“Rules Of Engagement”
“Rules of Engagement”
Commander Neyo x Senator Reader
⸻
You weren’t what the Senate expected.
You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.
Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.
He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.
He followed you everywhere.
And you made sure to give him a show.
“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.
“I don’t drink.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.
“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”
“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”
You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”
“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”
“How noble.”
That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.
Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.
You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.
“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.
You smirked as the man scurried off.
“Jealous?” you teased.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”
You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.
“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.
Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.
“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”
“And yet…”
He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
You grinned. “Good.”
He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.
And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.
Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.
⸻
You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.
Your stomach roiled.
There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.
“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.
You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.
Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.
You were dying.
And still—you were determined to win.
A sharp knock came at the door.
“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.
You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.
He blinked.
“You look—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.
He nodded. “Fair.”
He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.
Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”
You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”
To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.
By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.
Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.
Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.
“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.
“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”
“I was warmed up.”
He blinked. “You threw up.”
“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”
He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.
Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.
He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.
Lights brightened. All eyes on you.
You smiled.
Then you spoke.
Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.
When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.
In the corridor, he finally said:
“You’re… something else.”
You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”
⸻
The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.
You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.
“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”
“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”
“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.”
“Also a lie.”
You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”
When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.
“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.
Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.
He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.
Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.
The door shut behind you.
And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.
Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.
“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”
Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.
Then—
“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.
You made a muffled whining sound.
“You’ll stab yourself.”
“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.
But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.
And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.
One by one.
You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.
His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.
“Better,” he said softly.
You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.
“You’re being weirdly sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
“Well, you’re weird then.”
A long pause. He didn’t move away.
Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”
He hesitated.
Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”
Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.
You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.
You knew he wouldn’t leave.
And that—for once—felt like safety.
⸻
It was past 0200 when you stirred.
The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.
You found Neyo right where you expected him.
Standing just outside your bedroom door.
Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.
Unmoving.
“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.
“Yes.”
You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”
“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”
You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”
“I’m consistent.”
“Irritatingly so.”
You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.
Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.
Neyo noticed.
Then everything happened at once.
A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—
And Neyo tackled you to the ground.
The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.
Another shot. Close.
Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.
They hadn’t met Neyo before.
He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.
The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.
Then silence.
Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”
You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.
The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.
You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.
The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.
Smoke. Dust. Silence.
Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.
You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:
Your liquor cabinet.
You limped over.
From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.
You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.
Then you held it out to Neyo.
“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.
He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.
He took the bottle from your hand.
Took a sip.
Didn’t even flinch.
You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”
He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”
You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.
“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”
He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.
But it did.
⸻
You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.
Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.
Your apartment looked like a warzone.
Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.
The door buzzed.
You groaned.
“Tell them I’m dead.”
Neyo didn’t even turn.
The door buzzed again.
You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.
The door slid open.
“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.
Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.
Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”
Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”
“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”
Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.
Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”
“So was my liver,” you muttered.
Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”
“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.
Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”
“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”
“You nearly died.”
“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”
He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”
Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”
You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”
The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.
Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.
Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”
You stared at it.
Then smiled.
“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”
⸻
The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.
“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”
“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”
“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”
Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.
They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.
In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.
Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.
And now, word had come down.
He was being reassigned.
⸻
The knock on your door was unnecessary.
You already knew it was him.
You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.
Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.
“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.
He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”
“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”
“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.
You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.
“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.
He nodded.
You stared at him, your throat tight.
“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”
That caught his attention.
“Why?”
“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”
His eyes dropped for a moment.
Then rose again—meeting yours.
“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”
You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”
“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.
“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”
Your heart stung.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.
And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.
Then pulled away.
Duty won again.
“Goodbye, Senator.”
You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.
Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.
Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.
And toasted to what almost was.
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
happy Monday friend! Can I request some angst and fluff with wrecker that ends in cuddles please? I could use a giant hug today! Thank you so much for being awesome
“Big Enough to Hold You”
Wrecker x Reader
You didn’t mean to snap at him.
It wasn’t Wrecker’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The day had just been too much—the mission gone sideways, another evac too close to the edge, too many people screaming, not enough time. You’d gotten separated. Lost track of him. Thought—just for a moment—you’d lost him for good.
And when he came back, grinning like he always did, banged up but fine…
You’d yelled.
“Don’t do that to me again!”
His smile faded instantly, eyes wide like a kicked tooka.
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“I thought you were dead, Wrecker!”
Silence followed your words like a stormcloud.
You didn’t wait for him to respond. Just turned on your heel and left the ship’s ramp, sitting down hard on a nearby crate, hands shaking, throat tight. You weren’t even mad at him. You were scared. You were so damn scared.
And then you heard the heavy footsteps.
Slow. Hesitant.
You didn’t look up, but you felt the weight of him settle next to you. Big. Warm. Safe.
“…M’sorry,” Wrecker said quietly.
You blinked. Looked up.
He was staring at the ground, fingers picking at his gloves, like he thought you might still snap. Like he was afraid you wouldn’t want him close.
That hurt more than anything else.
“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just… you scared me, Wrecker.”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to hold the line ‘til Hunter pulled you out. Wasn’t gonna let ‘em get near you.”
“I know,” you said, throat tight. “That’s the problem.”
He looked at you then—really looked. And whatever he saw on your face must’ve broken something in him, because the next second you were swept into the warmest, strongest hug you’d ever known.
“I’m right here,” he said into your hair. “I’m big enough to hold anything you’re feeling, alright? Scared, sad, mad—don’t matter. Just don’t shut me out.”
You clung to him. Just melted into that broad chest, buried your face in his neck and breathed. He smelled like metal and burn marks and something warm and safe. Like home.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you said, voice muffled.
“You won’t,” he promised. “Not if I got anything to say about it.”
He shifted, adjusting you easily in his lap until you were curled into him like a child, his arms wrapped around you like a fortress. He rocked you gently—just a little—and hummed something soft under his breath. You didn’t know the tune. You didn’t need to.
Time passed. Neither of you moved.
Eventually, he whispered, “You good now?”
You nodded against his chest. “Better now.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ go for a while.”
And he didn’t.
The rocking slowed, and his hand settled at the back of your head, big fingers threading through your hair with slow, careful strokes. Your breathing evened out against his chest, your fingers still curled in his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Wrecker didn’t say anything—just held you tighter, chin resting on your head like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.
“You sleepin’?” he murmured after a while, voice hushed and tender.
No answer.
A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his grip, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing, like you were precious. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, breath warm against his skin.
The others were quiet in their bunks. Tech was reading. Echo nodded in greeting. Hunter glanced over but didn’t say a word—he just smiled, soft and knowing, and went back to sharpening his knife.
Wrecker nudged the door to your shared space open with his boot and brought you inside.
The lights were low. The sheets were turned down.
He set you down on the bed with all the care in the galaxy, brushing a hand over your hair, tucking the blanket around you. You stirred slightly—just enough to mumble his name in a sleep-heavy voice.
“Wreck…”
“I’m here,” he said, instantly, quietly. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
You reached for him blindly. “Don’t go.”
His heart cracked in two. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
He climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his size, and pulled you into him like a gravity well. One arm beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist, your head nestled beneath his chin.
Your body relaxed completely—safe, warm, wrapped in the scent and strength of him.
You were already asleep again.
But he didn’t sleep for a while. He just lay there, holding you, watching your chest rise and fall with every breath. A gentle giant wrapped around the most important person in his world.
And when he did sleep, it was with a soft smile, because for once he knew you were safe.
And you knew you were loved.
Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx
“Ours”
The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader
Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)
⸻
The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.
You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.
“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.
“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”
“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.
Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.
“I miss her.”
No one argued.
⸻
When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.
You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.
Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”
Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”
“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”
Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”
⸻
You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.
“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”
“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.
Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”
“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”
“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”
You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.
“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.
“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”
“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.
“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”
Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”
You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”
“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.
“Why?” you challenged.
Silence.
Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”
Your breath caught.
Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”
You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”
“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”
“And how’s that?”
Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”
“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.
“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.
“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”
Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.
Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”
Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”
You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”
Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”
You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”
Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”
You smiled, softening. “Always.”
The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.
You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”
Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”
You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”
“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.
echoed behind you.
Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:
“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”
Hunter stopped walking.
His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.
Possessive.
His jaw flexed.
Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”
Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.
“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”
But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.
“They can howl all they want.”
He caught up to you in two strides.
“We’re the ones she’s running with.”
Tech is so cute Ɛ>
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.9
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
The senator had just finished brushing out her hair when the knock sounded on her door. Not urgent. Not protocol. A familiar rhythm.
She smirked before she even opened it.
“Kenobi.”
“Senator,” he greeted smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He wore civilian robes again, lighter and less formal than the ones for Council meetings. He looked tired but amused.
She poured him a drink without asking.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Vos got you in trouble again?”
Obi-Wan laughed as he accepted the glass. “Not this time. Surprisingly. I’m here for a bit of… tea.”
Her brow lifted. “You’re bringing gossip now? I didn’t think you were the type.”
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, sipping. “But Commander Cody is. And as it turns out, your favorite Marshal Commander had quite the dramatic evening.”
Her smirk faltered. “Fox?”
“Mhm. Got into a full-on barracks brawl with Commander Thorn. It took Stone, Thire, Hound—and Grizzer, apparently—to break it up. Neyo had to drag Fox out by his collar and gave him a verbal lashing so brutal Cody said even he winced.”
She blinked. “What?”
Obi-Wan leaned casually against the back of her sofa. “Cody said it was over a woman. A senator. Tall. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous past. Ringing any bells?”
She rolled her eyes and finished her drink. “I thought Jedi were above this sort of drama.”
He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Not when we served alongside the subject of said drama during a war that’s still mostly classified.”
That shut her up.
“You always knew how to turn a knife with a smile,” she muttered, setting the glass down.
Obi-Wan’s face gentled. “They care about you. Both of them. Deeply.”
“And I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you earned it. The good and the bad of that kind of loyalty.”
She sighed, suddenly tired. “Did Vos tell them anything?”
Obi-Wan hesitated, then answered honestly. “No. Not really. Just implied. He knows better than to break sealed records. But they’re not stupid, either. Thorn saw the way you moved before you even said a word. Fox… saw something else.”
She didn’t respond.
He set the empty glass down beside hers. “I told Vos to stay out of it. I doubt he listened. But if you want this kept quiet… you might want to speak with the commanders yourself. Before someone else decides to dig deeper.”
Her voice was soft now. “What would you do?”
Obi-Wan gave a small shrug. “I’d probably lie. But I’m not sure that’s your style anymore.”
They shared a long look—one soldier to another, stripped of titles.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
He smiled. “Of course. You always did keep the battlefield interesting.”
As he turned to go, she called after him, dry as sand.
“Tell Cody if he wants to gossip, he should at least have the nerve to come see me himself.”
Obi-Wan chuckled all the way to the door. “Careful what you wish for.”
⸻
The senator had just settled into her chair, datapad in hand, when a familiar and entirely unwelcome sound echoed from her balcony—three sharp knocks, the rattle of the door handle, and then—
“Don’t pretend you’re not home. I saw the lights on.”
She sighed through her teeth. “Vos…”
Opening the door, she found the Jedi standing there with his usual self-satisfied smirk and not a single ounce of shame.
“You ever heard of calling first?” she asked flatly.
“I don’t believe in unnecessary formalities between old war buddies,” he said, brushing past her like he owned the place. “Besides, I’ve got juicy gossip and a bottle of Corellian red.”
She shut the door with a click. “Kenobi beat you to it.”
Vos froze mid-step. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Came by earlier. Looked annoyingly smug the whole time.”
“Dammit,” Vos muttered. “I was hoping to be the one to tell you about the Fox and Thorn Brawl.”
She smirked and took the bottle from him anyway. “Nice try. Obi-Wan already filled me in on the punches, the growling, the whole squad pile-up.”
Vos flopped into her armchair, legs over the arm like a delinquent. “Alright, but did he tell you the best part?”
She gave him a look.
Vos wiggled his eyebrows. “Fox apologized.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To his men?”
Vos pointed at her with a grin. “There it is. That face. Knew you didn’t hear that part.”
She blinked. “Fox. Marshal Commander Fox. The same man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he even has feelings, much less regret?”
“The very same,” Vos said cheerfully. “Apparently gave Hound a bone for his mastiff and everything. I think it actually threw the Guard into a full existential crisis.”
She laughed softly. “Neyo must’ve really given it to him.”
“Oh, he did,” Vos said, eyes twinkling. “Word is, Neyo’s dressing down was so intense, Fox was halfway convinced he’d be reassigned to latrine duty.”
She snorted and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to him.
“Maybe,” she drawled, “I’ve been flirting with the wrong commanders.”
Vos choked on his sip, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Oh no, sweetheart. Even you couldn’t break Neyo.”
She raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Not unless you’re into men who quote the regs during intimate moments.”
She laughed harder than she had in days.
As the amusement settled, Vos looked at her with a little more seriousness than usual. “You alright, really?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her glass.
“I don’t regret anything I did back then,” she said. “But I hate how it’s all resurfacing. Like that version of me is still dragging shadows into every room I walk into.”
Vos leaned forward, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You survived a civil war, ended it, and turned your planet toward peace. And now you’re sitting here, sipping wine in the Senate instead of burning in some bunker. That’s not a shadow. That’s a story. And no one tells it better than you.”
She gave him a long look.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
He winked. “Still not letting you off the hook for kissing both your bodyguards though. That’s just messy.”
She threw a pillow at him.
⸻
The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, amber hue across the polished floors of her apartment when the soft buzz of her door alerted her to a visitor.
She didn’t expect him.
Not after everything.
When the door slid open, Thorn stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, guarded in that way soldiers perfected when they didn’t want their emotions to show—except in his eyes. His eyes betrayed something deeper.
“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated… just long enough for him to notice.
Then she stepped aside.
They didn’t speak at first. She returned to her small table where a glass of wine still sat half-drunk, and Vos’ laughter still lingered faintly in the air, as if the apartment hadn’t fully exhaled him yet.
Thorn remained near the doorway, not quite relaxed, not quite tense.
“You don’t have to say it,” she finally murmured, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “I know. You were right.”
He furrowed his brows. “Right about what?”
She gave a soft, dry laugh. “That this was a mistake. All of it.”
Thorn exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant. Not really.”
“You kissed me.”
“You pushed me,” he said with a flicker of that fire that always simmered under his calm. “And I wanted to be kissed.”
She looked up at him. “And then Fox sent you back like a cadet who got caught sneaking out.”
His jaw flexed. “Because I let my feelings show. Because I let him see something he didn’t want to see.”
She stood slowly, her voice gentle but firm. “Thorn… this is dangerous. For both of us. And not just because of rank.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still here.”
He nodded. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even after the fight. Even after watching Fox—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
She stepped closer now, mere inches between them. “You’re jealous.”
He didn’t deny it. “I’m angry. Because I tried to walk away. I tried to be the one who did the right thing.”
“And I ruined that for you?”
He looked at her—really looked at her—and in that moment there was no senator, no clone, no war. Just two people with too much history already bleeding into every breath.
“No,” he said quietly. “You made it impossible for me to pretend I didn’t care.”
There was silence.
Then she reached out and touched his chestplate with her fingers, barely grazing it.
“Then stop pretending,” she said.
But neither of them moved.
Neither of them stepped closer.
Not yet.
Not until the next moment demanded it.
Thorn stood still, looking at her hand on his chest like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it branded him in a way his armor couldn’t protect against. His voice was low, raw. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” she asked, just as softly. “Because you might believe me?”
He set his helmet down on the table with a heavy thud and finally stepped into her space—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath his skin. She thought he might kiss her again, but he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he reached up and gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, like she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. “You terrify me,” he murmured.
She didn’t laugh. “You don’t scare easy.”
“I’ve marched into blaster fire. Held the line when we were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ve watched brothers die and kept moving.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve never wanted anything I wasn’t supposed to have. Until you.”
The words were quiet. Devastating.
Her hand slid up his chestplate, then around the back of his neck, pulling him closer—slowly, as if giving him a chance to step away.
He didn’t.
Their lips met with a quiet kind of urgency, like a dam that had finally cracked. It wasn’t the heat of two people caught in lust—it was aching, it was slow, it was raw with everything they’d tried to suppress. His hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, like he couldn’t believe she was really there.
She guided him out of the armor piece by piece, fingers steady, eyes never leaving his. When he pulled her to the bedroom, it wasn’t with dominance or control, but with reverence.
There, stripped of titles, armor, and pretense, they became something fragile and real.
He kissed her like a man desperate to remember softness.
She held him like someone who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.
And when they lay tangled afterward, skin to skin in the stillness, his fingers traced the scars on her shoulder without asking about them. She didn’t offer the stories. Not yet. But she turned her head to rest against his chest and felt his heartbeat settle under her cheek.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then he said, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t know how to protect you from this. From Fox. From me.”
She closed her eyes.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just stay.”
And he did.
⸻
Thorn woke first.
For a moment, he didn’t move—afraid that if he did, it would break whatever fragile illusion he was trapped in. The room was bathed in soft morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly in the Coruscant breeze. Outside, speeders hummed far below, distant and dull. But inside…
Peace.
Real, disarming peace.
She was still asleep, curled against him, her breathing even and steady. Her hand was draped lightly over his stomach, and her leg was tangled with his beneath the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without urgency. No missions. No blood. No orders. Just… this.
Serenity.
And it terrified him more than battle ever could.
His hand moved on its own, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, then resting against her bare back. The warmth of her skin anchored him. Her scent lingered faintly—clean, soft, a little sweet—and he closed his eyes just to soak in the feeling a little longer.
She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before blinking awake.
“Mmm… you’re still here,” she said softly, her voice half-sleep, half-smile.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I am.”
Her hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing a small scar near his collarbone. “You always this quiet in the morning?”
“Not usually awake this long without an alert blaring in my ear.”
She chuckled lightly. “Well… no alarms here.”
He nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling, as though trying to memorize the silence. “It’s strange. This—” he glanced down at her “—all of it. Quiet. Safe. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this.”
“You don’t like it?” she asked, teasing gently, but there was something vulnerable beneath it.
“I didn’t say that.” He met her eyes. “I just… don’t know how to trust it. Or how long it’ll last.”
She leaned in, brushing her lips softly over the scar on his jaw. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth having.”
For a long time, they stayed there. No rushing. No secrets. Just breath and skin and warmth.
He never thought he’d have something like this—however brief.
⸻
Fox stood outside the senator’s residence, helmet tucked under his arm.
He’d been pacing for ten minutes.
It was ridiculous. He’d faced death, treason, riots, bombs—Jedi. And yet nothing left him this gutted. This unsure.
Just say it. Say something. Anything.
She deserved to know. After everything. After the tension, the stolen glances, the fights, and—Force help him—the kiss. Thorn might have made his move first, but Fox wasn’t going to keep his silence anymore.
His fist hovered near the door chime.
He didn’t press it.
“Standing there long enough to grow roots, Commander?” Hound’s voice cut in, casual and amused.
Fox turned sharply to find Hound leaning against the nearest pillar with his arms crossed, Grizzer panting beside him, tail wagging lazily. Thire stood just behind, arms behind his back in mock-formal stance, an insufferable little smirk tugging at his lips.
“I swear,” Fox muttered, “the two of you have the worst timing.”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thire said, trying and failing to look innocent. “We just figured we’d keep an eye on our ever-composed Marshal Commander before he does something insane like… confess feelings.”
Fox gave him a glare that could have melted phrik plating.
“Just don’t bite anyone this time,” Hound added with a sidelong glance at Grizzer, who barked once and licked Fox’s hand.
“I didn’t bite anyone,” Fox growled.
“No, you didn’t,” Thire said under his breath.
Fox was about to fire back a very direct suggestion when—
“Oh, what is this delightful little pow-wow?” came a voice from behind them, smug and syrupy smooth.
All four turned just in time to see Quinlan Vos lounging in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the building.
Fox clenched his jaw.
Vos looked far too pleased with himself. “Let me guess… someone was finally going to admit they’re hopelessly in love with the senator? Or was it going to be another punch-up over who gets to carry her datapad?”
“Vos,” Fox said in warning, already half-drawing himself up to full height.
Vos waved a hand. “Relax, Commander Killjoy. I’m just here to observe. Gossip from Kenobi is delicious lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with all the drama.”
Thire bit back a laugh.
Fox sighed through his nose and muttered, “I’m going to regret not stunning him.”
Vos gave him a wink. “You already do.”
Fox turned back toward the door and this time raised his hand again.
Then lowered it.
Vos raised an eyebrow. “Need me to knock for you?”
Fox turned and walked away.
⸻
Quinlan Vos strolled into the senator’s apartment like he owned the place. He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t ask. Naturally.
That wasn’t the Vos way.
He’d barely made it three steps past the threshold when a shape rounded the corner from the hallway—bare chest, tousled hair, pants only halfway buttoned, a blaster slung low on one hip like he’d half expected a fight.
Commander Thorn froze.
Vos grinned.
“Oh,” Vos said, voice all sunshine and sin. “Well this explains why Fox has been spiraling.”
Thorn blinked, assessing, a quiet, burning calculation forming in his eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”
Vos gestured vaguely at the security panel. “I’ve got my ways. Jedi and their spooky talents, you know.”
“That’s not an answer,” Thorn replied coolly, stepping forward, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath sun-kissed skin. “This is a secure residence.”
“And yet…” Vos made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Here I am.”
Thorn glared.
“Relax, soldier boy. I didn’t see anything,” Vos said, though his smirk implied otherwise. “Well… not everything. Just enough to put together why Fox looked like he was going to snap a durasteel beam in half.”
“You here for a reason or just looking to get punched again?” Thorn said, folding his arms across his bare chest.
Vos’s eyes drifted—not subtly—to Thorn’s arms, then his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Tempting. But no.”
He took a lazy step further into the apartment. “I came to drop some news, actually. Then maybe raid her liquor cabinet, trade some gossip, and go back to annoying every clone I’ve ever met.”
Thorn didn’t move. “She’s not here.”
Vos cocked his head. “She usually is around this hour. Let me guess—you wore her out?”
The look Thorn gave him could’ve killed a man if it had weight.
“Fine, fine,” Vos said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait. Shirtless hostility aside, I do like you, Thorn. You’ve got a nice left hook.”
“You try me again, you’ll meet the right one.”
Vos grinned, utterly unbothered.
“And for the record,” Thorn added, tone low and steely, “if you ever break into this apartment again—Jedi or not—I’ll throw you off the balcony.”
Vos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What floor is this again?”
“High enough.”
Vos clapped his hands once. “Noted.”
He wandered to the couch, dropped onto it like he lived there, and propped his boots up on the table.
Thorn watched him like one might a wild nexu.
⸻
She wasn’t expecting anyone when the lift doors opened on her floor.
She certainly wasn’t expecting him.
Fox.
Full armor. Helmet off. That sharp, unreadable expression carved into his face like durasteel. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor lights hummed low between them. His eyes—dark, stormy, and too honest—met hers.
Behind him, lingering at a respectful distance, were Hound, Thire… and Grizzer, sitting dutifully by Hound’s side, tongue lolling, tail tapping quietly against the floor.
She blinked. “Fox?”
His jaw flexed. “Senator.”
She stepped out of the lift slowly, feeling the air shift between them. Vos was still upstairs—gods help her—but seeing Fox like this, seeing the way he looked at her, like he had something on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t let it go, sent her pulse thrumming.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer than she meant.
“I was going to…” He trailed off, mouth pressing into a firm line. He glanced over his shoulder toward Hound and Thire, who were doing their absolute best to not look like they were listening—while very much listening.
Grizzer gave a low grumble.
Fox sighed. “I was going to talk to you.”
The senator tilted her head slightly. “About?”
He shook his head, gaze sharp, searching her face. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew what I wanted to say but… seeing you now…”
There was something in his eyes. Regret. Hunger. Guilt.
“You’ve already seen me,” she said gently. “That’s not the part you’re afraid of.”
He breathed in through his nose, like he wanted to steady himself—but it didn’t work. “You’re not making this easy.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
Behind him, Hound cleared his throat. Loudly.
Fox’s eye twitched.
She stepped closer, brushing past him deliberately slow as she whispered near his ear, “If you have something to say, Marshal Commander, say it. Before someone else does first.”
His breath hitched.
Grizzer barked softly, tail thumping louder now. A silent warning. Or encouragement. Hard to tell.
Fox straightened, but didn’t follow her as she walked past him toward her door.
He stood still, watching.
And then—finally—he turned and walked away.
⸻
Fox had barely turned the corner when his men caught up with him. The quiet corridor buzzed with tension and discontent. Hound and Thire exchanged knowing looks as they trailed close behind.
“Why didn’t you say anything, Fox?” Hound demanded in a low voice, eyes narrowing.
“You had the chance—” Thire piped in, his tone laced with exasperated disbelief.
“A commander should speak when it matters. We expected more from you.”
Hound scoffed. “You were standing there like a malfunctioning protocol droid. What the hell happened to your plan?”
“I had a plan,” Fox muttered. “Then she looked at me.”
Fox’s jaw was set, and his silence only fueled the growing argument. He kept walking, head bowed, but the clones weren’t having it. Voices rose, accusations bounced around the corridor like stray blaster fire, until suddenly a commotion broke the standoff.
Fox’s eye twitched. “Not helping.”
“I am helping,” Hound insisted. “You’re just being—Grizzer, no!”
It was too late.
The mastiff had leapt up on his hind legs, snatched Fox’s helmet clean out of his arms with his teeth, and sprinted off like a warhound possessed.
Fox stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh, hells no,” Thire groaned, taking off after him. “That helmet’s got tracking tech and encryption!”
“He’s headed back toward—oh kriff—”
The three of them took off after Grizzer, who had already bounded back into the senator’s building. He knew exactly where he was going.
“Hound,” Fox wheezed as they rounded the stairwell. “If that animal gets us court-martialed, I’m taking you with me.”
Up another flight. And another.
They reached her apartment door just in time to see Grizzer’s large paws scratching at it, tail wagging like this was the most normal thing he’d ever done.
Before anyone could knock or grab the hound, the door swung open.
The senator stood there, blinking.
Grizzer barreled in, tail high, helmet still in his mouth. And—because clearly this day wasn’t chaotic enough—the three clones followed him in before she could even speak.
“Grizzer!” Hound hissed. “Drop it—”
The senator raised a brow, calmly closing the door behind them as she looked around.
Thorn stepped into view from the hallway, half-buttoning up a shirt that still hung open on his chest, a faint bite mark peeking near his collarbone.
Fox blinked and looked anywhere but there.
“Thorn,” he greeted flatly.
“Fox,” Thorn said, with a faint smirk. “Hound. Thire.”
And then—“Fid you scale my balcony again?” the senator called out, walking toward the living room.
“Technically no,” came a familiar, smug voice. “I came in the actual door this time.”
Vos was sprawled on the couch, feet up, eating something from her fruit bowl. A communicator was open in his palm.
“Kenobi says hi,” Vos added, holding up the comm.
“Why is Kenobi—” the senator stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Of course he is.”
Fox was still standing near the threshold, utterly still, face redder than a Coruscanti sunset.
Grizzer trotted up to him and finally, finally dropped the helmet at his feet like a trophy.
“Thanks,” Fox muttered.
“You’re welcome,” the senator said, tone dry.
Vos grinned. “You boys want drinks or…?”
“No,” all three clones snapped in unison.
The senator crossed her arms, her expression flat with just a hint of amusement.
“Anyone else planning to enter uninvited?” she asked. “Any Jedi lurking in the vents? More clones rappelling down from the roof?”
Vos didn’t even look up from his seat. “I think Kenobi and Cody are fine where they are,” he said casually, waving the comm. “Say hi, boys.”
“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi’s voice came through crystal-clear. “Lovely morning. Very dramatic. Please continue.”
“Cody’s listening too,” Vos added. “He’s muted. He wants the unedited drama.”
Fox closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
Meanwhile, Thire nudged Fox hard with an elbow. “You gonna tell her or not?”
“Tell her what?” Thorn asked, stepping into the living room, now actually buttoning his shirt. “We’ve all made enough of a scene this week—what’s another confession?”
Hound, in the corner, was crouched with Grizzer. “You’re on thin ice, you little thief,” he muttered as Grizzer panted happily, tongue lolling and proud of himself.
“Fox has something to say,” Thire announced helpfully, louder this time.
Fox shot him a glare that could’ve cut durasteel. “I will demote you.”
“From what?” Thire smirked. “From one of your only friends? Go ahead, Marshal Commander.”
The senator arched a brow. “You’ve been trying to tell me something, Commander?”
Fox cleared his throat, suddenly stiff. “I—it’s not exactly the right moment.”
“Oh, no, now it is,” Thorn said, folding his arms. “You ran off this morning. You stood outside the door for five minutes. You let a dog start this diplomatic crisis. Now you’re here, with an audience. No better time.”
Vos, lounging like he was poolside, grinned wider. “He’s right. Go on. Tell the pretty senator how much you want to kiss her boots or whatever it is that’s making you punch your own men in the jaw.”
“I didn’t punch him over—” Fox stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You know what? Fine.”
He stepped forward.
All the clones went quiet. Even Grizzer stopped panting.
The senator met his eyes, unreadable.
“I care about you,” Fox said, low and raw, like every word was an uphill battle. “More than I should. I’ve tried to be professional. I’ve tried to respect the fact that you’re a senator, and I’m a soldier—but I’ve failed. I’ve failed spectacularly. And I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”
Silence fell like a hammer.
Kenobi’s voice broke it.
“Finally,” he muttered. “That’s been excruciating.”
Vos cackled. “Cody says he owes me twenty credits. I told him you’d say it first.”
Fox looked like he might combust on the spot. The senator, for once, seemed genuinely speechless.
Thorn’s jaw tightened.
“So what now?” he asked, his tone flat but his eyes stormy. “You said it. What changes?”
Fox looked at him directly. “I don’t know.”
The tension in the room twisted tighter, like a drawn bow.
The senator sighed and turned away, pouring herself a drink—one for her, one for Fox, and, hesitantly, one for Thorn.
“Congratulations,” she said dryly, handing the glass to Fox. “You all ruined a perfectly quiet morning.”
Vos raised his own glass from the couch. “To chaos. And confessions.”
“Shut up, Vos,” Thorn and Fox said at the same time.
⸻
“Well,” Obi-Wan said, sipping his tea on the Temple balcony, “that was messier than I expected.”
Cody chuckled from where he leaned against the railing. “You expected something else? Fox, Thorn, a senator, a mastiff, and Vos all in one room? You should’ve known better.”
Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “I do know better. But I still hold out hope for dignity.”
Cody snorted. “No dignity left in that room. Pretty sure Vos filmed it. He’s probably editing the holo as we speak.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Obi-Wan muttered.
Cody paused, glancing down at the datapad he’d been half-scrolling through. “Honestly, I never thought Fox would crack. The man’s a walking fortress. But after everything, I guess… even he has limits.”
“Of course he does,” Obi-Wan said. “They all do. They were never meant to hold in so much for so long.”
A heavy silence settled between them, not somber—but thoughtful. Until—
“He shouldn’t be cracking.”
Both men turned their heads.
Marshal Commander Neyo had approached silently, his armor immaculate, posture as rigid as durasteel. He stood with his hands behind his back, his expression as frosted as ever.
“Fox is unfit,” Neyo said coolly. “He’s lost control of his unit, he’s fraternizing with a senator, and his judgment is compromised. He should’ve been relieved of command cycles ago.”
Cody straightened, not quite defensive yet, but no longer relaxed. “He’s had it hard, Neyo. You know that.”
“We’ve all had it hard,” Neyo snapped. “That’s not an excuse. The Guard isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t some… emotional playground. What he’s doing compromises the entire integrity of the Guard. And by extension, the Chancellor’s security.”
Obi-Wan’s brow lifted. “You’re saying a man who’s devoted his life to that very cause is now a liability because he’s caught feelings?”
“I’m saying he’s made it personal,” Neyo replied coldly. “And personal costs lives.”
Cody’s jaw tensed. “He’s not a droid, Neyo. He’s a soldier. A man. He’s not perfect, but he’s held the line longer than most of us could.”
Neyo’s expression didn’t shift. “Then maybe it’s time someone else held the line.”
He turned on his heel and walked off without another word.
Obi-Wan watched him go, then sighed into his cup. “Do you ever wonder what it would take to get Neyo to actually crack?”
Cody muttered, “Yeah. But I think even then, he’d just shatter quietly and judge everyone else for crying.”
Obi-Wan let out a soft laugh. “What about Fox?”
Cody was quiet for a beat too long. Then, with rare honesty: “He won’t shatter. He’ll burn.”
⸻
The senator hadn’t slept.
Her apartment was quiet now, the chaos from earlier a memory reduced to half-drunk tea, a discarded clone pauldron by the couch, and Vos’s lingering laughter echoing faintly in her ears. He’d long since vanished—probably off to stir up more drama with a HoloNet gossip blog or Jedi Council member who didn’t ask to be looped into romantic entanglements.
She sat curled up on the edge of her window seat, the city stretching far below, wrapped in the blue shimmer of Coruscant’s dusk.
The door chimed once.
She didn’t answer.
It slid open anyway.
“Senator,” Thorn’s voice came first, soft but firm.
She turned her head to see both of them—Thorn and Fox—standing side by side but somehow miles apart. They looked battle-ready in posture but stripped bare in the eyes. Thorn held his helmet in one hand, arms stiff at his sides. Fox stood with his arms behind his back, jaw clenched, shadows around his eyes making him look ten years older.
Neither looked like they wanted to be the one to speak first.
So she did. “If this is about earlier—”
“It is,” Fox said, cutting in, voice sharp but not cruel. “It has to be.”
Thorn glanced at him, then at her. “We can’t keep dancing around it.”
She folded her hands in her lap, brows pulling together. “I didn’t ask either of you to—”
“No,” Thorn interrupted gently. “You didn’t. But we’re here anyway.”
Fox moved a step forward, his tone tighter. “You’ve made space for both of us, and I know it wasn’t your intention, but—” He paused, exhaled hard. “It’s tearing everything apart.”
Her eyes widened, throat tightening. “Fox—”
“You have to choose,” he said flatly.
The silence afterward felt like a vacuum.
Thorn didn’t speak up to disagree.
He looked at her, gaze softer but no less serious. “I know what we’ve shared. I don’t regret any of it. But I can’t… I won’t keep putting you in the middle. Not if it’s hurting you.”
She stood slowly, her hands falling to her sides, eyes bouncing between them—Fox in his red and black, expression restrained but brimming. Thorn, still rumpled from their quiet morning, eyes carrying the weight of every soft moment they hadn’t dared name.
“I care for both of you,” she admitted, voice raw. “But this—this isn’t fair to any of us. You want me to choose like it’s easy. Like it’s a battle strategy. But this isn’t war. This is my heart.”
Fox’s jaw ticked. Thorn dropped his gaze.
“I’ve spent years making impossible decisions,” she continued. “And most of them got people killed or broken. But this? I don’t want to choose between two people who’ve risked everything to protect me. Two people I trust.” Her voice cracked. “Two people I never meant to hurt.”
Fox looked at the floor. Thorn looked away.
“I can’t choose,” she whispered. “Not now.”
Neither man spoke.
And for the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just give her an order.
⸻
Previous Part | Next Part
Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Commander Fox
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️
- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️
- x reader “command and consequence”❤️
- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️
- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️
- “Red Lines” multiple parts
- “soft spot” ❤️
Commander Thorn
- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️
- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️
Sergeant Hound
- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”
Overall Material List
i'm still at the restaurant btw. if u even care
Hi! I had a fun idea for maybe a Bad batch or even 501st fic where it’s clones x fem!reader where’s she’s trying to be undercover as a guy and is trying her best not to get caught (like how mulan plays ping in Disneys Mulan) bit of crack but maybe some spice if it fits?
Love your writing, it’s so addictive! Xx
“Call Me Pynn”
501st x Fem!Reader
The Republic needed a local contact for a black ops infiltration on an Outer Rim moon run by a rogue droid manufacturer supplying the Separatists. The factory was buried under city sprawl, well-guarded, and impossible to breach without drawing too much attention. So the plan was simple: go in quiet, sneak through the underworld channels, and shut down the operation from the inside.
And for once, you were the contact.
The catch? You had to go in disguised—a young male merc, neutral in the conflict but “curious” enough to lend his skills. Intel said the droids had been tricked into recruiting unaffiliated guns. All you had to do was get in, get the layout, and feed it to the Republic.
Of course, the Jedi had “improved” the plan. Now you were being assigned to a squad for deep cover infiltration—the 501st.
And they thought you were a boy.
⸻
You were barely five minutes in when you walked into the wrong locker room.
“Yo, Pynn! Took you long enough,” Fives called out, peeling off his blacks like it was a kriffing spa day. “Locker’s open next to mine. You sharing with Jesse—he snores, so wear earplugs.”
You blinked. “Wait—I thought I had quarters—”
“No time,” Rex interrupted, walking by with a towel over his shoulder and absolutely no shame. “We’re shipping out at 0600. Briefing in twenty.”
Anakin, sitting on a bench with a datapad, looked up and smirked. “You’ll get used to the smell.”
You stood there, frozen. You were still in partial armor, hair short under your helmet, chest bound so tight you could barely breathe. You hadn’t even figured out how to change in private yet.
Then Fives pulled you in, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You showerin’? C’mon, kid. You’re part of the team now. No secrets.”
Oh no.
⸻
You managed to fake an urgent comm call to avoid the group debrief butt-naked shower bonding time.
Now, sitting stiffly between Jesse and Kix, you studied the holomap.
“Droid patrols here, here, and here,” Anakin said, pointing to the glowing corridors of the factory. “You and Pynn go in first, disguised as freelancers. The rest of us follow once the back door’s open.”
Rex narrowed his eyes. “You sure he’s ready for that?”
“I’m standing right here,” you muttered, lowering your voice an octave.
“Relax,” Anakin replied. “Pynn’s more experienced than he looks. Isn’t that right?”
You nod. “Seen worse gigs.”
“Where?” Kix asked. “Nar Shaddaa? Ord Mantell?”
You pause. “…Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Both. At the same time.”
Kix blinked. Fives let out a low whistle. “Damn. Respect.”
You were barely holding it together. Between the compression binder, the fake voice, and the constant fear of discovery, your nerves were fried.
And yet… you caught Jesse watching you from the corner of his eye. That half-grin. Suspicious. Too suspicious.
⸻
Barracks
Lights out. You’d pulled your bunk curtain shut and were lying stiff as a corpse in full blacks, binder still on. You couldn’t risk changing. Not here. Not yet.
Then came the whisper.
“Hey… Pynn.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
It was Fives.
You pulled the curtain back just enough to peek. “What?”
He grinned. Way too close. “You snore like a frightened tooka.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Also—you sleep fully dressed. Bit weird, huh?”
You stared. “Cold-blooded. Like a Trandoshan.”
He chuckled. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”
Then he leaned in a little more, eyes flicking down your face.
“You ever kissed anyone, Pynn?”
You choked. “What kind of question—”
“You know. Just asking.”
Pause.
“…What would that make you if I had?” you shot back, trying to channel swagger instead of fear.
Fives winked. “Confused. But not uninterested.”
⸻
The city smelled like burnt copper and damp oil. Steam hissed from vents and flickering lights strobed against wet duracrete. Jesse walked ahead of you, dressed in stolen merc armor and moving like he’d always been on the wrong side of the law.
You trailed behind, posture low, helmet tucked under one arm, trying not to look like a girl bound so tightly her ribs wanted to snap.
Your alias was “Pynn Vesh”: rogue merc, unaffiliated, decent with tech, better with blasters. That part was true. The part where you were definitely not a woman infiltrating a droid facility with the Republic’s most observant soldiers? Not so true.
“Factory gate’s two klicks east,” Jesse muttered over his shoulder. “You good?”
“Fine,” you rasped, lowering your voice.
“You always sound like that, or is this just your merc voice?” he teased.
“Puberty was… weird for me,” you muttered.
Jesse gave a huff of amusement but didn’t push it. Thank the stars.
You slipped through the outer checkpoint without issue, your stolen ident chip scanning green. Jesse grinned at the droid guard, real smooth.
“Name’s Jax. This is my partner, Pynn. We’re here to see Garesh. He’s expecting us.”
The droid blinked in binary.
“Proceed.”
As you stepped through the blast doors into the factory interior, Jesse leaned close.
“You’re pretty quiet for a merc.”
You glanced at him. “Quiet doesn’t get me shot.”
He smirked. “Fair. But I still can’t figure you out.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Jesse said easily. “Just makes me curious. You got anyone waiting back home?”
You froze.
“What?”
“You know—girlfriend, boyfriend, someone who writes you sappy comms? Never thought mercs got the chance.”
Oh. Oh no.
Behind you, another voice crackled through the comm.
“Pynn?”
Anakin.
You flinched.
“Y-yeah?”
“Signal’s clean. You’re in. Factory’s wide open on thermal—mostly droids. You’ll need to plant the beacon by the east terminal. That’ll give us access.”
“Copy.”
But Jesse wasn’t done.
“Seriously though. Someone’s gotta be missing you.”
You blinked fast, keeping your face neutral. “No time for that.”
Fives cut in over comms, voice full of amusement. “You mean you’ve never hooked up? Stars, you’re worse than Rex.”
“Hey.” Rex barked.
“Just saying!” Fives laughed. “We fight, we bleed, and apparently some of us die virgins.”
You almost choked.
“Would you all shut up?” you hissed.
Jesse chuckled. “You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m—shut up.”
“Wait,” Anakin said suddenly. His voice changed—focused. “Zoom in on Pynn’s thermal feed.”
You stopped cold.
“Why?” Jesse asked.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Anakin’s voice again, casual but sharp. “Something’s… off.”
You started sweating under your armor. The binder tightened like a vice around your ribs.
Jesse looked at you sideways. “You sick or something?”
“I’m fine,” you snapped, too quickly.
“Pynn,” Anakin said. “Stay sharp. Jesse, watch his six.”
You reached the terminal, hands shaking. Plugged in the beacon. Light turned green. Done.
“We’re clear,” you breathed.
“Copy that. Pull out—quietly.”
You started to move—then froze again.
A droid had turned.
Its photoreceptors locked on you.
“Unauthorized personnel detected—”
“Shab,” Jesse growled.
“Engaging—”
Blasterfire lit the air.
“GO!” Jesse shouted, grabbing your arm.
You bolted, ducking bolts, binder cutting into your chest, heartbeat like a drum. Jesse covered your back as you both ran into the alleys.
⸻
Back at the safehouse, breathless and bruised, you collapsed into a chair. Jesse paced, helmet off, frowning.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” you gasped, trying to discreetly loosen your chest wrap under your shirt. It was soaked with sweat.
“You sure? You were… wheezing.”
“Kriff, let a guy breathe.”
He stared at you. “…You are a guy, right?”
Your heart stopped.
The room went dead silent.
You opened your mouth.
Before you could say anything, the door opened.
Anakin stepped inside.
Slowly.
Staring straight at you.
You froze.
He cocked his head.
“…Pynn,” he said, voice low. “We need to talk.”
You stood rigid by the supply crates, breathing hard through your nose as Anakin Skywalker stared you down like you were a broken protocol droid confessing to murder.
Jesse sat slumped on the couch behind you, fiddling with his helmet, clearly confused but too tired to start asking weird questions. Yet.
Anakin took one slow step forward, arms crossed over his chest.
“You want to explain what that thermal scan was?”
You clenched your jaw. “I was told this op was need-to-know, General. Even your team wasn’t supposed to know.”
“Uh-huh.”
Another step. He was studying you like a puzzle. You hated it.
You lowered your voice, just enough. “I was sent in under deep cover. Female operative, disguised as male. Assigned contact for internal breach. Command wanted eyes inside without the boys sniffing it out.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh,” he said finally. “So you’re not a guy.”
You scowled. “What gave it away?”
Anakin cracked a grin. “Besides the thermal? You run like you’re trying not to split a seam.”
“I am.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Okay. Well, you’re a crap dude.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Voice is too soft. You’re skittish as hell. And you make weird eye contact with Fives. Which honestly just made me think you were scared of him, but now I’m guessing you were trying not to get flirted into oblivion.”
“I was absolutely scared of him.”
Anakin chuckled again, shaking his head. “Stars help you when they find out.”
You stiffened. “They can’t.”
“Relax. I’m not going to say anything.”
You blinked. “You’re not?”
“Nope.” He smirked. “But you’ll crack. That’s not a threat, it’s a guarantee. I give it two days before Jesse walks in on you binding your chest or Fives tries to play strip sabaac.”
You groaned, dropping your head against the crate with a dull thud.
“Don’t remind me.”
He leaned casually against the wall. “So what’s your name?”
You hesitated. Then sighed.
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” His grin widened. “You know, this is probably the least chaotic thing to happen to me this month.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“Tell me about it.” His tone grew a bit softer. “You handled yourself well out there, by the way.”
You blinked.
“Thanks… General.”
“But seriously,” he added, already halfway to the door, “the second Fives finds out, he’s going to combust.”
You buried your face in your hands.
Fives paused by the safehouse wall, where he’d been leaning casually with a ration bar, totally not eavesdropping. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep confusion.
He looked at Jesse, who had joined him during the tail end of the conversation.
Jesse blinked. “Did—did General Skywalker just call Pynn she?”
Fives chewed his bar, brow furrowed. “I thought he said they.”
Jesse squinted at the door.
“I think I need to sit down.”
⸻
The worst thing about pretending to be a guy?
Sleeping with the guys.
You’d been given a cot shoved between Jesse and Kix. Jesse snored like a malfunctioning speeder bike and Kix talked in his sleep—violently. And you? You’d slept curled under a blanket, stiff as a body in carbonite, binder nearly slicing into your sides.
Now it was morning. And unfortunately, your binder strap had snapped.
You stood frozen in the refresher, one gloved hand holding the compression vest tightly closed, staring at yourself in the cracked mirror.
There was a knock.
“Pynn?” Jesse’s voice.
Your soul left your body.
“You good?” he called again. “You’ve been in there for like… thirty minutes.”
“I’m fine,” you croaked, voice cracking so hard it practically betrayed everything.
Jesse paused. “…you sound weird.”
“I’m constipated!” you blurted.
Silence.
“…Okay,” Jesse muttered, “well, drink water or something.”
You slapped a hand over your face. Kriffing hell.
You had managed to throw on your chest plate and keep things moderately together, but something was off. The guys were starting to notice.
Especially Jesse.
He was watching you.
Not like in a creepy way. Just—watching. Narrow-eyed. Curious.
And Kix? The medic?
He kept frowning at the way you moved. At your stiff posture. At how your breaths came shallow. You were doomed.
“Hey, Pynn,” Jesse called while twirling a blaster idly. “Come run drills with me.”
You nearly flinched. “Drills?”
He grinned. “Yeah. Hand-to-hand. See what you’re made of.”
“No thanks,” you said quickly. “I, uh—pulled something.”
Fives piped in from the corner: “What, your integrity?”
“I will shoot you.”
Jesse kept smirking. “What are you so afraid of, Pynn? Losing to me? C’mon. Don’t be shy.”
You were about to answer when you turned too fast—your vest caught on the table edge—and a rip echoed through the air.
Time slowed.
Your chest plate dropped.
Your binder loosened.
And suddenly, you were holding the front of your shirt together with both hands, eyes wide in pure panic.
Fives blinked.
Hard.
Jesse straight-up choked.
Hardcase—Force bless him—walked into the room mid-moment and said, “Hey, are we outta rations?—Oh kriff.”
Everyone froze.
You didn’t breathe.
Then Jesse’s eyes dropped. His jaw dropped lower.
“…You’re a girl,” he whispered.
Fives made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. “That’s why you wouldn’t shower.”
“I knew something was off,” Kix muttered, half in awe, half scandalized.
You were burning alive.
Anakin appeared in the doorway with a cup of caf, took one look at the scene, and sipped slowly.
“I gave her two days,” he said smugly.
Jesse looked back at you, face suddenly unreadable. “…Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “guess the mission really was classified.”
Fives leaned on the wall and grinned at you. “You know, you’re a lot prettier when you’re not pretending to be constipated.”
“I hate all of you.”
Hi! Your writing is superb and I love your fic with the reader and Crosshair bantering. Do you think you could do a Crosshair x Fem!reader where she finally gets him flustered and blushing? Maybe a bit of spice at the end if that’s ok? Xx
“Right on Target”
Crosshair x Fem!Reader
Warnings: No explicit smut, but it’s definitely mature
⸻
Crosshair was used to being in control—of his aim, of his surroundings, of people. He liked it that way.
What he didn’t like was how you always had a retort ready for him, sharp as the toothpick between his teeth.
“Your stalking’s getting obvious, sharpshooter,” you drawled, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Didn’t know you liked watching me walk that much.”
“I wasn’t watching you walk,” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching my ass. Got it.”
He glanced away, jaw tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Score one.
“You’re lucky I’m into grumpy, brooding types who pretend they don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhm,” you said, voice thick with amusement. “That why you always hover when I’m patching up, or growl when I flirt with other clones?”
He stopped walking. You didn’t. Not until he grabbed your wrist, tugging you back with just enough force to make it known he was done playing.
“I don’t growl.”
“Oh, honey,” you smirked, stepping in close. “You practically purr when you’re jealous.”
His eyes narrowed, but his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t meant to touch his chest—but your hand was there now, and he wasn’t moving.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low.
You tilted your head. “Why? You gonna shoot me?”
“No. But I might do something you’ll like.”
You gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That’s the idea.”
And that’s when it happened—the blush. Subtle at first, just a dusting of pink across those high cheekbones. But you saw it. He knew you saw it.
“You’re blushing,” you whispered, grinning like you’d just landed a perfect headshot.
He scoffed. “It’s hot in here.”
“We’re on Hoth.”
Silence. You let it stretch. Delicious, victorious silence.
“…You gonna keep staring, or—”
You silenced him with a kiss—soft, heated, and just enough tongue to make his breath hitch. His hand gripped your waist in reflex, grounding, needing.
“You gonna let me keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, “or are you finally gonna shut me up properly?”
He backed you into the nearest wall faster than you could blink, lips crashing against yours harder this time, heat surging between you both like a live wire. When he pulled back, his voice was husky, feral.
“Be careful what you ask for.”
You smirked, heart hammering. “Right on target.”
The wall was cold at your back, but Crosshair was not.
His body pressed flush to yours, lean and strong, caging you in with one hand braced above your head and the other gripping your hip like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor you.
“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he muttered, voice dark and ragged.
“I know,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his blacks. “You like it.”
He growled—a low, almost feral sound—then tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers and kissed you again. This time, there was no holding back. Teeth, tongue, heat. He kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a dangerous edge that said he might snap.
You wanted him to snap.
Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging along the sharp dip of his waist. His abs flexed beneath your touch, and his breath caught.
“What’s wrong, Cross?” you purred, nipping at his jaw. “You usually have so much to say.”
“I’m busy shutting you up,” he rasped.
And oh—he did.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging you closer. You rolled your hips against his and felt just how not unaffected he was. The air between you grew hot, heavy, thick with need.
“You wanna keep teasing,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your skin, “I’ll make good on every threat I’ve ever made.”
Your eyes fluttered shut at the promise laced in his tone. He sounded dangerous. And you? You’d never wanted anything more.
“I dare you.”
He chuckled, low and rough, and it did something to you.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Oh, I do,” you said, curling your fingers in his shirt and pulling him closer. “And I want all of it.”
He kissed you again, slower this time—possessive, claiming, his. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he pulled away, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.
“Later,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over yours. “When we’re not seconds from being interrupted by someone like Wrecker.”
You groaned. “He would walk in right now.”
“Which is why,” he said, voice sharp and wicked, “you’re going to think about this all day until I do something about it.”
He stepped back, leaving you breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked.
And the smirk he shot you?
It said he knew exactly what he’d done.
Hiiiii
I had an idea for a Rex x reader where he's very obviously in love with her and everyone around him can tell but he doesn't want to admit it bc he's afraid she wont feel the same. And its basically just him being completely in love with her and everyone mercilessly teasing him about it.
(and maybe she overhears this teasing and just walks into the conversation like, "you know im in love with you too right?")
I just got this idea into my head and i needed someone to write it ok bye my darling :)
“501st Confidential (Except It’s Not)”
Captain Rex x Reader
You were, in the words of Fives, “the reason Rex turns into an emotionally repressed marshmallow with a death wish.”
The captain of the 501st was an impeccable soldier—composed, sharp, calm under fire. Until you walked into the room.
Then? He forgot how doors worked. Forgot how his voice worked. Forgot how to exist like a functioning adult.
Like this morning.
“Hey, Captain,” you called, brushing past him in the mess. “Sleep okay?”
Rex nearly dropped his tray. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Slept. I slept.”
You gave him a soft little smile. “Good.”
Fives watched the exchange with his spoon frozen in the air, like he’d just witnessed a holo-drama plot twist.
The second you left, Jesse leaned in. “Was that a stroke or a confession?”
“Shut it,” Rex muttered, flustered.
“Come on, Captain Crush,” Kix snorted. “You smiled so hard you got an extra forehead line.”
“I did not,” Rex snapped.
“It twitched,” Echo deadpanned.
“Just admit it,” Fives drawled, draping himself across the table. “You’re in love with her.”
Rex didn’t answer, which—by 501st standards—was practically a marriage proposal.
“Oh no,” Jesse whispered. “He’s so far gone. He’s at the ‘she smiled at me and I heard music’ phase.”
Rex ran a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”
“Affectionately,” Echo added.
⸻
Later, in the hangar, the teasing reached critical mass.
Rex was checking the gunships. He thought he was alone.
He was wrong.
“Y’know,” came Fives’ voice from behind him, “the last time you stared at someone that long, you were planning a tactical assault.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh? My bad. Meditating on the meaning of her eyes, then?”
Jesse joined them, arms crossed. “Pretty sure he’s composing poetry in his head.”
“I don’t write poetry,” Rex grumbled.
“Then what’s this?” Fives produced a crumpled piece of flimsi. “‘Her voice is like a thermal detonator to my self-control—’”
Rex lunged for it. “Give me that—!”
“—detonating everything in me but discipline. Wow. Wow.”
“I will demote you.”
Fives grinned. “You’d have to catch me first—”
“What’s going on here?” Anakin’s voice cut in as he strolled over, arms folded, suspicious.
“Captain’s in love,” Jesse reported instantly.
“Painfully,” Echo added helpfully.
“Unprofessionally,” Kix muttered as he passed, shaking his head.
Anakin raised a brow at Rex. “Really?”
Rex, red-faced, said, “It’s nothing. They’re being ridiculous.”
“You know you’re terrible at hiding it, right?” Anakin said, half-laughing.
Fives leaned over like he’d been waiting for this. “Oh, and you’re one to talk?”
The group roared.
Rex folded his arms, finally smiling. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah,” Jesse added. “We’ve got bets on how long before you and Senator Secret Marriage finally kiss in front of Obi-Wan.”
“I will write all of you up,” Anakin threatened weakly.
“Sure, General,” Fives smirked. “You can fill out the paperwork on your next secret rendezvous.”
Anakin muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Echo saluted his retreating back. “True love never hides well.”
Unbeknownst to them all, you had heard every word.
You had paused just behind the stacks of crates when you heard your name—and then just… stood there, eyes wide, heart pounding, as your entire crush was dissected and laid bare by a group of very loud, very meddling clone troopers.
You waited until Rex tried to escape the roasting.
And then you stepped into view.
“…Hey,” you said sweetly.
Six heads whipped around. Fives looked like he was about to choke.
“(Y/N),” Rex breathed, stunned.
“Just dropping off the new tactical rotation schedules.” You held up a datapad, then let your eyes drift casually toward Rex. “But, uh… I heard a very interesting conversation.”
Fives whispered, “Oh no.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You boys gossip more than the Senators.”
Rex looked like he might pass out. “I—we didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” You walked toward him, stopping just close enough to see the panic in his eyes soften into something gentler.
“I just figured I should say something before one of them exploded from holding it in.”
“Say what?” Rex asked, barely above a whisper.
You reached out, tugging lightly at the edge of his kama. “That I’m in love with you, too.”
The silence was immediate.
Then chaos.
“WHOOO—”
Fives dropped to the floor like he’d been sniped.
Jesse started clapping. “About time!”
“I am a trained medic,” Kix muttered, pointing at Rex. “And even I don’t know if his heart can take this.”
Rex was frozen, then slowly—so slowly—his expression melted into the softest smile you’d ever seen.
“…Really?” he asked.
You nodded, brushing your fingers against his gloved hand. “Really.”
He glanced at the others. “Do we… have to have this moment with them here?”
“Yes,” Fives said, still on the floor. “Yes, you do.”
You grinned, lacing your fingers with Rex’s. “Well, Captain? What do we do now?”
Rex looked at you like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.
“…I’m going to take you to get caf. And not drop my tray this time.”
And with your hand in his, he turned to the squad—flushed, proud, and finally not hiding anything.
Jesse saluted with two fingers. “Permission to say ’called it’?”
“No.”
“Denied,” Fives chimed. “We’re saying it anyway.”
Cadet Echo, to Fives: It's okay to be sad, sometimes we need to let our feelings out, just let yourself be sad.
99: Oh that's so lovely, well done. Why is he crying?
Echo: I hit him.
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