“I Think They Call This Love”

official elon musk hate post reblog to hate like to hate reply to hate

Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx

“Permission to Feel”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.

No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.

You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.

But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.

And failing.

The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.

You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.

But you couldn’t stay in this room.

Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.

Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.

You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.

But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”

He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”

He was already opening his arms before you finished.

You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.

Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”

You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.

Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”

“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.

“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.

“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”

You blinked. “What?”

Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”

Your heart stuttered.

Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”

You looked at them. Really looked.

These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.

You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.

“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.

Wrecker never stopped holding you.

He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”

That simple.

You can just stay.

And so you did.

You stayed.

Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).

Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.

You drifted off like that.

Not in your quarters.

Not alone.

But safe, for once.

Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.

Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao

I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling

“You’re What?!”

501st x Reader

You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.

“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.

You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.

“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.

“Fine. Just tired.”

Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.

That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.

The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.

“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Fives blinked. Then frowned.

“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”

And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.

“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”

“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”

“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.

“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.

Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.

“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.

“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.

Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.

“Is this true?”

You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”

Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”

He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”

The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.

⸻

Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.

“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.

“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.

Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”

“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”

Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”

Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”

You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”

Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”

Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”

“…It’s a cold, sir.”

“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”

By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.

And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?

There was a banner.

“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”

Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.

Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.

Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”

“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.

“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”

Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You might be cold.”

Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.

Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”

Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”

At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.

Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”

“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”

“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”

Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”

“…Why are there six different bowls?”

“We all made you soup.”

“I am not eating six soups.”

“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”

You were 80% sure he made that up.

That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.

“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”

There was even a checklist on your locker:

• No dying

• No hiding symptoms

• Tell Kix everything

• At least try to act mortal

You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.

You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.

You weren’t just better.

You were home.

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

“Grizzer’s Choice”

Sergeant Hound x Reader

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

Grizzer.

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

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

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

“[Y/N]?” he asked, voice clipped.

“Yes, sir. Reporting for assignment.”

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

Not exactly a welcome mat.

You nodded. “Understood.”

He turned on his heel and led you inside.

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

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

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

You obeyed without hesitation.

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

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

Hound blinked.

“He doesn’t do that,” he muttered.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Boots echoed behind you.

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

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

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

Silence lingered. But not heavy this time. Companionable.

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

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

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

A beat passed.

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

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

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

Hound looked at you.

Not sharply. Not critically.

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

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

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

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

Another pause. A flicker of something in his gaze.

“That’s rare in this job,” he added.

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

Hound stared at the massiff, then at you again.

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

You raised a brow.

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

You didn’t respond.

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

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

The kind of quiet soldiers earned, not feared.

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

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

You turned toward him slightly. “Ruin what?”

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

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

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

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

A breath passed.

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

And you leaned in, too.

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

Then—

“Sergeant.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy that.”

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

“Call off your mutt,” Fox said sharply.

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

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

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

Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same.

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

You broke the quiet first. “Almost.”

He nodded, quiet.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

Grizzer huffed.

Hound gave the massiff a rare half-smile.

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

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

⸻

You were still awake.

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

When the outer hatch hissed open, your breath caught.

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

It was Grizzer.

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

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

You were already moving.

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

Hound didn’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hound looked up at you.

Not guarded this time. Not assessing. Just looking.

“You stayed up,” he said.

“I said I’d wait.”

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

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

He exhaled.

Then you leaned into him.

And he kissed you.

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

Then—

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

You laughed, breathless. “You little saboteur.”

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

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

“Oh for kriff’s—”

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

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

The door hissed shut again behind him.

Silence.

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

“At least it wasn’t Fox.”

You smiled. “I’ll take it.”

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

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

Not this time.

Hi! I don’t know if you’re doing requests, if not ignore this. I love your writing! My request would be bad batch x Jedi!reader( can be gen) where it’s their reaction to you having to save them and do a bunch of cool badass force moves to get to them. 🩷

Absolutely— I will gladly take any request x

I hope you enjoy this, I kinda went off on my own little world at the end.

⸻

Title: “About Time You Showed Up”

Bad batch x Jedi!Reader

The op was supposed to be simple: get in, grab the intel, get out.

So naturally, it was a disaster by hour two.

The Bad Batch was cornered inside a decrepit refinery complex, hunkered behind a wall of overturned crates as blaster fire lit up the air. Explosions cracked the walls. Wrecker was bleeding. Tech’s datapad was sparking. Crosshair was out of ammo.

Hunter muttered a curse. “We need backup. Now.”

Crosshair scoffed. “You mean the Jedi?”

“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing,” Tech said, wincing as he adjusted his shattered goggles. “They are highly efficient warriors, after all.”

“Well, ours is late,” Echo gritted, shielding Wrecker with a dented durasteel panel. “And I don’t think those guys outside are going to politely wait for her.”

Then, like the Force heard them bickering—

The air dropped a few degrees.

The wind shifted.

And then the main door of the facility exploded inward—not from detonite or a charge, but like something had pushed it in with terrifying, silent power.

Smoke billowed.

And out of it stepped you.

Cloak trailing behind you, lightsaber already humming in your hand, you walked into the chaos like you were late to a dinner party—not a battlefield.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, lifting your hand.

Three enemy droids shot into the air like ragdolls, slammed into a pipe overhead, and sparked out. “Had a bit of traffic.”

Wrecker blinked. “That… was awesome.”

Hunter stared as you leapt forward, deflecting blaster bolts without looking. “Remind me never to complain about Jedi again.”

You moved like a shadow. One second you were blocking a shot, the next you were throwing your saber, calling it back mid-spin, flipping off a wall, and dragging a pair of guards toward each other with the Force so they knocked heads and dropped.

“Show off,” Crosshair muttered, but there was something weirdly close to admiration in his tone.

“Excuse me?” you called as you force-pulled a turret off its base and crushed it into a ball. “You want to do this next time, sharpshooter?”

“I mean… I wouldn’t mind the view,” Crosshair said under his breath.

Tech, oddly calm amid the chaos, adjusted his goggles with a broken-off screw. “Fascinating. You manipulated five separate Force events within a span of—”

“I’ll send you a diagram later!” you called.

You sliced the control panel, opened the bulkhead, and gestured. “Come on, boys. I’m not babysitting this op all day.”

Hunter helped Wrecker to his feet. “That was… intense.”

Echo gave you a half-grin. “We’d be dead if you hadn’t shown.”

“You would be,” you said smugly. “Good thing I like you.”

“Is that a Jedi flirting?” Crosshair drawled. “Should I be worried about a lightsaber through my chest or a date?”

You raised a brow. “Depends. Are you always this cocky, or is it the blood loss talking?”

Crosshair smirked. “You tell me.”

As the team jogged after you, Tech whispered to Echo, “I believe this is what organic beings refer to as ‘tension.’”

“You think?” Echo grinned, ducking blaster fire as you launched an enemy into a vat of molten ore with a flick of your hand.

“Let’s save the flirty quips for after we’re not being shot at,” Hunter grumbled—but he wasn’t exactly not smiling.

You stopped mid-run, looked over your shoulder, and grinned. “Then pick up the pace, boys. You can flirt after we survive.”

⸻

The air inside the safehouse was still hazy from Wrecker’s attempt at cooking, and someone had definitely patched Crosshair’s blaster wound with duct tape and attitude.

But everyone was alive. And that was saying something.

You were seated cross-legged on a crate, calmly cleaning your lightsaber with the kind of peace only someone who had deflected about 200 blaster bolts could muster. The Force hummed around you, quiet but alert.

Hunter dropped onto the floor nearby, arms resting on his knees. “You always fight like that?”

You looked up, raising a brow. “Like what?”

“Like gravity doesn’t apply to you and you’re mad at every object in a ten-meter radius.”

You grinned. “Only when people I care about are in trouble.”

Crosshair, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “So, you do care.”

“Don’t get excited,” you teased. “I’d do the same for my hydrospanner.”

Wrecker burst out laughing while Crosshair smirked like he’d just been promoted.

Echo, who was calmly running diagnostics on his arm, chimed in: “I don’t know. I think you’ve got favorites.”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

Tech looked up from where he was scanning his datapad, eyes sharp behind his cracked goggles. “You know, from a technical standpoint, some of your techniques—particularly the telekinetic manipulation mid-flight—could be extremely beneficial in combat.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying you want to train with me, Tech?”

He cleared his throat. “For research purposes, of course.”

Echo leaned back against a support beam. “I wouldn’t mind a session or two either. Might pick up a move or two that doesn’t involve being thrown across a battlefield.”

“I think I should go first,” Hunter said mildly. “Since I’m the one who has to keep all of you alive.”

Wrecker raised a hand. “Hey, I want to train with the Jedi too!”

You looked around at all of them. “Let me guess… you all want to train now?”

“Better than watching Crosshair try to flirt,” Echo muttered.

“I don’t flirt,” Crosshair said flatly.

“You stared at their hands for five minutes straight,” Hunter pointed out.

Crosshair didn’t deny it. “They’ve got good saber grip. It’s tactical.”

You smirked and slowly stood, clipping your saber back to your belt. “Alright. We’ll start tomorrow. One at a time. You’ll get a feel for the Force, and I’ll see who whines the least when they land flat on their back.”

“I never whine,” Crosshair muttered.

“Good,” you said with a wicked grin. “You’ll be first.”

Wrecker fist-pumped. Tech adjusted his datapad like it was a test. Echo and Hunter shared a look that said, We’re all going to die.

You stretched your arms and turned to leave.

“Oh,” you added over your shoulder. “And if you’re all so eager to get closer to the Force… don’t forget it can read minds.”

Five men froze. Completely.

You didn’t have to look to know exactly which ones had immediately panicked.

Yeah. You were going to have fun with this.

⸻

You stood in the middle of the field, arms crossed, calm as ever.

The Bad Batch lined up in front of you like misbehaving cadets at a very weird summer camp. Wrecker was bouncing on his heels. Crosshair looked bored already. Echo was trying to focus. Tech was holding a notebook. And Hunter—Hunter was watching you like he was trying to anticipate your every move. Again.

“Alright,” you said, voice light. “Rule number one: you are not Force-sensitive. So stop trying to feel it. You’ll just give yourself a migraine.”

Tech quietly lowered his fingers from his temple and put his notebook away.

“Instead,” you continued, pacing in front of them like an instructor, “we’re going to focus on reflexes, awareness, and how not to swing a lightsaber into your own leg.”

Wrecker raised his hand. “Wait—do we get lightsabers?”

You blinked. “Do you want to lose an arm?”

Wrecker grinned. “Kinda depends on the story I can tell after.”

Echo muttered, “Maker help us.”

You tossed a training baton at Crosshair, who caught it one-handed with zero enthusiasm.

“Let’s see how you handle this, sharpshooter,” you said, smirking. “Try to block me.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a magic trick to win a duel.”

You raised your training blade. “That’s cute. Try to last thirty seconds.”

What followed was the most stubborn, cocky, and utterly chaotic sparring session you had ever experienced.

Crosshair lasted eighteen seconds. He blamed the sun.

Hunter was fast, perceptive, and nearly knocked you off your feet once, but then got distracted when you smiled at him. He never admitted it.

Echo was calculated but got annoyed when you used a Force push to trip him mid-roll. “Not fair,” he growled, flat on his back.

“I told you I’d use it,” you shrugged.

Tech kept trying to guess your next move based on logic. Unfortunately, you were using the Force. And chaos.

“I have a theory,” he said, face-down in the grass.

“I’m sure you do.”

Then came Wrecker.

“Alright,” he said, grinning like a kid about to break a toy, “gimme your best shot.”

You dodged his first three swings. The fourth came very close.

“Easy, big guy,” you huffed, ducking under his arm. “This is training, not deathmatch—”

“Oops!” Wrecker slipped on a rock, stumbled forward, and you had to Force-jump to avoid being pancaked. You landed behind him, breathing hard.

“That was… impressive,” you managed.

“Did I pass?” he asked, hopeful.

“Pass? You almost Force-chucked me into next week!”

“Cool.”

Later, as the group collapsed in a sweaty, bruised heap under a tree, you sat cross-legged nearby, sipping from a canteen.

“I’ll admit,” you said with a sly grin, “you’re all… slightly less hopeless than I expected.”

“High praise,” Echo muttered.

Crosshair lay back, arms behind his head. “So when’s the advanced class?”

You tossed a pebble at his head. “Never.”

Tech looked up from scribbling notes. “I would still like to record your movement patterns. Possibly… for private analysis.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Private?”

Hunter cleared his throat, cutting in fast. “I’d be up for a meditation session. Just us.”

You blinked. “You meditate?”

“I do now.”

Wrecker sat up. “Wait, I want to meditate too!”

“No, you don’t,” Echo sighed.

You lay back in the grass beside them, arms tucked under your head, eyes half-closed. “You know… for a bunch of non-sensitive, chaos-wielding commandos… you’re not so bad.”

Crosshair, eyes closed, smirked. “Careful, Jedi. Keep talking like that, and we might start thinking you like us.”

You smirked back. “I do like you. I just like kicking your asses more.”

Hi! I saw you took requests and I was wondering if you could do a Command Squad x Fem!Reader where she’s a general but not because she’s a Jedi but because she actually served in wars before this and they want her respect and flirt with her. And of course any of your flourishes ;)

You’re the best! Xx

“Steel & Stardust”

Fem!Reader x Command Squad (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Neyo, Bacara, Gree, Bly, and Ponds)

⸻

You weren’t a Jedi. Never wore the robes, never had the Force. You didn’t need it.

Your command had been earned the hard way—blood, shrapnel, and scars in wars no one even bothered to archive anymore. When the Republic came knocking, you told them you didn’t serve causes—you served soldiers. And somehow, that landed you here.

Not in front of them. With them.

The elite. The best the Republic had to offer.

And from the second you stepped into that war room, every helmet turned your way. And when the helmets came off—yeah, that was a problem. Because they were all infuriatingly hot, and even worse, they knew it.

Cody was the first to speak, his voice calm, neutral, but his eyes sharp. “General. You’ll forgive the question, but… what exactly are your qualifications?”

You just smirked, tossing your old service jacket onto the table with a dull thud. “Two border wars, five urban insurgencies, and a ten-year campaign in the Outer Rim before the Jedi decided the galaxy needed saving. That enough for you, Commander?”

Wolffe snorted, amused. “She’s got more battlefield time than half the Jedi Council.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bacara grunted, arms crossed, voice gravelly. “Seen her file. Most of us got bred for war. She just never left it.”

“I like her,” Bly grinned, leaning on the table with a little too much casual charm. “Can we keep her?”

“Not like that, Bly,” Fox muttered, though he didn’t exactly disagree.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bly said with a wicked grin. “Yet.”

You sighed. “Are you always like this, or is it just when there’s a woman in the room who outranks you?”

Gree chuckled. “You outrank us technically. Not in spirit.”

Neyo hadn’t said a word yet, just stared at you like he was dissecting your tactical potential, or possibly imagining your funeral. Could go either way with Neyo.

Ponds gave you a respectful nod. “We’ve worked under a lot of Jedi. Not all of them know what they’re doing. We’d follow you, General.”

And that—that was what mattered.

⸻

You caught them watching you more often than not. In the field, in the war room, during briefings. It wasn’t just the usual soldier-to-general dynamic. No, it was different. Heat in Cody’s gaze when you gave orders. That glint in Wolffe’s eye when you called him out in front of the others. The way Fox lingered just a bit too long when you handed him back his datapad.

Even Neyo—cold, calculating Neyo—started standing just a little too close.

“You know they’re all trying to impress you, right?” Gree asked one night while you were cleaning your gear, his voice low and amused.

You didn’t even glance up. “Trying and failing.”

Bly leaned against your doorway. “Is that a challenge?”

⸻

After you saved their shebs in a firefight—ripping a blaster from a fallen commando and dropping six droids in twelve seconds flat—you were pretty sure something shifted.

They wanted your respect. You already had theirs.

But they wanted more.

So they fought beside you. Ate with you. Got protective in the field. Made excuses to talk to you after hours. Fought over who got assigned to your team. And every now and then… they flirted like it was a competitive sport.

Cody did subtle praise and brooding glances. Always has your back.

Wolffe. The grumpy softie. Pretends he hates you. Would kill anyone who hurt you.

Fox was stoic, but flirty in a dry, sardonic way. Deep down, he’s soft, but you’d have to earn it.

Neyo protective in a weird way. Doesn’t speak much but always notices when you’re off. Secretly touched you remembered his name.

Bacara extremely blunt, intense. A man of few words—but his loyalty is loud.

Gree slightly flirty and professional. Gives you space but always drops a line like, “You ever need a break, General… I know a place.”

Bly was shameless. Teases you endlessly but respects you deeply. Would absolutely fight anyone who disrespects you.

Ponds was quiet support. Loyal. Observes everything. The first one to ask how you’re doing when no one else notices.

And you?

You don’t fall easily. You’ve seen too much.

But if you were going to fall—

It might just be for one of them.

Or all of them.

⸻

79’s was already loud when you walked in. Music thrumming through your bones, the low hum of clone banter and laughter rising and falling like waves. You hadn’t planned to come here. You’d just wanted one damn drink. One moment not steeped in war, planning, or death.

You ran right into Commander Bly. Well, more like his chest.

“General,” he said, and the smile that bloomed on his face was entirely too pretty. He looked you over, gaze lingering just a little too long. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t,” you replied, stepping back. “Just needed to breathe.”

“You came to a GAR bar to breathe?” Gree chimed in from behind him, drink in hand and eyebrows raised. “You’re worse at relaxing than Fox.”

Speak of the devil—Fox was at the bar, sharp suit shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He lifted his glass in greeting and turned away to order another round. You could feel his eyes on you though, like a sniper sight you couldn’t shake.

“You here alone?” Bly asked, leaning against the wall like he knew what he was doing.

“I was,” you replied flatly.

“Tragic,” Gree said, stepping closer, voice smoother than it had any right to be. “This place is full of trouble tonight.”

“Is that what you are, Gree? Trouble?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Cody, Wolffe, Bacara, Ponds, and Neyo filtered in from the second level, coming down the steps like they were part of a slow-motion holodrama.

Cody looked you over once, eyes flickering to the drink in your hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” you replied, teasing, heat behind the words.

Wolffe smirked. “Too bad.”

Ponds gave a low whistle. “She’s gonna kill one of you tonight.”

“I volunteer,” Bly said without hesitation.

Bacara rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink, staring at you over the rim of the glass like he was thinking something entirely inappropriate—and probably correct.

And Neyo—stone-cold, unreadable—just nodded. “You clean up well, General.”

That made a few of them pause. Compliments from Neyo were about as rare as a Tatooine blizzard.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how the lights in the bar made everything seem lower, warmer, closer.

Fox appeared beside you without a sound, holding out a drink. “On me.”

You hesitated. “You trying to get me drunk, Commander?”

“If I were, I’d start with something stronger,” he said, voice low, his knuckles brushing yours as you took it.

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You might be starting something you can’t finish.”

“I always finish what I start,” Fox replied smoothly, dead serious.

The tension snapped tight like a tripwire.

Cody moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You should be careful with us, General.”

Wolffe stepped in next to him, eyes gleaming. “Or don’t. We like dangerous.”

Gree leaned in from the other side. “And we play well together.”

“You all are shameless,” you muttered, taking a sip just to hide your smirk.

“No,” Ponds said with a shrug. “Just very, very interested.”

You looked around—at eight sets of eyes, different in every way except one thing: they wanted you. Wanted to impress you, challenge you, make you forget—if only for one night—that the galaxy was falling apart outside these walls.

You downed the rest of your drink and smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, boys. Try and keep up.”

The night was just beginning.

The music had shifted. Slowed. Lower bass, seductive rhythm. Clone troopers were still everywhere, but the spotlight wasn’t on them anymore.

It was on you.

You hadn’t planned to be the center of the room, but when you started moving through the crowd—hips swaying just enough, eyes catching every glance—you had their undivided attention. Especially when Commander Bly snuck up behind you and took your hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, already guiding you onto the floor like he’d waited years for the excuse.

You let him.

Bly danced like he fought—confident, smooth, close. One hand gripped your hip, the other held yours. His gold armor was traded for casual blacks, but the heat rolling off him was all battle-born adrenaline and want.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured in his ear, “and I’ll start thinking you’re falling for me.”

He faltered—actually faltered. Blinked once, then twice.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “What’s the matter, Bly? Didn’t think I could flirt back?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You slipped away with a smirk.

Gree was next—casual, clever, always too smooth for his own good.

“Careful,” you said, nursing a drink beside him at the bar. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“Just wondering how someone like you keeps every commander in the GAR wrapped around your finger.”

You leaned in, gaze dark. “Who says I don’t already have you wrapped around mine?”

He choked on his drink.

You patted his back, sweet as sin. “I’ll be gentle.”

⸻

Fox looked like he was ready for a war crime when you sat beside him.

“I thought you hated attention,” you said, sipping from your glass.

“I do.”

“And yet,” you murmured, brushing your knee against his, “you keep watching me like I’m a damn threat.”

Fox’s eyes flickered. His jaw clenched. “You are.”

You leaned close. “Then do something about it.”

He looked away. Tight. Tense.

Flustered.

⸻

Neyo didn’t flinch when you approached—but his grip on his glass tightened when you laid your hand lightly on his chest.

“You don’t say much,” you whispered, “but I bet you think about me more than you should.”

His eyes were locked on yours. Still silent.

“You going to prove me wrong?”

He looked down, just for a second. Then turned and walked away—only to stop, just out of reach, and glance back like he wanted you to follow.

God, he was dangerous.

Ponds approached and gave you a smile like calm water hiding a riptide.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“I am now.”

You rested a hand on his arm, feeling the strength there. “You ever going to stop being the sweet one?”

His smile dipped just slightly, darker now. “Only if you ask nicely.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “What if I beg?”

He stared at you like you’d kicked him in the chest.

Bacara barely moved when you brushed his hand at the table, except for the twitch in his jaw.

“You don’t talk much either.”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

You tilted your head. “Then say something. Right now.”

Bacara met your gaze for a long, charged moment. Then—

“You’re dangerous.”

You smirked. “Took you that long to figure it out?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly needing a long drink.

⸻

Wolffe was already grumpy when you got to him, sitting in the corner like he’d rather be anywhere else—but the second you sat on the arm of his chair, his whole body went rigid.

“What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, playing with the edge of his collar. “You just always look like you want to throw me against a wall.”

He inhaled sharply. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I am.”

And just for fun, you kissed his cheek. Quick. Sharp. Possessive.

Wolffe went absolutely still. “You’re a menace.”

“You like that.”

⸻

Cody found you at the end of the night—when your guard was just a little lowered, your drink half-finished.

“You were playing us all along,” he said, leaning on the bar beside you, eyes burning.

“Not playing,” you replied. “Just reminding you who’s in charge.”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Then dance with me.”

You didn’t resist when he pulled you back onto the floor, slower this time. Closer.

“You like control,” he murmured in your ear.

You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Only when they’re strong enough to take it from me.”

Cody stared at you like he wanted to drag you out of the bar and ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d let him.

You hadn’t meant to start a war in 79’s—but then again, you’d never played fair, had you?

The music was sultry, all slow bass and sin. The lights were low. You’d been dancing with Cody for all of three minutes, and you could already feel the eyes on you. His eyes.

Fox had been brooding at the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching you like a hawk all night. You’d shared a moment earlier, sure—a drink, a brush of skin, words that lingered.

But now you were wrapped up in Cody.

Hands at your waist, lips near your ear, warm breath as he murmured, “You’re playing a dangerous game, General.”

You looked up at him, smug. “Only if someone plays back.”

Cody smirked. “Oh, I’m playing.”

He pulled you in tighter, hand trailing down your spine, and that was it—that was the trigger.

You didn’t see Fox at first—you felt him.

Storming across the floor like a man possessed. Controlled, measured fury wrapped in sleek civilian clothes. A few troopers nearby saw him coming and stepped aside like instinct told them don’t be in his way.

You barely had time to blink before—

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a blaster shot.

Cody’s hand stiffened at your hip. You turned slowly—heart pounding—to find Fox right in front of you.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Cody asked, tone calm but wary.

Fox didn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes were on you. “This what you came for?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “To play us against each other like it’s all some kind of game?”

You tilted your head, meeting his fury with wicked calm. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Commander.”

His hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but demanding. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you a step closer. “I’m not jealous.”

“No?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

“I’m done pretending you’re just another officer.” His voice dipped, raw and sharp. “I see you dancing with him like that and I want to put my fist through the wall.”

A slow hush had fallen across the floor.

You stepped into Fox’s space, bodies nearly touching. “So do something about it.”

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

His hand slid to your waist. Possessive. Hot. “Dance with me,” he ordered. Not asked. Ordered.

You could have said no.

But you didn’t.

You let him lead you back to the center of the floor, every trooper watching now, every step like a declaration. Fox danced like he wanted to erase Cody’s hands from your skin. He kept you close. Too close. The kind of close that whispered mine without ever saying a word.

“Next time,” he growled in your ear, “I won’t be so polite.”

You smirked against his neck. “That was polite?”

He held you tighter. “You haven’t seen me lose control yet.”

And part of you—twisted, wild, aching—wanted him to.

⸻

A/N

No idea where I was going with this tbh, think I went down my own little route and it ended up liked this 🫤

Hello! Can you do a bad batch x fem!reader where she’s been with them for a bit but they still have an outwardly showed her that they like her but they get close to her/touch her whenever they’re uncomfortable because she might smell/remind them of home(their ship) and she doesn’t really notice at first but when she does it’s all “aw you really do like me!”

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

You’d been traveling with Clone Force 99 for just long enough that your “guest” status had evolved into something more like “resident stowaway they couldn’t get rid of.” Not that you were complaining. The Marauder might not have been luxury living, but it was safe, the crew was (mostly) stable, and there was always something to laugh about—usually Wrecker tripping over his own boots or Tech getting roped into arguments with Gonk.

Still, there was a weird undercurrent to life aboard the ship.

They were… close. Physically. Constantly. And it wasn’t like they were trying to make you uncomfortable, but sometimes, you wondered if the entire squad had collectively decided you didn’t have a personal bubble. You’d turn around and find Echo right over your shoulder while you were cooking rations. Crosshair would sit beside you on missions when there were other seats available. Hunter always managed to casually lean his arm over the back of your chair during briefings. And Tech—sweet, literal, constantly-tapping-on-a-datapad Tech—had started borrowing your jackets when he got cold. Without asking.

You weren’t mad about it. Just… confused.

“Do clone squads not believe in personal space?” you muttered under your breath one evening, squashed between Echo and Wrecker on the narrow seating bench while Hunter briefed the team on their next mission.

“What’s that?” Wrecker asked, already distracted by trying to sneak some of the ration bar you’d left in your pocket.

“Nothing,” you grumbled, tugging it away from him. “Just wondering if elbows have to touch for squad cohesion.”

Echo gave you a slow side-eye and didn’t move away.

⸻

It wasn’t until the fourth night in a row that you found Tech asleep in your chair, legs propped on your bunk, datapad resting on his chest like a satisfied pet, that something in your brain started to itch. You stared at him from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

He stirred, blinked once, then sat up and blinked again like you’d startled him from a dream. “Oh. I—apologies. I must have dozed off.”

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

He looked genuinely confused. “I do. But yours is—warmer.”

You squinted. “Warmer?”

“It smells like… here.” He blinked. “Like the ship. Like the inside of the cockpit when we’ve been in hyperspace too long. It’s familiar. Soothing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “You mean it smells like me.”

“Yes,” he said easily, then added after a beat, “That was not meant to be an intrusive observation.”

You stared at him. “You fell asleep in my chair because I smell like the Marauder?”

“Yes. Precisely.” He paused. “It’s… comforting.”

It took you a full thirty seconds to connect that to the moment yesterday when Crosshair had leaned just a little too close while cleaning his rifle and muttered something about “the smell of ion grease and coffee,” or that time Hunter had caught your wrist absentmindedly and inhaled before letting go like nothing had happened.

You turned on your heel and went straight to the galley. Echo was there, pouring caf, looking sleep-deprived and deeply unrepentant.

“Do all of you use me like some kind of emotional support blanket?”

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You remind us of home.”

You blinked. “I live here. On the ship.”

“Yes, but… you smell like the inside of it now. You’ve been here long enough. You’re part of it.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

Later that night, you caught Wrecker curled up on your bunk, nose buried deep in your pillow. The image might’ve been cuter if it didn’t confirm every weird suspicion you’d had for weeks.

“Wrecker.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned, not even trying to move. “It smells like you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I like it.” He snuggled in further, like a massive, affectionate tooka. “Smells like the Marauder.”

You sighed, but your heart did something traitorous and warm.

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

“Hey,” came Hunter’s voice from the doorway, sounding suspiciously amused. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it?” You crossed your arms and turned toward him. “Because instead of telling me you liked me, you all decided to casually absorb my scent like loth-cats?”

Crosshair strolled past behind him, muttering, “Didn’t realize she’d catch on this fast.”

“I didn’t catch on! You basically rolled in my laundry!”

Tech emerged from the cockpit, pushing up his goggles. “To clarify, I merely borrowed your jacket.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction. “You napped in my scent.”

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

There was a long, awkward silence before Wrecker added cheerfully, “We just like you, that’s all.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden earnestness. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You make it feel like home.”

Hunter stepped closer, expression softening in that careful, deliberate way of his. “We didn’t know how to say it. You came into our lives like a storm and just… stayed. It got easier when you were here. Like we could breathe again.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes from the background. “You’re all terrible at subtlety.”

“I don’t think ‘sniffing my blankets’ qualifies as subtle.”

“Would it help,” Echo said slowly, “if we just admitted it properly?”

You stared at them—five elite clone troopers, all looking at you with some variation of awkward affection or hopeful confusion.

“You’re all idiots,” you said finally, grinning despite yourself.

“But… our idiots?” Tech offered, voice hopeful.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Fine. My idiots.”

Wrecker threw his arms up in celebration from your bunk, nearly taking out the overhead panel. “Knew it!”

“Shadows of Theed”

Boss (RC-1138) x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

“Your squadmates have distinct personalities,” you observed.

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

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

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

You nodded. “It’s commendable.”

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Boss nodded. “A welcome change.”

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

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

You smiled softly. “Always the soldier.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then—quietly—he said, “It’s strange.”

You turned to look at him. “What is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good different?” you teased softly.

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

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

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

He nodded once. “Same.”

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, it was enough.

“Brothers in the Making” pt.3

Command Squad x Reader

The fortress was carved straight into the mountainside — dark metal and cold stone, its towers punching through the mist like jagged teeth. Separatist banners snapped in the wind, and scout droids buzzed along the perimeter like angry insects.

You crouched with Obi-Wan behind a ridge just above the valley floor. The cadets were lined up beside you, low and quiet, eyes locked on the compound.

Anakin was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

“Alright,” you whispered, tapping your datapad. “I count four main patrol paths. One blind spot. Minimal aerial surveillance.”

Kenobi nodded. “We can use the cliffside tunnel. I’ve seen this kind of layout before — there’s usually an access vent leading into the communications wing.”

You turned to your boys. “No heroics. Stay behind cover, stick to the plan, and no loud noises. Got it?”

They all nodded.

Except for Bacara, who raised a hand like he had a question.

You narrowed your eyes. “If this is about blowing something up—”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“No loud noises.”

“Fine.”

Just as you leaned in to start your descent, a distant buzz and then a crash echoed from the other side of the fortress wall.

Everyone froze.

Obi-Wan sighed deeply. “That wasn’t us, was it?”

You didn’t answer — because right then, Anakin skidded down the slope, cloak half-burnt, covered in dust and grinning like an idiot.

“Hey!” he called, too loud. “Good news! I found a side entrance—”

A siren wailed.

Turrets rotated.

Searchlights snapped to life and started scanning the cliffs.

You turned, face blank. “Did you trigger an alarm?”

Anakin pointed behind him. “Technically? The droid did.”

Rex, next to you, groaned into his gloves. “We’re all gonna die.”

Kenobi was already getting up, lightsaber in hand, perfectly composed as chaos exploded below.

“Plans change,” he muttered. “We improvise.”

“Oh yes,” you said flatly, drawing your blaster. “Let’s all just improvise our way into a heavily armed Separatist base. That’s definitely how I planned to spend my day.”

He gave you a look as you both started moving down the slope.

“You know,” Obi-Wan said over the rising noise, “I never thought I’d see the day you would be the voice of reason.”

You ducked behind a boulder, covering the cadets as they followed in. “Yeah, well, someone has to be the adult while your Padawan’s off starting a land war with a power converter.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You could always take him. Add him to your little army of foundlings.”

You gave him a flat look. “I already have five too many.”

Behind you, Fox tripped over his own boots and nearly bowled into Cody.

Kenobi raised an eyebrow.

You added: “And they bite.”

————

Inside the base, it was colder than the mountain winds outside — all durasteel corridors and flickering lights, the buzz of power conduits echoing through the walls like a warning.

You crouched behind a support pillar as another pair of droid sentries clanked past. The group had slipped in through the broken emergency access hatch Anakin had accidentally discovered — half of it still smoldering from whatever he'd done to override the lock.

You turned to Obi-Wan in a sharp whisper. “Splitting up is a terrible idea.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your foundlings run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your cadets run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“Your kids,” he said smoothly. “And as you’ve reminded me — foundlings are expected to fight.”

You clenched your jaw. “They’re not ready for this.”

He met your eyes. “Neither were we, once.”

That stopped you cold.

He lowered his voice, just a touch. “They need the experience. He needs the responsibility.”

You looked across the corridor — to where Anakin was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to give the cadets some kind of whispered briefing. Bacara was clearly ignoring him. Wolffe already had a stun grenade in hand.

You exhaled through your nose. “If they die—”

“They won’t.”

You gave him one last glare, then looked back at the boys. “If anything goes wrong, scream.”

Fox raised a hand. “Like—?”

“I will hear you. I will end whoever hurt you. Just scream.”

The cadets nodded, suddenly a lot more serious.

Anakin gave a quick salute. “We’ll meet you back at the east exit.”

Obi-Wan glanced at you. “Shall we?”

You rolled your eyes and moved out, both of you slipping into the shadowed hallway like water down a blade.

———

Your part of the mission was quick and clean. Every step was coordinated — you swept forward through dark halls while Obi-Wan silently disabled security systems, his movements graceful and lethal.

You’d never worked with a Jedi like this before — and you had to admit, it was… oddly satisfying.

No words were wasted. He moved, you moved. You dropped a droid with a blaster shot, he caught its partner’s blaster arm mid-swing and twisted it clean off. The two of you cleared the detention block in under four minutes.

“Cell 14,” Obi-Wan said, checking the datapad he pulled from a guard’s belt.

You were already unlocking the panel.

Inside, the senator’s daughter was scared but unharmed — pale, dressed in rich fabric, bound at the wrists.

“I’ve got her,” you said, pulling her close and cutting the ties.

She stared up at you. “Who are you?”

You gave her a faint smile. “Someone your mother owes a drink.”

———

Elsewhere, it was less smooth.

Anakin’s plan — and you used the word plan very loosely — had apparently included sneaking into the droid depot and causing a “small, contained distraction.”

That turned into blowing up a weapons rack, stealing a tank, and getting stuck in a three-way chase down the hallway with spider droids, sirens, and Wolffe yelling, “I SAID I WASN’T GONNA BLOW ANYTHING UP, BUT THEN HE HANDED ME A DETONATOR—”

“I thought it was a flashlight!” Anakin shouted back.

Rex was clutching the controls of the tank like his life depended on it. Bacara was on top of the thing firing wildly and screaming gleefully. Cody and Fox were halfway hanging out of the hatch, shouting directions and laughing hysterically.

“THIS IS NOT STEALTH!” Fox screamed.

“I’M DISTRACTING THEM!” Bacara grinned. “DISTRACTION MISSION SUCCESSFUL!”

“DEFINITELY not ready,” you muttered, back with Obi-Wan as you made your way to the rendezvous.

You could hear the tank before you even saw them.

Obi-Wan glanced sideways at you with a completely straight face. “Would now be a bad time to say you were right?”

You stared at the smoke trail in the distance. “I hate you.”

———

The escape was… a mess.

They made it out, of course. Somehow.

With a half-destroyed tank rolling in front of the group as cover, explosions at their backs, and Anakin cheering like they’d just won a podrace, the cadets had sprinted across the canyon with blaster bolts chasing their heels.

You’d covered the senator’s daughter with your own body the whole way.

Kenobi had deflected shot after shot, graceful and impassive, the calm center of a storm.

Once they’d finally cleared the base and reconnected with the ship, you spent the first ten minutes pacing the ramp with your helmet tucked under your arm, muttering curses in three different languages.

Then, after a full headcount and emergency takeoff, you finally collapsed into a seat in the main hold.

Everyone was quiet.

Even Anakin.

The cadets sat in a circle, scratched and bruised, letting adrenaline drain from their systems. You watched them from your spot, arms crossed, boots heavy on the floor.

Cody was staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

Fox hadn’t said a word.

Bacara was still grinning, but it was thinner now.

You leaned forward, voice low. “You all did good.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to you.

“Not perfect. Not clean. But good,” you said, and your voice softened, just a touch. “You followed orders. You adapted. You survived.”

Wolffe swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor.

You stood, stepping forward, and placed a hand on the back of Cody’s neck — warm and grounding.

“You saw war today. The real thing. Not just drills. Not just training. And you all made it out.”

There was silence again.

Then Bacara mumbled, “Even if Skywalker tried to kill us all.”

“I heard that,” Anakin called from the cockpit.

“Good.”

You turned toward the boys again. “Rest up. You earned it.”

As they started to settle into sleep wherever they could — curled in corners of the hold, some using their packs as pillows — you moved quietly to the front of the ship.

Kenobi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the stars pass through the viewports.

“You think they’re alright?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He glanced at you. “They will be.”

You tilted your head. “So. What happened to your ship, exactly?”

He didn’t blink. “Mysterious failure.”

“Uh huh.”

“Sabotage, maybe.”

“Right.”

“Couldn’t possibly have been someone crash landing our ship.”

You sighed. “You Jedi are the worst.”

“I get that a lot.”

———

You hated the smell of Coruscant. Too clean. Too bright. Like chrome and false smiles.

But the senator’s estate was quiet, at least. High above the clouds, the landing platform was bordered by hanging gardens and silent droids, the building towering like a temple to wealth and secrecy.

You disembarked with the senator’s daughter at your side — safe, whole, and grateful.

The senator met you personally, eyes shining with relief. They pulled you into a tight embrace and whispered, “I owe you everything.”

Then they looked at your five cadets, lined up neatly and looking everywhere but directly at the senator.

“These boys…” the senator said slowly. “Are they—?”

You cut in smoothly. “Foundlings. Mine.”

A pause.

The senator raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. They’re… sharp. Disciplined.”

“Lucky genes,” you said, smiling coolly.

Behind you, Fox was mouthing don’t say anything at Wolffe, who was visibly biting his tongue.

The senator looked thoughtful. “You know… there may be a place for them in security, when the time is right. We could find funding. Official channels.”

Your blood went cold.

But you smiled anyway.

“I’ll think about it.”

The senator nodded, clearly meaning well — but clearly dangerous.

You filed it away. Another warning.

They were not ready to be seen.

Not yet.

That night, back on the ship, the boys sat on the floor around you again, waiting for your orders.

But you just looked at them — really looked at them.

Wolffe’s bruise under his eye. Rex’s busted knuckles. Bacara’s scraped cheek. Cody’s silence. Fox’s slumped shoulders.

You said nothing at first.

Then, softly: “You did good.”

Five sets of eyes flicked up.

You gave them a small nod. “Get some rest. More training tomorrow.”

“Yes, buir,” they all said at once.

And you didn’t correct them.

Not this time.

————

Kamino had never felt this quiet.

Rain still lashed against the glass corridors. The white lights still hummed. Clones still trained, marched, sparred. But the air carried a tension now — tight and sterile, like the Kaminoans were watching every step.

Because they were.

The cadets noticed it first.

Extra cameras in the mess hall.

Silent observers hovering near the training chambers.

One of the newer units mentioned being taken aside and scanned after sparring.

And then, there was the way the five field cadets were treated.

Rex, Cody, Bacara, Fox, and Wolffe.

They were whispered about now — envied, doubted, even resented.

Rex heard a pair of cadets muttering behind his back in the armory.

“Think they’re better than us.”

“Just ‘cause they left Kamino.”

Bacara caught a shove in the hallway.

Fox started training harder, angrier.

You noticed it — how they stuck close together now. A small, tight unit. Good for war. Bad for brothers.

You were in the middle of correcting Bacara’s form during a sparring drill when you saw Jango watching from the overlook.

He didn’t call out to you. Just tilted his head, a silent signal.

You followed.

He was leaning against the wall in a private corridor, arms crossed.

“They’re pissed,” he said, voice low and steady.

You didn’t need to ask who.

“The Kaminoans?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t like you taking your cadets off-world. Especially not without their approval. You rattled their control.”

You leaned your back against the wall, arms folded. “That was your idea.”

He huffed a short breath of amusement. “They’re already talking about locking down field excursions. Increased isolation protocols.”

Your jaw tensed. “They’re kids. Not droids.”

“They’re property,” he said bitterly. “According to Kamino.”

You looked down at the floor, teeth clenched.

“They’re more than that,” you muttered.

He gave you a look. “Then you better teach them to act like it. Before this place eats them alive.”

————

Later that day, it happened.

Two cadets shoved Fox after a sparring match. Said he thought he was too good for the rest of them now.

Fox didn’t fight back.

But Wolffe did.

Cody pulled him off before it escalated, but not before everyone saw.

The whole training floor went dead silent.

You walked into the middle of it.

And no one said a word.

You turned, looking around at all of them — rows of half-grown clones, armor scuffed, breath caught.

“Line up.”

They did.

All of them. Even the ones still panting from the fight.

You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under your arm, rain streaking down the windows behind you.

“I’ve been too soft on you.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

You raised your voice.

“I wanted you to feel like brothers. I wanted you to find your names. To find yourselves. But that doesn’t mean forgetting what you are.”

You started to pace, slow and sharp.

“You are soldiers. You are Mandalorian-trained. You are disciplined. And above all — you are loyal.”

A pause.

“Not to me. To each other.”

They watched you like they were trying to breathe your words in.

“This?” You pointed at the dried blood on Wolffe’s lip. “This jealousy? This division? It’s not strength. It’s weakness. And weakness gets you killed.”

You stopped walking, facing them head-on.

“I don’t care who went off-world. I don’t care who hasn’t earned a name yet. You are brothers. And from today on, the training gets harder. The drills get longer. The expectations rise.”

A long, steady beat.

“Earn your place. Earn your name. Earn each other.”

No one moved.

No one dared.

You dropped your voice just enough.

“This is your warning. Tomorrow — the real training begins.”

You turned on your heel and walked out.

Behind you, they stood taller.

Silent.

Together.

————

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