of things. Then I cleaned them up. Very effectively.”

“Vague,” Ahsoka said.

“Deliberately.”

The conversation drifted to safer things—fashion, terrible policy drafts, the tragedy of synthetic caf. You allowed yourself to laugh once. Maybe twice. It was good to pretend, even just for a meal.

But as the plates were cleared and sunlight dipped a little lower, you glanced once toward the shadows.

Thorn stood with his arms crossed, ever the silent shield. Fox, next to him, gave you one sharp nod when your eyes met—no smile, no softness, just silent reassurance.

You weren’t sure what made your heart thump harder: the weight of your past threatening to surface… or the way neither of them looked away.

⸻

The wine had just been poured again—Padmé was laughing about a hideous gown she’d been forced to wear for a peace summit on Ryloth—when the world cracked in half.

The sound came first: not a blaster, not the familiar pulse of war—but the high-pitched whistle of precision. You knew that sound. You’d heard it before. In a past life.

Sniper.

Glass shattered near Padmé’s shoulder, spraying the table in glittering fragments. A scream rose somewhere below, muffled by the thick walls of the restaurant. And then—

“GET DOWN!”

Fox moved like lightning. One arm shoved you sideways, sending you down behind the table just as another shot scorched overhead. Thorn dove the opposite direction, deflecting debris with his arm guard, already scanning rooftops.

Anakin’s saber ignited mid-air.

The green blade of Ahsoka’s followed a heartbeat later.

“Sniper on the north building!” Rex barked, blaster up and already coordinating through his helmet comms. “Multiple shooters—cover’s compromised!”

Another blast tore through the awning, scorching Padmé’s chair. You yanked her down with you, shielding her head with your arms.

“Two squads, at least,” Thorn said over comms. “Organized. Not a distraction—this is the hit.”

Skywalker growled something dark and bolted forward, vaulting over the terrace railing with a flash of blue saber and fury.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted back. “Get them out of here—now!”

She was already moving. “Senators, with me!”

You didn’t hesitate—your combat instincts burned hot and automatic. You grabbed Padmé’s hand and ran, ducking low behind Ahsoka as she slashed through the decorative back entrance with her saber. The door hissed open—Fox and Thorn moved in tandem, covering your escape with rapid fire precision.

“Go!” Fox shouted. “We’ll hold the line!”

You and Padmé bolted through the kitchen, past startled staff and broken plates. Behind you, the sounds of a full-scale assault filled the air—blaster fire, shouted orders, another explosion shaking the foundations.

Ahsoka skidded into the alley, saber still lit. “Rex, redirect the speeder evac—pull it two blocks west! We’re going underground!”

Padmé looked pale. You weren’t sure if it was the near-miss or the fact that you were dragging her like a soldier, not a senator.

“This way,” you said, yanking open a service hatch. “Down the delivery chute. Go.”

She blinked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Later.”

Minutes stretched like hours as Ahsoka led you and Padmé through Coruscant’s underlevels. The girl was quick, precise—but young. She kept glancing back at you, questions on her face even in the middle of a mission.

Padmé finally caught her breath. “Are we clear?”

“Almost,” Ahsoka said. “Rex is circling a transport in now. We’ll get you back to the Senate.”

You exhaled slowly, the adrenaline catching up to your bones.

Ahsoka looked at you directly this time. “You weren’t afraid.”

You shook your head. “I’ve been afraid before. This wasn’t it.”

And though she didn’t press, something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on.

Because that wasn’t fear. That was reflex. Memory. War rising again in your blood, no matter how carefully you’d buried it.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more… or comforted you.

⸻

The plush carpet muffled your steps as you entered the secured room, escorted by the Chancellor’s guards but notably free of the Chancellor himself. Thank the stars. The tension in your jaw was just now beginning to ease.

Padmé sat beside you, brushing glass dust from the hem of her gown. She wasn’t shaking anymore, though her eyes betrayed the flickers of adrenaline still fading. Ahsoka stood at the window, her arms crossed, gaze sharp as she scanned the skyline.

“I should’ve worn flats,” Padmé muttered, leaning toward you. “Last time I try to be fashionable during an assassination attempt.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “Next time, we coordinate. Combat boots under formalwear. Very senatorial.”

Ahsoka turned slightly, studying you.

Padmé smiled faintly, but her next words were laced with meaning. “Well, you would know. I’ve never seen someone pull a senator out of a sniper’s line of fire with that kind of precision. It was… practiced.”

You didn’t miss the weight in her tone.

“Remind me never to tell you anything personal again,” you quipped, keeping your smile light. “You’re terrible with secrets.”

Padmé raised a brow, amused. “I am a politician.”

“You’re a gossip,” you shot back playfully.

Ahsoka tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Wait… practiced?”

Before Padmé could answer—or you could pivot—the doors slid open.

Thorn entered first, helmet under one arm. His eyes immediately scanned the room. Fox followed a step behind, helmet still on, shoulders squared, every inch of him sharp and unreadable. But you felt his eyes on you. The pause in his step. The tension in his jaw.

Neither man spoke right away. But they didn’t need to. Their presence filled the room with the kind of silent protection that wasn’t easily taught. Not one senator in the room doubted they’d cleared the entire floor twice over before allowing the doors to open.

Fox’s voice cut through after a beat. “Are you both unharmed?”

Padmé nodded. “We’re fine. Thanks to all of you.”

Thorn’s eyes shifted to you—just a second longer than protocol called for. “You’re calm.”

You shrugged. “Panicking rarely improves aim.”

Ahsoka didn’t let it go. “So… you have training?”

You gave her your best senatorial smile. “Wouldn’t every politician be safer if they did?”

Padmé gave you a look. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m deflecting. There’s a difference.”

Before Ahsoka could press, the door slid open again, and Captain Rex stepped in.

His brow was furrowed beneath his helmet, his tone clipped and straight to the point. “General Skywalker captured one of the assassins. Alive.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Fox stepped forward. “Where is he now?”

“En route to a secure interrogation cell. Skywalker’s escorting him personally. He wants the senators updated.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your robe. For all your practiced calm, something burned beneath your ribs.

Someone had targeted you. Again.

⸻

You barely sat.

Your body ached to move—to fight—but instead you paced the perimeter of the small, sterile waiting room the Guard had shoved you into while Skywalker handled the interrogation.

Two chairs. A water dispenser. No windows.

And a commander blocking the only door like a wall of red and steel.

Fox.

You’d seen Thorn step out to “coordinate with Rex,” but Fox hadn’t budged since Rex walked in with the update. Motionless. Head tilted just enough to follow your pacing.

It had been seven minutes.

You stopped finally, resting your palms flat on a small metal desk.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual.

“You need to sit down.”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“And drink water.”

“No.”

A longer pause.

“You may be a former soldier,” he said quietly, “but you’re still human.”

That actually made you spin around—lips curling into a sharp smile.

“Funny. You treat me more like china than human, most of the time.”

Fox didn’t move, but you could feel the shift.

“You’re not breakable,” he said flatly. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is?”

He was quiet.

You stared at him, taking a slow step closer. You knew it was reckless before your feet moved. But you did it anyway.

“Tell me, Commander.”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

But then—his head turned just slightly toward the ceiling. As if he was measuring something he didn’t want to name.

You were about to fold your arms, press harder—when he spoke.

Voice low. Tight.

“If anyone’s going to break you, it should be your choice.”

For half a second, your heart stopped.

Your eyes snapped to his visor—not in disbelief, but in something far more dangerous.

He held your stare.

Then turned his body back toward the door in a sharp movement—like he’d reset an entire system with one motion.

“Sit down, Senator,” he said, brushing the moment away like it was protocol.

You did.

But not because he told you to.

Because your knees suddenly felt unsteady.

And outside, Thorn’s shadow was pacing too.

⸻

Thorn wasn’t brooding.

He told himself that twice. Then once more for good measure.

He wasn’t brooding—he was thinking.

Processing.

Decompressing, even.

Helmet off. Armor half-stripped. He leaned against the long bench in the quietest corner of the barracks, pretending not to hear Stone snoring two bunks down. Pretending not to care that Hound’s mastiff, Grizzer, had somehow crawled under his bunk and now slept like it was his.

He ran a hand through his hair.

It should’ve been a normal day—hell, even a standard post-attack lockdown. Escort the senators. Maintain security. Nothing complicated.

But she had looked at him.

Really looked. Past the phrasing, past the title. Past the helmet.

And worse—he’d let her.

That smile she gave when Fox told her to sit, that off-hand comment about being treated like china—it stuck in his mind like a saber mark. Not because of what she said, but because of what she didn’t. The way she tested the air in every conversation. Pressed and pressed until something cracked.

And if she pressed him again—he wasn’t sure he’d hold as well as Fox did.

Thorn sighed sharply and stood, heading for the hall.

He needed air.

Thorn didn’t expect her to be out.

It was late. She’d had a hell of a day. She was a senator.

But there she was, near the far fence where the decorative lights bled softly across the foliage. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Alone.

She turned her head a little when she heard his approach, then fully—half a smile forming.

“I wondered who’d come to check on me first.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “You expected someone?”

She shrugged, but it was coy. “Let’s not pretend either of you would let me go unmonitored tonight.”

He smirked, just faintly, and stepped closer. “You’re not wrong.”

They stood there, still, in the humid night air. The stars were dim from all the light pollution—but Thorn didn’t look up.

He looked at her.

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “for someone who’s so damn good at his job… you’re terrible at hiding how much you care.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Thorn’s voice was low when he replied. “And you’re good at provoking reactions.”

“You didn’t give me one.”

He met her gaze. “Didn’t I?”

That landed harder than she expected. Her smile faltered.

And when she didn’t answer, Thorn gently touched her elbow—brief, almost professional.

But not quite.

“You’re not just another asset,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know what that means yet.”

Then he stepped away.

And she let him.

But she didn’t stop thinking about it all night.

⸻

The day was mostly quiet—too quiet. Meetings had ended early, and most senators had retreated to their quarters or offworld duties. She had slipped away from the dull chatter, climbing the stairs to the lesser-known observation deck—her sanctuary when the pressure of politics felt too tight around her throat.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

Thorn stepped through the archway, helmet under his arm, posture rigid as ever.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he said.

She arched a brow. “Am I that predictable?”

“No,” he said. “You’re just hard to keep track of when you want to be. But you only disappear when something’s bothering you.”

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a quiet once-over. “And what makes you think something’s bothering me?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped to the edge, eyes scanning the skyline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. “You wear your control like armor, Senator. But it’s heavy. I can see it.”

She turned away from the view to face him fully. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to care.”

His jaw tensed, the shift subtle, but not lost on her.

“And yet…” she continued, stepping closer, “…here you are. Always near. Always watching. I’m not blind, Thorn. You don’t flinch when there’s danger. But you flinch when I look at you too long.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

So she pushed again.

“You’re a good soldier. Loyal. By the book.” Her voice dropped. “So tell me—how much longer are you going to pretend I don’t affect you?”

Thorn’s composure cracked.

It was a split second.

But in that second, he moved—one hand cupping the side of her face, the other bracing her waist as he kissed her. Not roughly. Not rushed. But with the kind of restraint that felt like it was burning both of them alive from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to breathe—but not enough to let go.

And then—

“Commander.”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Thorn froze.

She turned her head slowly, her heart hammering, to find Fox standing at the top of the stairs—helmet on, voice emotionless.

Almost.

“You’re needed back at the barracks. Now.”

“Sir—”

“Immediately.”

Thorn stepped away, face hardening into a mask. He didn’t look at her again. He simply nodded once to Fox and walked away, every step heavy with restrained emotion.

Fox waited until Thorn disappeared from sight before turning back to her.

“Senator,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “That was… out of line.”

She raised a brow, pulse still thrumming from the kiss. “Which part?”

Fox didn’t answer.

But his silence said enough.

Jealousy had sharp edges. And for the first time, he wasn’t hiding his anymore.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Hope nobody did this with Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe before!

Tumblr messing up the picture's quality again

The template by @mellon-soup under the cut!

Commander Cody x Queen Reader

The scent of smoke and metal still clung to the air as your heels echoed down the marbled hallway of your battered palace. The ornate glass windows had been blasted out, replaced with ragged holes and jagged edges. Sunlight streamed through in fractured patterns, landing across the gold embroidery of your gown and the heavy sapphires around your neck. The dress was too fine for war, too stiff for practicality—but you wore it anyway.

You were Queen.

And queens did not cower in simple cloth.

You now stood unmoving at the top of the grand staircase, the full weight of your crown pressing into your brow. You wore gold today. Not out of vanity, but strategy. A queen in splendor inspires hope. Even in ruin.

"Your Majesty," came the low voice of your advisor, hurrying behind you, "the Republic forces have landed. General Kenobi himself leads them, along with the 212th."

You nodded once, expression like carved obsidian. "Take me to them."

_ _ _

Obi-Wan Kenobi looked every bit the seasoned general, robes dusty from landing, beard trimmed despite the chaos. At his side stood a clone in white and orange armor, helmet tucked under one arm. He stood straight-backed and still, as if carved from the same stone as your palace columns.

You descended the steps slowly, every movement deliberate. You knew how to command a room. You knew how to wield silence as a weapon.

"General Kenobi," you greeted coolly.

He bowed. "Your Majesty. We regret the delay. The 212th is ready to assist."

Your gaze drifted to the commander. Younger than the general. Sharper somehow. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable.

"And who are you?"

"Commander Cody, ma'am," he said, voice clipped and precise. "At your service."

You took a moment, letting your silence test him. He didn't shift. He didn't waver. Good.

"I'm not interested in pleasantries, Commander. The Separatists hold my people hostage in the east quarter. If you're here to help, do it. If not, get out of my city."

Cody inclined his head, neither offended nor intimidated. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, clearly amused. "I believe you'll find Commander Cody is quite... efficient."

You turned, the gems on your gown glittering with every step. "Then I expect results."

_ _ _

You watched the battle unfold from a tower overlooking the eastern district, eyes tracking orange and white armor sweeping through the rubble like fire. Commander Cody moved like he was born for it—blaster ready, tactics sharp, calm under fire.

You found yourself watching him more than the battlefield.

It wasn't just attraction. No, you'd been courted before. Dignitaries. Princes. Senators. But none of them understood war. None of them had bled for something greater. None of them had stood unmoved when you raised your voice.

He had.

Later, he found you in the ruined throne room, maps and war reports strewn across a cracked obsidian table. You didn't look up as he entered, but you felt him pause. Watching you.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

You arched a brow. "Because I'm young?"

"Because you're beautiful," he said bluntly. "And still more terrifying than most warlords I've met."

A slow, dangerous smile touched your lips. "Careful, Commander. That sounded almost like admiration."

He stepped closer. "It was."

"We leave at dawn," he said quietly.

You nodded. "You've done well."

He gave a faint smile. "So have you."

There was silence, the kind that hangs just before a storm—or a kiss. You stood close. Closer than duty allowed. Your hand brushed against his arm as you passed him, deliberately slow.

"I'm not the type to wait around, Commander," you said softly. "But I remember loyalty."

And with that, you left him standing in the ruins of a palace he helped save—his heart torn between orders and the ghost of your perfume.

_ _ _

Night blanketed the capital in quiet shades of blue and silver. The fires had died down. The people slept. The palace—scarred but standing—breathed silence through its stone corridors.

You stood alone on the balcony of your private quarters, the city below wrapped in darkness. A wind brushed through your hair, catching on the delicate sapphire pins at your temples. You weren't in ceremonial silk tonight—just a velvet robe, deep indigo, soft against your skin. Lighter. Easier to breathe in.

"You should be resting," came his voice behind you, low and steady.

You didn't turn. "So should you."

Cody stepped forward, stopping beside you, eyes scanning the skyline. He looked out of place here—so sharp and war-worn against the softness of your world—but somehow, he belonged.

"They'll be fine without me for a few hours," he said.

You let the silence stretch. Then: "It wasn't just my people they came for. The Separatists wanted to break me. Make an example of this world. Of me."

Cody glanced at you, surprised by the honesty in your voice. Your chin was still high, your spine still regal—but your voice was softer now. Human.

"I've never been this close to losing everything," you murmured.

He didn't offer pity. He didn't rush in with hollow reassurances. He just stood beside you, letting your words exist without judgment.

"You didn't lose," he said finally.

You turned to look at him, his face half-lit by moonlight. You studied him—creased brow, quiet strength, the scar at his temple. Not beautiful, not polished. But real.

"You leave at dawn," you said.

He nodded. "We've been reassigned. New system. New war."

You looked down, then away. "Will I see you again?"

The question slipped out before you could cage it. A raw thread of vulnerability woven into your otherwise unshakable voice.

Cody didn't hesitate. "If there's a path back here, I'll take it."

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through his blacks.

"Then go with honor," you whispered. "And come back with your heart still yours."

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. "Why mine?"

"Because..." You hesitated, just for a breath. "You're the first man who's ever looked at me and didn't see just a crown."

His jaw tightened, barely. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then, slowly—carefully—he reached up, cupping your face with a gloved hand.

"Then I hope when I come back..." he murmured, voice low, "you'll still be wearing it."

You leaned in before you could think twice. Your lips met his—soft, sure, but brief. A kiss meant to linger.

It wasn't passion. It wasn't fire.

It was a promise.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his for just a moment longer.

"Until next time, Commander," you whispered.

"Until next time... Your Majesty."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the quiet night, the war, and the stars.

Tech. ⚡️💀⚡️

Got the inspo from Sana. Kinda figured

he mostly yells this phrase at Wrecker.

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.4

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.

Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.

You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.

Another shipment hijacked.

Another uprising quelled—barely.

Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.

When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”

You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”

“But I might,” she admitted.

You remained still, letting the quiet settle.

“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”

Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”

“You sound like my enemies.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”

Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”

“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”

For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.

“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”

“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”

A long silence. Then, in a whisper:

“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”

You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”

She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.

You left her there.

⸻

The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.

You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.

They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.

It was happening again.

Only this time, you stood beside the throne.

⸻

Sundari had never been louder.

Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.

You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.

Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.

“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”

Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”

“You’re smart enough to know better.”

She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”

Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.

“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”

You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”

“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”

“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”

That was the final push.

Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.

“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.

You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.

“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.

He faltered.

And then—they stepped out of the shadows.

Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.

When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.

Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.

You turned away.

But it wasn’t over.

Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.

Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.

He walked past you.

“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.

Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”

Maul ignited his saber.

He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.

You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.

The Death Watch leader crumpled.

The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Some kneeled. Others hesitated.

Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.

“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”

Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.

You remained.

You didn’t run.

Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.

He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.

“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”

He tilted his head.

“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”

Or…

“Will you die with your honor?”

“Kill me”

Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.

The cell was dark.

Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.

Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.

“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

You looked over, slowly.

“For now.”

There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.

“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.

You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”

Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”

You smiled too. “Especially after those.”

She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

You looked her in the eye.

“Not if I can stop it.”

⸻

They dragged you both from your cell.

Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.

And then he arrived.

Kenobi.

Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.

You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.

The confrontation played out as in the holos.

Maul relished every second.

Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.

And then—like a blade through your own chest—

Maul killed her.

Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.

You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.

“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”

He escaped—barely.

And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.

⸻

The city was choking under red skies.

Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.

A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.

Darth Sidious.

His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.

“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”

Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.

“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”

“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”

There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.

“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”

⸻

Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.

Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.

Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.

Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”

Sidious said nothing.

Then he struck.

The throne room erupted in chaos.

Lightsabers screamed.

Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.

You remembered your old training.

You remembered the cadets.

You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.

You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.

He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.

⸻

Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.

You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.

“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”

Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.

“No.”

You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”

“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”

You trembled, fists clenched.

“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”

You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.

And you stepped back.

“I did this for Mandalore.”

He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”

⸻

Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.

You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.

For your cadets.

For Satine.

For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.

You had survived again.

But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.

She was vengeance.

And she had only just begun.

⸻

You tried to vanish.

From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

⸻

The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.

Sidious.

“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”

You said nothing.

“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”

You turned off the holoprojector.

Another message followed. And another. Then…

A warning.

“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”

That was it. The breaking point.

⸻

The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.

No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.

Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.

In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.

Not after he threatened them.

He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.

“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”

“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”

You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.

Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.

You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.

Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.

You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.

Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.

You wouldn’t get another shot.

The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.

You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—

A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.

Fox.

You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…

But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.

You pressed on.

You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.

The Chancellor was already there.

He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.

He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”

Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”

He smiled.

“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

But then—

Ignited sabers.

The Jedi were already there. Three of them.

Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.

They had sensed your intent.

You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.

But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.

Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.

As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.

He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”

⸻

Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.

Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.

Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.

He stared at you a long time.

“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”

You didn’t speak.

He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.

“…Why?”

You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.

“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”

“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”

Fox looked down.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then quietly, almost brokenly:

“…You shouldn’t have come here.”

You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“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.”

“Command and Consequence pt.2”

Fox x reader x Wolffe

⸻

She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.

They weren’t supposed to fall for her.

She wasn’t supposed to leave.

But they did. And she did.

Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.

⸻

Wolffe was gone.

Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.

She told herself it didn’t sting.

Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.

This time, it was him.

Fox.

She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.

“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”

No answer.

Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.

She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”

Fox didn’t move.

“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”

Still nothing.

She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”

That one hit.

His shoulders shifted. Just enough.

“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”

“You walked away.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”

He stepped closer to the shield.

“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”

She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.

“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”

“And you hate her now?”

“No,” he said, almost too quiet.

“I wish I did.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Fox’s helmet snapped up.

“You planning something?” he demanded.

She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”

An explosion rocked the building.

Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.

The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.

She moved first.

Elbow. Throat. Disarm.

Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.

They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.

He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”

She headbutted him. “Too late.”

He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.

He caught her wrist. “You left us.”

She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”

That cracked him.

She tackled him.

They hit the floor hard.

His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.

And for a heartbeat—

There he was.

Fox.

Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.

He flipped her. Pinned her down.

“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”

Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—

And paused.

Just for a second.

He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.

So she closed her fist.

And knocked him out cold.

⸻

She ran.

Again.

Bleeding. Gasping. Free.

But not the same.

Not anymore.

Because this time, she left something behind.

And it wasn’t just her past.

It was him.

⸻

(Flashback - Kamino)

It was raining.

Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.

She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.

She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.

She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.

Good.

But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.

She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.

She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”

No one spoke.

She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”

Eyes tracked her, alert.

“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”

A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.

“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”

She paused.

“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”

“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”

The silence was sharp. But the room listened.

The first week nearly broke them.

She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.

So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.

“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”

A pause.

“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”

CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.

“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”

He quirked a brow.

“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”

He smirked.

“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”

“Bly?” he echoed.

“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”

He went quiet.

“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”

That got his attention.

“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”

“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”

He didn’t flinch.

“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”

His stare didn’t break.

She nodded to herself.

Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.

This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.

“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”

He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.

“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”

Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.

Good.

And finally—

CT-3636.

She exhaled. Quiet.

“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”

He arched a brow.

“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”

Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.

She stepped back and looked at them all.

“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”

She didn’t say why she chose those names.

But Fox knew.

And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.

⸻

That night, neither of them slept.

Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.

Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.

It wasn’t just what she called them.

It was how she saw them.

Not clones.

Not numbers.

Men.

And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:

They would have followed her anywhere.

⸻

“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”

Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.

Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.

He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.

“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”

“A liability,” Fox snapped.

A pause.

Then Thorn said, “So are you.”

She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.

Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.

“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.

Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.

She was running out of time.

So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.

She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:

“You still owe me.”

⸻

Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.

He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.

When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.

“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”

That hit something.

He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.

“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”

Fox raised his blaster.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.

Then she charged him.

They hit the ground hard.

She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.

Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.

It was personal.

Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.

She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.

“Stay down,” he growled.

But she was already back on her feet, staggering.

“You first.”

She lunged. He met her.

For one second, he nearly won.

And then—

The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.

A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.

Fox’s head snapped up.

From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.

From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”

She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.

He caught her foot—just for a second.

Their eyes locked.

She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”

Fox’s grip slipped.

She vanished into the belly of the ship.

The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.

Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.

Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:

“You get her?”

Fox didn’t answer.

He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:

“Next time.”

⸻

The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.

She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.

“You look like shab.”

She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”

Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.

“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”

She ignored him.

Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”

After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”

That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.

“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”

He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”

She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.

“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”

He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”

She smirked. “Sentimental.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”

“You don’t have to run forever.”

“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”

And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.

⸻

Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.

Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.

“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.

“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.

“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”

Plo regarded them both for a long moment.

“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened.

Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”

“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”

Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.

“She made her choice,” he said flatly.

“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”

Wolffe didn’t respond.

“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”

Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”

“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”

Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”

Silence.

Then Wolffe slowly nodded.

“Then I’ll bring her in.”

Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.

“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”

⸻

The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.

Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.

Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”

Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”

“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.

Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”

“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.

Wolffe didn’t respond.

He just kept moving.

They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.

She knew they were coming.

She was waiting.

⸻

They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.

Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.

She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.

“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”

Wolffe charged her without a word.

Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.

But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.

She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.

But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.

They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.

Then came him.

The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.

“Step down,” Plo said.

She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”

“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”

“I was never yours.”

“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”

They fought.

The air crackled.

She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.

He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.

“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”

She lunged. “You don’t know me.”

“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”

“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”

He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.

“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.

She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”

Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.

“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”

That made Plo pause.

“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.

Plo stared at her for a long moment.

Then, slowly—he stepped back.

Released the Force.

“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”

She blinked.

“You’re… letting me go?”

“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”

Wolffe took a step forward.

Plo stopped him with a look.

“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”

Wolffe’s fists clenched.

She didn’t wait.

She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.

This time, no one followed.