“Safe With You”

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

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

“The Fall Doesn’t End You”

The Bad Batch x Reader

You saw it happening too late.

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

“When have we ever followed orders?”

And then he shot the cable.

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

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

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

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

There.

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

“I see him—” you gasped.

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

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

“You—what are you doing?!”

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

Impact.

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

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

Everything hurt.

But you were alive.

And so was he.

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

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

He was lying a few meters away, not moving.

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

He groaned—loud, agonized.

Good. Groaning was good. That meant breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze met yours. Quiet. Sure. Familiar.

“No,” he said. “We aren’t.”

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

“Then let’s move.”

⸻

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

He didn’t complain once.

He never did.

Even bleeding and pale, his mind was sharp.

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

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

A pause.

Then softly, dryly:

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

It was there for you.

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

It wasn’t empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t look up. “I had time.”

There was a moment of silence between you both.

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

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

A beat of silence.

“…Statistically, your survival odds were—”

“Tech.”

He paused.

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

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

⸻

The escape was anything but smooth.

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

One TIE clipped your right engine.

“We’re going down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

“TECH?! (Y/N)?!”

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

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

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

You gave a tired nod.

“We made it.”

“You jumped after him,” Hunter said hoarsely.

“I wasn’t letting him go alone.”

“We thought we lost you both.”

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

Then, Omega burst through the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

“I was. But she caught me.”

Omega pulled back, blinking through tears.

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

You froze for a second, unsure how to respond.

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then, softly, he spoke.

“You risked everything.”

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

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

You snorted. “Stars, no.”

“…Good.”

Another silence.

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

And his hand… stayed.

“Brothers in the Making” pt.2

Command Squad x Reader

The morning air in the training yard smelled of damp plastoid and ozone — same as always. Rain tapped on the roof of the covered walkway, steady but soft, like the storm hadn’t made up its mind about the day yet.

You stood at the head of the formation, arms behind your back, cloak heavy with humidity.

Twenty-three had become twenty-two.

Not because you'd lost one, but because one of them had stepped forward.

And he'd earned a name.

They stood in perfect formation, shoulder to shoulder. No movement, no talking — but the tension was there, humming like static in the air.

You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under one arm, boots soaked to the ankle.

“Yesterday, one of you showed me something I’ve been waiting to see,” you said calmly. “Not just talent. Not just tactics. But who he is.”

Your eyes landed on the cadet to your right. The one who no longer stood in the line.

CC-1010.

He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, helmet under his arm. Quiet. Unshaken.

“He faced fear without shame. Not because he wanted a name — but because he needed to be more for his brothers. And that,” you said, voice steady, “is how a name is earned.”

You nodded to him.

“From now on, he is Fox.”

Silence.

But not empty silence. No — this silence was sharp.

Across the line, you saw heads twitch, eyes shift. You felt the ripple move through them.

CC-2224 tilted his head just slightly — like he was re-evaluating something.

CT-7567 didn’t move at all, but his jaw tightened beneath the helmet. You could almost feel him processing it.

CC-5869 crossed his arms, the first to break stance.

“Didn’t know crying in your bunk earned names now,” he muttered.

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know tripping over your squadmate during breach drills made you an expert.”

A quiet snort came from CC-1138, who immediately tried to play it off.

You stepped in before it escalated.

“Cut it,” you said. “Jealousy won’t earn you a name. Neither will pissing contests. If anything, Fox getting named means I’m watching even closer now.”

CT-1477 mumbled something to CC-5052. Probably a bet.

CC-2224 and CC-5869 shared a look — not resentment, not yet. Just… hunger. Quiet determination.

CC-1138 nodded once to himself.

You let them have the moment — that weight of realization that the bar had been raised.

You turned on your heel, voice sharp again.

“Sim room. City block scenario. Squad-on-squad. You want a name?”

You gestured to the exit with your helmet.

“Earn it.”

They moved faster than usual.

The sim was rougher than usual.

Squads pushed harder, moved sharper, communicated with fewer mistakes. CT-7567 ran point on his squad and executed a textbook breach — one you hadn’t even taught yet. CC-2224 called a flawless redirect mid-scenario when the objective shifted. CC-5052 and CC-5869 still bickered, but their cover-fire patterns were getting tighter.

They were trying.

You could see it.

But only one of them had a name.

And they all knew it.

———

That night, the rain had returned in full — harder now, pelting the side of the instructor wing like blasterfire on durasteel.

You leaned against a support pillar outside the rec hall, caf in hand, gear still half-on. The ache in your shoulders hadn’t left since morning.

Footsteps approached — a limp in one.

Kal Skirata.

“You look like osik,” he said by way of greeting.

“Same to you,” you replied, sipping your caf.

He grinned and leaned beside you, stretching out the stiffness in his back. “One of my cadets set off a training charge in the wrong direction today. Took out the wrong team.”

You smirked. “Friendly fire?”

“Not so friendly when I was the one watching from behind.”

Another set of steps approached — slower, more deliberate.

Walon Vau. Cloaked in quiet as always.

“I warned RC-1262 about overcommitting,” he said. “He overcommitted.”

You glanced at him. “He live?”

“He learned.”

Kal chuckled. “Same thing.”

The three of you stood in silence for a moment, listening to the rain.

“I named one,” you said finally.

They both turned toward you.

“CC-1010,” you added. “He’s Fox now.”

Kal nodded slowly. “Good lad. Level-headed. Thinks with more than just his training.”

“Steady,” Vau agreed. “He’ll survive.”

You watched the rain streak down the glass window across from you, arms folded. “The others are watching him differently now.”

“Of course they are,” Kal muttered. “They know now. It’s real.”

“They’re chasing it,” you said. “All of them. Not for ego — not yet. But… they want to be seen.”

“That’s what names do,” Kal said. “Turn numbers into souls.”

Vau’s gaze was unreadable as always, but his voice was low. “And once they believe they’re real, they start fearing what happens when that gets taken away.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“I keep thinking…” you said. “We’re making them better than us. Smarter. Sharper. Kinder, even.”

“And sending them to die,” Kal finished for you.

None of you flinched.

You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, three Mandalorians staring down a storm, holding onto something quiet and sacred — a little hope that maybe, just maybe, these boys would be remembered as more than numbers.

———

The hand-to-hand training deck smelled like sweat, scuffed plastoid, and the faint charge of electroshock stun mats. You stood at the center of the ring, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, ready.

The cadets ringed the mat in a tight circle, helmets off, eyes sharp.

It was their first advanced combat session — and they were nervous.

You weren’t.

You cracked your knuckles and addressed them plainly.

“You won’t always have a blaster. Or your brothers. Sometimes, it’s just you and an enemy with a blade, or fists, or nothing at all. So today we find out what you can do with your body and your rage.”

Your gaze swept across them.

“Who’ll be my first opponent.”

CC-3636 stepped forward without hesitation.

“I’ll go.”

You raised a brow. He’d always been intense. Focused. A little too rigid in structure. Like he was trying to will himself into leadership before his body was even finished growing.

“Alright,” you said, nodding. “Into the ring.”

He moved like a soldier. Precision in every step. But there was something else today — a glint of desperation.

He wanted something.

No — needed it.

You squared off, feet planted, hands loose at your sides.

“You sure about this?” you asked lowly.

“Yes, Instructor.”

You gave him the first move.

He came in strong — good footwork, disciplined strikes. You let him test you, blocked and redirected, watched his form fall apart when you slipped past his guard and tapped his ribs.

He reset fast — eyes narrowing.

Second round, he came harder. Less measured. Frustrated now.

He lunged — you sidestepped — swept his leg — he hit the mat.

He snarled.

You backed off. “Keep your stance balanced. You’re leading too much with your shoulder.”

“I know!” he snapped, climbing to his feet.

That desperation — it was leaking out now.

He charged.

You moved to disarm — caught his arm, twisted — and then—

Pain.

You flinched, just for a second.

He’d bitten your hand.

Not playfully. Not out of reflex.

Desperately.

Hard enough to draw blood.

The room went dead silent.

You stared down at him, jaw tight, hand bleeding. He stared back, chest heaving, eyes wild like a cornered animal.

The look in his eyes wasn’t arrogance.

It was fear.

Please let this be enough.

You didn’t hit him. Didn’t yell.

You stepped back. Flexed your fingers. Blood dripped to the mat.

“You’re reckless,” you said quietly. “You lost your temper. You disrespected your opponent.”

He opened his mouth to speak—an apology, maybe—but you cut him off.

“But you didn’t quit.”

His expression shifted. Confused. Hopeful. Scared to be either.

You stepped forward again, standing close enough for your voice to drop.

“You’d rather be hated than forgotten. You’d rather bleed than fail. And even when you’re outmatched, you refuse to let go of the fight.”

You met his eyes.

“That’s why your name is Wolffe.”

Around the ring, cadets exhaled — some in disbelief, some in understanding.

CC-2224 blinked, quiet. CC-5052 shifted his stance, just slightly. CT-7567 looked away.

Fox, standing behind them all, gave a small, proud nod.

Wolffe looked like he couldn’t breathe. “I—Instructor, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” you said simply.

You held out your other hand.

He took it.

You helped him to his feet.

“You’re not done yet. But you’ve started something that’ll never be taken from you.”

He nodded, slow. Steady.

The wolf had been born in blood and instinct. And he’d wear that name like a scar.

Later, after the medics patched your hand and the cadets had been dismissed, you stood in the corridor, staring out at the storm-churned ocean through the long viewing panels.

You didn’t hear Fox approach, but you felt him beside you.

“He deserved it,” he said quietly.

You nodded.

“He did.”

Fox folded his arms.

“Do you think we’ll all have to bleed to earn ours?”

You glanced at him.

“No,” you said. “But I think the ones who don’t will wish they had.”

He thought about that for a long time.

And didn’t disagree.

———

The days began to blur together.

Training turned into instinct. Wounds turned into scars. The boys — your boys — grew sharper. Stronger. Quieter when it counted. Louder when it didn’t.

And one by one, they earned their names.

Not all at once. Never in a rush.

Each name was a moment.

Each name was *earned.*

***

**CC-1139** was next.

It happened during a silent extraction drill. He lost his comm halfway through and didn’t say a word — just adapted, took point, and pulled his whole squad through three klicks of hostile terrain using only hand signals and trust. He didn’t ask to be recognized. But the second they hit the exfil marker, he dropped to one knee — not from fatigue, but to check his brother’s sprained ankle.

You named him Bacara right there in the mud.

CC-2224 followed.

The sim had collapsed. A storm cut power to the whole compound mid-exercise. No lights. No alarms. Nothing but chaos. But 2224 kept moving. He rallied the others without hesitation, without fear. He *led* — not by yelling, but by being the kind of soldier others would follow into darkness.

You named him Cody at sunrise.

He didn’t say anything — but you saw the way he stood straighter after.

CT-7567 earned his during a full-force melee sim. Another cadet went down hard — knocked out cold. 7567 could’ve finished the drill. Could’ve taken the win. Instead, he stopped, picked up his brother, and carried him through the finish.

Later that night, he knocked on your door.

“I didn’t do it to earn a name.”

You smiled and said, “That’s why you did.”

*Rex.*

He nodded once and left, proud but quiet — same as always.

CC-8826 didn’t want a name. Said he didn’t need one.

But when a flash-flood hit during an outdoor recon sim, he was the first one to drag three younger cadets out of a current strong enough to tear armor. He lost his helmet in the process. Nearly drowned.

You found him on the bank, coughing water, already checking the others’ vitals before his own.

“You’ve got more heart than half the GAR already,” you said, dropping to your knees beside him. “Your name is Neyo.”

He didn't argue. Just nodded once.

CC-4477 never liked attention. But he moved like fire when things got real. Explosive sim — half the field in disarray — and 4477 kept it together like a warhound. Fast, deadly, and focused.

You named him Thorn.

He smirked. Said, “About time.”

CC-6454 was a stubborn one. Constantly pushing limits. But when a real med evac team came in for a demo, one of the medics dropped from heatstroke. 6454 took over triage without being told. Knew the protocols better than the demo officer.

“Didn’t think you had the patience,” you said.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But I watched. Like you said.”

You smiled.

“Ponds.”

CC-5804 earned his during a live-fire run. One of his brothers panicked — froze up mid-field. 5804 didn’t yell, didn’t shame him. Just moved in front, took two rounds to the armor, and got him out safe.

You named him Keeli. He wore it like armor after that.

CC-5869 was a mouthy one. Constantly bickering. Constantly poking.

But during a sim gone sideways, when a blast shorted your training console and dropped half the safety measures, he jumped into the fire zone to pull a brother out. Burned his arm. Didn’t stop until the sim shut down.

When you sat by his cot that night, he looked up and asked, “Still think I’m just talk?”

“No,” you said. “Your name is Stone.”

CC-1004 shone brightest when things were barely holding together. During a malfunctioning terrain sim, when the floor caved and chaos reigned, he kept calm, coordinated, and improvised a bridge to extract half the squad.

“Doom,” you said afterward. “Because you walked through it and didn’t blink.”

CC-5767 liked to move alone. Observant, quiet, leaned into recon drills more than most. But when his squad got pinned by a faulty sim turret, he flanked it by himself, took it down, and dragged three brothers out of the smoke.

“Monk,” you said after. “Because you wait, and then strike.”

He gave a small, thoughtful nod. Said nothing.

CC-1003 was relentless in recon exercises. Fast. Tactical. And weirdly curious — always scanning, always asking questions others didn’t think to. He figured out how to reroute a failed evac sim by hacking the system — without permission.

You made him do five laps. Then you named him Gree.

He said, “Worth it.”

CC-1119 didn’t stand out for a long time — until a night drill went off-script and real fire suppression was needed. He coordinated the younger cadets, risked getting himself locked out of the hangar doors, and stayed behind to make sure no one was missed.

“Appo,” you said quietly that night.

He looked like it meant everything.

CC-5052 earned his name last.

He’d spent weeks in the shadow of the others. Quieter than most. Never the fastest, or strongest, or boldest. But he was always there.

Always steady.

Always watching.

And when one of the younger cadets broke during endurance trials, it was 5052 who stayed up all night walking him through drills until dawn. Not for praise. Not to be seen.

Just because he refused to let a brother fall behind.

“Bly,” you said, the next morning during roll.

He blinked. Looked up. “Why?”

You smiled. “Because loyalty isn’t loud.”

And then, one day… they were all named.

All twenty-three.

No more numbers.

No more designations.

Just men.

You stood before them one morning, same rain overhead, same wind off the ocean.

Only now — the line standing before you wasn’t a batch of identical cadets.

They were Rex. Cody. Fox. Wolffe. Bly. Thorn. Ponds. Neyo. Stone. Bacara. Keeli.

And so many others.

Your boys.

Your soldiers.

Your brothers.

Your family.

---

The message came in just after dawn.

You were still groggy, still pulling on your boots when the alert pinged on your private comm. Priority channel. Encrypted. Not Kaminoan. Not Republic military.

Senate clearance.

You keyed it open.

A flickering blue hologram shimmered to life above your desk — a familiar face. Older than the last time you’d seen her, sharp-edged with worry. One of the few Senators you still had any respect for.

High-ranking. Untouchable. A name that carried weight in every corner of the galaxy.

“She’s gone,” the senator said, voice tight and low. “They took her. Bounty hunters — well-organized, professional. They broke into our Koryan estate and vanished without a trace. Local security's useless. The Senate can’t intervene… not officially.”

You frowned, blood already running cold. “How long ago?”

“Thirty-six hours. Please. I know you’re not in that life anymore — but I need you. You were the best I ever knew.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

You were already grabbing your gear.

You were halfway through prepping your field pack — weapons checked, armor strapped, boots laced — when you heard the door hiss open behind you.

“You’re going somewhere,” Jango said.

You didn’t look up. “Got a message. A senator’s daughter was taken. Bounty hunters — Separatist-connected. I’m going after them.”

“Alone?”

You slung your rifle over your shoulder. “Works better that way.”

“No,” he said plainly.

You looked over at him. “What?”

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’m not dragging anyone else into this.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re taking some of your cadets.”

You blinked at him like he’d grown another head. “This isn’t a training sim, Jango. It’s a live recovery op — probably hostile.”

“Exactly. It’s time they get a taste of the real thing.”

“They’re cadets.”

“They’re soldiers,” he shot back. “Ones you’ve trained. This isn’t about checking boxes for the Kaminoans. This is about seeing if they’re ready. If you’ve made them ready.”

You stepped forward, voice low and hard. “This is a kidnapping. A bounty op. There will be blasterfire. Blood. Civilians in play. If I take them out there and they break—”

“They won’t,” he said, eyes steady. “You wouldn’t have gotten them this far if they would.”

You stared at him. But you knew it.

Just like always, his word was final.

You blew out a breath. “Fine.”

“Five. No more.”

You muttered under your breath, “Babysitting soldiers while hunting kidnappers. This is going to be a nightmare.”

But you were already thinking.

Already choosing.

Who could handle this? Who should see this?

You knew exactly who.

Not because they were perfect.

But because they were ready.

You didn’t say their names. Not yet.

But in your gut, you already knew who was coming with you.

And you knew this was going to change everything.

The training yard buzzed with movement — cadets running drills, instructors shouting commands, rain streaking off armor and plastoid like it always did on Kamino.

You stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, helmet clipped to your belt. You scanned the field — and with a sharp whistle, you cut through the chaos.

“Everyone, on me!”

The clones snapped to it immediately, forming up in front of you with military precision. Twenty-three pairs of eyes locked forward.

You could see it already — the way they stood straighter now. The way they moved more like commanders than trainees.

You let the silence settle, just for a second.

Then you said it.

“I need five volunteers.”

That got their attention.

Some shifted subtly, glancing at one another. A few eyebrows raised. Wolffe crossed his arms like he was already halfway into the mission, whatever it was.

You kept going.

“This isn’t a training sim. This isn’t target practice. This is a real mission. Outside Kamino.”

Now they were focused. No shifting. No glancing. Just twenty-three frozen faces, locked on your words.

“You won’t be going as clones,” you continued. “You’ll be civilians. Mercenaries, bounty hunters, whatever you need to pass for. But you cannot let anyone know what you are — not that you’re clones, and definitely not that you’re part of a Republic army.”

The rain kept falling.

“This mission is classified at the highest level,” you said. “Even the Kaminoans aren’t cleared for the details. If you’re caught, I can’t guarantee the Republic will come for you. That’s how deep this runs.”

You scanned the line, locking eyes with the ones you trusted most.

“You’ll be entering a system with active Separatist surveillance. We’re tracking a high-value target. There will be civilians. Possibly bounty hunters. Possibly worse. If you’re picked, you follow my lead — and you don’t make any moves unless I say so.”

More silence.

Then, a voice.

Fox stepped forward. “I volunteer.”

No hesitation.

You nodded.

Wolffe stepped up next, already wearing that cocky half-smirk. “Wouldn’t let him have all the fun.”

Cody followed. “We’re ready.”

Then Rex. “Count me in.”

Bacara didn’t even say anything. Just stepped forward, helmet under his arm.

You looked over the five of them — standing tall, serious, already different from the others still in line.

These weren’t just cadets anymore.

They were something else now.

You gave a sharp nod. “Good. Gear up. Plainclothes armor. Non-standard issue. We move in one hour.”

They turned without a word, heading for the barracks.

Behind you, the others stood silent, watching — half with envy, half with pride.

You knew this mission was going to change everything.

And you had a feeling…

So did they.

————

The ship landed just outside the village — a quiet, fog-drenched place carved into the cliffs. Wooden structures, half-covered in moss and time, leaned over narrow paths where old traders and quiet-eyed farmers moved without urgency.

You led the boys in — disguised, geared in light armor that wouldn’t raise suspicion. Helmets off. Faces exposed. They stayed close but casual, spread just enough to keep eyes on every angle.

Fox and Cody scanned the streets in near-sync. Rex fell into step beside you, glancing now and then toward the distant mountains rising beyond the village, half-shrouded in cloud.

You asked questions.

You kept it light, polite — an old friend in search of a missing child.

No one said much at first. But eventually, a hunched old woman at the fish stall whispered something about seeing off-worlders — rough-looking ones — headed toward the mountain pass.

“Talk to the bridgekeeper,” she added. “They say no one’s crossed in days. Not since the dragon came back.”

You frowned. “Dragon?”

She only nodded.

The kind of nod that said don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.

It took an hour to reach the bridge.

The river roared below it — wide and dark, cutting through the canyon like a scar. The bridge itself was old stone, slick with moss, barely holding itself together in the storm-drenched wind.

But that wasn’t what made you stop.

An old man — half-cloaked, leaning on a gnarled staff — stood at the entrance to the bridge.

“You don’t want to cross,” he rasped, his voice as weathered as the cliffside. “Not now. The Separatists disturbed the river. The dragon’s awake.”

You raised a brow. “The what now?”

“The river dragon,” he said. “A storm-born serpent. It guards the crossing. Won’t let anything through since the droids came.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Right. Thanks, old man.”

He pointed behind you. “Then explain that.”

You turned.

The river exploded.

A massive shape surged up from the depths — sleek and serpentine, covered in gleaming, wet-black scales. It arched high above the bridge, water cascading off its body in sheets. Its eyes crackled with violet light.

Then, with a sound like the sky breaking, it let loose a blast of lightning, straight into the air.

Every one of the boys dropped instinctively, weapons half-drawn.

Wolffe: “That’s a kriffing dragon.”

Rex: “It shoots lightning.”

Bacara: “We’re gonna die.”

You stayed perfectly still — even as your heart thundered in your ribs.

The boys turned to you, wide-eyed.

Fox spoke first. “...So, uh. What’s the plan, boss?”

You swallowed. Your palms were sweating.

You forced a slow breath through your nose and set your jaw.

“The plan,” you said, “is that you all stay back…”

You unclipped your cloak.

“...and I go talk to the damn dragon.”

Cody blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” you muttered, stalking toward the bridge. “Stupid kids. Stupid bridge. Stupid lightning dragon.”

“Pretty sure this violates field protocol,” Rex called out nervously.

You didn’t look back. “I am field protocol.”

But your stomach turned the closer you got.

The dragon watched you.

Unmoving. Silent.

Like a storm waiting to happen.

You were halfway across the stone path when a familiar voice echoed from the far end of the bridge.

“Well. That’s certainly not a face I expected to see out here.”

You froze.

That voice.

You turned toward it.

There — standing with his arms crossed, robes soaked with rain, a lightsaber on his hip and that signature, wry half-smile on his face — stood Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He looked older than the last time you saw him.

A little more tired. A little more burdened.

But still — him.

“Kenobi,” you breathed, relief and disbelief mingling in your chest.

He nodded once. “It’s been a long time.”

You walked toward him, dragon temporarily forgotten. “Didn’t expect to run into a Jedi on the edge of nowhere.”

“I could say the same for you.”

You slowed. Your voice softened. “...I heard about Qui-Gon. I’m sorry, Obi-Wan.”

For a moment, the smirk faded.

His eyes dropped, and he nodded, quiet. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched between you for a breath.

Then the dragon growled again — lightning crackling up its spine like a warning.

You sighed. “So. Uh. Any chance your Jedi calm-animal nonsense works on that thing?”

Obi-Wan raised a brow. “Careful. You’ll hurt its feelings.”

You looked at him.

He looked at the dragon.

And the two of you, almost at the same time, muttered:

“This is going to suck.”

The dragon hadn’t moved again.

Neither had you.

The two of you stood on opposite sides of the bridge now — the water below roaring, lightning curling lazily through the air above like warning smoke.

Obi-Wan let out a long, exhausted breath.

“I’m too old for this.”

You smirked. “You’re like thirty-five.”

“And that’s still too old for giant lightning-breathing reptiles.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Still the same sarcastic Jedi I remember.”

He glanced at you. “Still the same reckless Mandalorian who nearly blew up half a speeder depot on Kalevala.”

“That was a bad day,” you admitted. “Didn’t help that you were the one who knocked over the detonator.”

He gave a faint grin. “I deny everything.”

The dragon shifted slightly — scales glowing faintly with electricity. You both tensed, but it didn’t move to strike.

“So,” you said casually, “you here on Jedi business?”

“Actually,” Obi-Wan said, “I’m here for the same reason you are. A certain senator sent word. Missing daughter. Possible Separatist involvement.”

You blinked. “Let me guess. She called you right after calling me.”

“Probably,” he said. “Though I don’t usually work missing person cases. Not alone.”

Your brow lifted. “Not alone?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I brought my Padawan.”

You stared at him. “You? A Padawan?”

“He’s fifteen,” Obi-Wan said. “Still a handful. Always running off. I left him in the village to gather intel, and—”

A roar of thunder cut him off.

And then, chaos.

A blur of motion streaked across the cliffside — gold and brown and fury — and in the next instant, a boy launched himself off the edge of a building, flipping clean over the river and landing hard on the bridge in a spray of sparks.

Lightsaber ignited.

Blue.

The dragon screeched, rearing back, lightning flashing across its body.

Obi-Wan’s head fell back slightly. “Force, not again.”

“That’s him?” you asked, already unholstering your sidearm.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan sighed. “That’s Anakin.”

You didn’t wait.

You sprinted.

So did he.

The two of you launched onto the bridge just as Anakin’s blade crashed against the dragon’s lightning-charged hide, sending sparks and static flying. The creature lashed out, tail whipping through stone — you ducked low and rolled, blaster up, firing carefully placed shots near the joints in its armor-thick scales.

Obi-Wan surged forward, saber slicing through a strike meant for Anakin.

“Padawan!” he barked. “You were supposed to observe!”

“It was charging up!” Anakin yelled. “You were talking!”

“I was stalling!”

“Same thing!”

You slid beneath the dragon’s legs, grabbing a fallen cable from the wreckage and looping it quickly around one of the creature’s hind limbs. “Less yelling, more wrangling!”

From the cliffs, the five cadets watched in awe.

Cody was the first to speak. “Is that… is that what Jedi do all the time?”

“Apparently,” Rex muttered, eyes wide. “That kid’s fifteen.”

Wolffe let out a low whistle. “He fights like he was born with that saber in his hand.”

Fox didn’t say anything — but you could see the way his fists were clenched tight with excitement.

Bacara crossed his arms. “I need to fight alongside someone like that someday.”

Rex nodded slowly. “We will.”

They all looked at him.

And none of them disagreed.

Back on the bridge, the dragon reared up for one final strike — but Obi-Wan raised his hand, and with a focused pulse of the Force, blasted the creature back just enough for Anakin to leap high and carve a clean, non-lethal slash across its side.

The beast shrieked, arcing lightning into the sky — and then with a final, furious hiss, it dived back into the river and vanished beneath the surface.

Silence fell.

All three of you stood there, breathing hard, half-covered in dust and water and ash.

Then Obi-Wan turned to you.

“Are you ever not in the middle of something insane?”

You wiped blood off your lip. “Nope.”

He glanced at the five cadets watching from the cliff. “And those?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a straight face “Foundlings. Mine.”

He gave you a long look. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You don’t think I’m a mother figure?”

His expression didn’t change. “...Right. Foundlings it is.”

You both turned to look at Anakin — already poking the smoldering scorch marks on the bridge with the tip of his saber.

“Your Padawan’s intense,” you said.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “You have no idea.”

————

The air grew thinner as they climbed, the path winding upward through rocky slopes and moss-covered ledges. The thunderclouds had drifted off toward the horizon, but the scent of rain still clung to the earth, rich and cold.

The dragon hadn’t returned.

But the tension never quite left.

Obi-Wan walked ahead, silent, robes shifting in the mountain wind. Anakin wasn’t far behind, bounding between rocks like he had more energy than sense.

You brought up the rear, your five cadets close behind — feet steady, eyes sharp, but quiet in a way they never usually were.

When the path widened out near an outcropping, you tapped Rex on the shoulder. “Hold up.”

They stopped, forming a loose semicircle around you as the Jedi moved out of earshot.

You glanced after them once, then turned back to your boys.

“This is important,” you said, low and firm. “I know you're excited. I know this is your first time in the field. But listen to me.”

They straightened without thinking.

“I am your buir now,” you said. “For this mission — and from here on.”

There was a pause.

Then Cody’s voice broke it, soft but certain: “We already think of you that way.”

You smiled — tight and small, but real.

“Good,” you said. “Then this will make sense.”

Your voice hardened just a little, instinctively Mandalorian now — the part of you that Jango saw when he chose you for this job.

“I am your buir. You are my foundlings. We are clan. Until the Jedi know what we are — until the Republic knows — we stay as that. Nothing more.”

They all nodded slowly.

Even Wolffe didn’t crack a joke this time.

“You don’t speak about Kamino. You don’t mention the GAR. You don’t talk about your designations. We are nothing but mercs with a shared name and a found-family story.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “What if they ask?”

You looked him straight on. “You lie.”

The wind blew over the ledge.

You touched your fist to your chest — Mando’ade.

They mirrored it without hesitation.

Your voice lowered.

“Good.”

Further ahead, Anakin was skipping rocks into the canyon and trying to start a conversation.

“So…” he said, drawing out the word as he slowed his pace until he matched theirs. “You guys are like a squad or something?”

No answer.

He smiled anyway. “That was pretty impressive, the way you kept formation on the ridge. The short one with the scar — you’ve definitely had training. Who’s your trainer?”

Still nothing.

Bacara, walking closest to him, finally turned just a little and said, bluntly:

“Our buir said not to speak to you.”

Anakin blinked. “...Wait, what?”

“You’re Jedi. Not part of the clan,” Bacara replied.

An awkward silence followed.

Cody looked straight ahead. Rex frowned slightly. Wolffe cleared his throat. Fox just rolled his eyes.

Anakin’s face fell a little, and for a moment he looked… kind of like the teenager he actually was.

He hung back, falling behind the group, eyes flicking between them and Obi-Wan up ahead.

You, still watching from behind, caught the whole thing.

And sighed quietly to yourself.

You’d explain to them later.

That the galaxy wasn’t always so black and white.

That sometimes Jedi could be family, too.

But for now?

They were foundlings.

And foundlings followed the clan.

No matter what.

————

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Sound of Your Voice”

Wrecker x Togruta Reader

The sunset painted Pabu’s sky in thick, golden brushstrokes, casting long shadows over the peaceful island. Waves lapped lazily against the cliffs below, and somewhere distant, children’s laughter drifted on the breeze.

Wrecker walked carefully behind you, boots thudding heavily against the worn footpath. In contrast, you moved with a graceful lightness, bare feet brushing over the earth as if you were part of it. He wasn’t paying much attention to where he was, though.

Not when you were walking beside him, your vibrant montrals catching the light, your voice weaving a story he barely understood but couldn’t get enough of.

You stopped near a bluff overlooking the water, turning back to him with a smile.

“You can sit, if you like,” you said softly.

Wrecker flopped down without hesitation, arms resting on his knees. He watched curiously as you remained standing, closing your eyes and spreading your toes against the soil. You tilted your face up toward the stars, breathing deep, like you were drinking in the very air.

After a long, peaceful moment, you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

“Togruta believe the land is part of us,” you began, voice like a gentle tide, steady and warm. “The soil carries the memory of life. Every step we take barefoot, we are sharing in that memory. Feeling the heartbeat of the world.”

Wrecker blinked up at you, utterly enchanted but thoroughly confused. “The dirt’s got a heartbeat?” he asked, scratching the side of his head.

You laughed, soft and melodious, not mocking him — just delighted by his earnestness.

“In a way. It’s not something you hear with your ears. You feel it here.” You placed your palm over your chest, just above your heart.

Wrecker copied the gesture clumsily, his big hand thudding against his chest plate with a solid thunk. He winced. “Maybe I oughta take this armor off first, huh?”

You smiled and knelt beside him, resting lightly on your heels. Your robes pooled around your legs, and your toes stayed firmly rooted in the soil.

“You don’t have to be Togruta to feel the connection. Just… still your mind. Listen.”

Wrecker frowned a little in concentration, shutting his eyes tight, shoulders tensing like he was preparing for battle.

You bit back a laugh. “Not so hard. Relax.”

He cracked an eye open at you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “I ain’t too good at this kinda thing,” he admitted. “S’pose I don’t really hear nothin’ except you talkin’.”

You tilted your head slightly, your montrals twitching at the gentle evening breeze.

“That’s alright,” you said, reaching out and gently taking his gloved hand in yours. His hand swallowed yours easily. “Maybe you don’t need to hear the earth tonight. Maybe… it’s enough just to listen to me.”

Wrecker’s cheeks flushed warm, and he gave a low, bashful chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I like listenin’ to ya. Your voice makes everythin’ seem… calmer. Better.”

The two of you sat there, hand in hand, the ocean’s lullaby wrapping around you. Above, the stars wheeled lazily across the night sky, ancient and eternal — just like the bond between living beings and the worlds that cradled them.

And Wrecker, big and loud and rough around the edges, had never felt so peaceful just sitting still.

Just listening to you.

Just feeling — maybe, just a little — the heartbeat of the land beneath him.

Wrecker shifted, glancing down at your bare feet pressed into the soil, then at his own heavy boots. He frowned, thoughtful.

“Do ya think… it’d help if I took these off?” he asked, voice low, almost shy.

You smiled warmly, tilting your head. “Maybe. It might help you feel what I feel.”

He grunted, leaning back to unbuckle his boots. It took him a moment — the armor clasps were stubborn — but finally, with a huff, he yanked them off and peeled away his thick socks too.

The second his bare feet touched the earth, he froze.

“Maker, that’s weird,” he blurted. “It’s all… squishy!”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your amusement. Wrecker wiggled his toes uncertainly, then gave a surprised grin.

“Feels kinda nice, though.”

You nodded, the moonlight catching the gentle curve of your smile. “Togruta believe that the land is not just something we live on — it’s something we live with. Every creature, every plant, every stone is part of a greater whole. We’re taught to listen, to feel… to never see ourselves as separate.”

Wrecker watched you with wide, focused eyes, the way he did when he was on a mission, except softer now, like the whole world had narrowed down to just you and your words.

You continued, your voice smooth and full of quiet passion. “When we walk barefoot, we are honoring the connection. Letting the world know we are its children, not its masters.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the murmur of the ocean below.

Wrecker let out a slow breath, his toes curling into the soil. He looked at you for a long moment, then said, with a sincerity that made your heart flutter:

“You got such a beautiful voice.”

You felt your cheeks warm, your montrals picking up the slight tremble of emotion in his words.

“I don’t really get all of it,” Wrecker added with a crooked grin, “but when you talk, it’s like… like everything’s alright. Even if I don’t understand it all, I wanna keep listenin’.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, and shifted closer, the two of you sitting barefoot in the cool dirt, connected not just to the land, but to something deeper.

And under the endless Pabu sky, with your voice weaving through the night air, Wrecker decided he didn’t need to understand everything.

He just needed you.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

Helllo! I was wondering if you could a spicy bad batch x fem!reader where she used to be a dancer/singer in like a sleezy club, did what was best for easy money. But an op comes up and she needs to it again and the boys didn’t know she had a history of it and are like “oh shit” find it hot but get jealous of the other men. Idk if this makes sense 😅

love your wring! Xx

“Undercover Temptation”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader | Spice + Jealousy

⸻

The mission sounded simple enough.

Infiltrate a seedy club on Pantora. Gather intel on a black-market arms dealer that frequented the place. Blend in. Make contact. Get out.

Cid had been vague about the details, just that it required “a certain skill set.” And when her eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something like smugness.

“You’ll fit right in, sweetheart,” she’d said. “Used to be your scene, didn’t it?”

The Batch didn’t know what she meant by that. But you did.

You’d left that part of your life behind when you joined up with Clone Force 99. The sleezy clubs, the music, the makeup, the stage lights — the easy money, the wandering hands. You’d done what you had to. You were good at it. Too good.

Omega had stayed behind, thank the Maker.

⸻

The club on Pantora was everything you remembered from your past life — sweat-slick air, glitter, smoke, and the kind of stares that made your skin crawl in ways you’d long buried.

Cid hadn’t exactly warned the Batch what she was getting them into. Just said it was a “special assignment” and only you could pull it off.

You hadn’t worn this in a long time — short, shimmering dress clinging to every curve, makeup smoky and sharp, hair teased and wild. A performer. A seductress. A mask you’d once worn to survive.

But stepping out into the room full of hardened clones, nothing could’ve prepared you for the heat in their eyes.

Hunter looked you up and down, slow and deliberate, his brows furrowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

Wrecker’s jaw dropped, cheeks flushed. “Maker, baby…”

Echo stared like he’d short-circuited.

Tech made an odd choking sound behind his datapad.

And then there was Crosshair.

He had a toothpick between his lips, eyes dragging over your legs, slow and dark. “Didn’t know you used to work a stage,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you smirked.

He grinned. “Means now I know why the hell I’ve been dreamin’ about you on your knees.”

Echo made a noise of protest. Wrecker looked like he was about to explode. Hunter didn’t say anything — but his fists were clenched.

You went on stage anyway. Because this was the mission.

You knew how to move. Knew how to keep attention. The intel target was in the VIP booth — you’d been instructed to lure him out, get close, plant a tracker, and distract him while Tech accessed his datapad remotely.

But the Batch? Yeah, they were distracted too.

Crosshair watched from the shadows, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was normally smooth, sarcastic — but this? This had him on edge.

Hunter paced by the back exit like a caged animal.

Wrecker glared at every man who so much as breathed in your direction.

Echo kept muttering, “She shouldn’t have to do this,” under his breath.

Tech… he was sweating. You were pretty sure his goggles fogged up.

The moment it all went to hell was when a drunk mercenary tried to grab you mid-performance.

Your eyes had locked with Hunter’s for a split second — a silent signal — when a hand yanked you roughly by the waist, spinning you mid-dance. You tensed immediately, smile faltering.

The guy was laughing, leering, pulling you flush against him.

And Hunter moved like a damn predator.

One second he was at the exit, the next, he was slamming the guy into the stage floor, snarling, “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

You barely had time to react before Crosshair had his rifle out, providing overwatch from the rafters, eyes sharp and deadly.

Echo pulled you behind him protectively.

Wrecker cracked his knuckles with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You touched the wrong girl, pal.”

Tech looked like he wanted to kill the man — but also couldn’t stop blinking at you in that outfit.

The bar erupted into chaos.

Shots rang out.

You ducked low as the crowd screamed and scattered. Your target made a run for it — but not before Tech tagged his datapad. Crosshair clipped his shoulder with a clean shot. Wrecker handled two mercs trying to flank you.

You moved to help Hunter — but he was down.

Your heart dropped.

You rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. “Hunter!”

He was bleeding — blaster bolt to the shoulder, unfocused eyes still locked on you. “’M fine,” he rasped. “Saw… saw that guy grab you. Should’ve—shit—moved faster.”

You pressed a hand to the wound. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve had worse hands on me. We’re getting you out.”

“Not while you’re still dressed like that,” he muttered weakly.

Behind you, Crosshair took out another would-be attacker, and growled through clenched teeth, “If anyone else touches her tonight, I’m leaving bodies.”

Echo lifted Hunter over his shoulder while Wrecker covered the retreat. Tech dragged you out by the hand, pulling you through a back hallway while still rattling off data from the merc’s pad.

“You… that performance,” Tech blurted, breathless. “I’ll be reviewing the security footage later. For… mission purposes.”

You just grinned, eyes flicking to where Crosshair covered the rear, rifle smoking.

Back on the ship, patched up and safe, Hunter leaned against the medbay wall, arm in a sling.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

You leaned in, brushing hair from his face. “Yes, I did. It was the job.”

“Next time,” he growled, “you wear that in our quarters. For us. No one else.”

Wrecker appeared in the doorway. “You gonna do another show, babe? I got credits.”

Echo followed. “Don’t encourage her.”

Tech was already setting up a holoprojector. “I have some… strategic questions about your technique.”

Crosshair just smirked from the shadows, toothpick twitching.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m bringing handcuffs.”

Your smile turned wicked. “Oh? For the targets?”

His smirk widened. “No.”

Every now and again I think about how we never see Stone again after his stint on Florrum, and how one time my partner said "despite the success the Clones had with Jar Jar being kept alive and the some enemy faction being apprehended, the fact important political figures died and they didn't catch Dooku - he probably got decommed when they returned back to Coruscant." I'm ripping my hair out over it every time 😭 Tbh going with the whole Palpatine was overtly and purposefully holding the CG tight in his grasp, having Stone decommed as an example and then Thire getting promoted to take his spot would make sense.

Sargent Hunter x Mandalorian Reader pt.1

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The sound of blaster fire echoed through the narrow alleyways of the war-torn city. The Republic had been fighting for years, but the true cost of war weighed heavily on everyone—soldiers and civilians alike. Sergeant Hunter and his squad were on a mission: to extract a high-ranking separatist official, someone who held vital intelligence. But things had gone awry, as they often did.

"Alright, boys, spread out," Hunter said, his voice calm but commanding. "We're on a tight timeline."

The Bad Batch—Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair—moved with precision, their enhanced skills making them unmatched on the battlefield. As they advanced through the streets, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. A figure clad in Mandalorian armor stood silently against a crumbling wall, watching them.

Hunter's instincts kicked in immediately. He had seen many soldiers and mercenaries, but there was something about this one—a presence, a coldness that didn't quite fit the norm of the typical bounty hunter. She wasn't in full view, but even from a distance, he could tell she was skilled. Her helmet was shaped with the distinct Mandalorian T-visor, and her armor bore the unmistakable dents and scratches of someone who had seen too many battles.

He motioned to Echo, signaling him to take point. "Cover me."

The rest of the squad adjusted their positions, but Hunter moved toward the alley, cautious but intrigued. The Mandalorian's eyes never left him. She didn't reach for a weapon, but she was clearly ready for one if needed. He approached slowly, his blaster at his side.

"Are you lost, soldier?" her voice was low and guarded, but there was an undeniable strength to it.

"Just looking for someone," Hunter replied, studying her carefully. "You?"

"Same," she said with a slight tilt of her head. There was an unreadable expression beneath her helmet, but Hunter could hear the slight hint of amusement in her voice. "But I don't think you're the one I'm after."

Hunter furrowed his brow. "Then you're not a threat?"

She chuckled, and it was a sound that made his instincts flare. "Not to you, no. I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else."

He took a cautious step closer. "I don't know many who would wear Mandalorian armor and not fight for a cause."

The Mandalorian paused, her posture shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. "My cause is my own, Sergeant," she said. "I'm no different from you, except I work alone."

Hunter tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem like someone who works alone."

The Mandalorian's hand subtly rested on the hilt of her blaster, but she didn't draw it. "What do you know about me, Sergeant Hunter?"

Hunter's gaze narrowed slightly. She knew his name. It was strange—he hadn't told her, and yet her tone had a knowing edge. It piqued his curiosity even further.

"I know you're a mercenary of some kind," Hunter said, testing the waters.

"Close enough," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I'm no mere merc. I'm a bounty hunter. And I have my own code to follow."

Hunter nodded slowly. He'd encountered bounty hunters before, but there was something about her—her confidence, her skills—that set her apart from the usual hired guns.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of war barely breaking the stillness between them.

Hunter wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to this woman, this Mandalorian. Maybe it was the way her presence seemed to hold steady in the chaos. Maybe it was the way she didn't back down, didn't flinch under the weight of the situation. But something in him—the soldier, the leader, the man—couldn't help but want to know more.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, his tone more personal than he intended.

Her voice softened slightly as she answered, "Same reason as you, Sergeant. I'm looking for someone... or something. And maybe, just maybe, we're both after the same thing."

Hunter's interest peaked. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say," she began, "I've been hunting a certain individual who's not exactly on the Republic's side. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down."

Hunter's gaze hardened as he considered her words. "I get that. But the Republic's not going to take kindly to a bounty hunter crossing their path. Especially a Mandalorian."

The Mandalorian gave him a wry smile. "I've never been one to follow the rules."

Hunter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I've noticed."

They stood there, exchanging glances, understanding the complexity of the situation. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—two warriors, both driven by duty, yet standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.

"So," Hunter said, "what happens now?"

The Mandalorian's gaze flickered toward the distant sounds of blaster fire and explosions. "Now? We finish the mission. But don't get too attached, Sergeant. My code is my own."

"I don't plan on getting attached," Hunter said, though he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, an unspoken connection between two soldiers caught in a war that neither fully understood.

They exchanged one last look before turning back to their separate paths. The mission was still at hand, and neither of them had time to deal with distractions—at least, not yet. But as Hunter moved back to join his squad, he couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter, wondering just how much she was hiding beneath that cold exterior.

And maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again. The war had a way of bringing people together, even when they didn't want to be.

Guys I can't stop | -> pt. one

Republic Commando - Delta Squad

Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:

@jaderavenarts (x)

@papanowo (x)

@leafdupe (x)

Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:

38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.

07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.

I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra

NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade