“Exactly Us”

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

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

“One Too Many”

Commander Cody x GN!Mandalorian Reader

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

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

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

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

Cody.

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

Like a man carrying an entire war on his back.

You liked him immediately.

You were reckless like that.

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

Then the liquor came out.

One drink turned into three. Three turned into seven.

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

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

Boil dared Cody to kiss you.

You dared Cody to marry you.

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

There was a chapel down the street.

A real one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should we… stop them?” Waxer hiccupped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long, stunned pause.

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

You blinked at him, grinning like an idiot.

Waxer whooped.

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

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

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

It was clumsy and a little sloppy and completely perfect.

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

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

You snorted, dizzy and stupidly happy.

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

Your head was killing you.

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

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

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

You remembered… the cantina.

Maybe some clones?

Drinks?

A lot of drinks.

And then — nothing. A void.

Total blackout.

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

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

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

Freedom.

Peace.

Hangover and all, at least you—

—CLANG.

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

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

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

You stared.

He stared.

Both of you looked equally horrified.

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell are you?” you demanded.

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

“Waxer,” you repeated flatly.

There was an awkward beat.

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

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

Waxer scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I… think I followed you.”

“Why?”

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

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

This was a nightmare.

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

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

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

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

You stared at him, ice sinking into your stomach.

“…A chapel?”

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

You nearly dropped your blaster.

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

Waxer gave you a once-over, squinting.

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

You shot him a look so poisonous he actually flinched.

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

You turned back toward the cockpit.

Waxer called weakly after you:

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

You groaned so loud it shook the bulkheads.

⸻

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

His mouth tasted like regret and sawdust.

His armor was half-missing.

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

He groaned, dragging himself upright, squinting around.

Where the kriff—?

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

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

Cody pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Where’s Waxer?” he croaked.

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

“…I thought he was with you?”

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

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

Cody scrubbed a hand down his face.

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

Total blackout.

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

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

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

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

Kenobi smiled, maddeningly unbothered.

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

Cody froze.

“…Sir?”

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

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

Cody’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“I… I what?” he managed.

Kenobi smiled wider.

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

Cody stared at him, stomach dropping through the floor.

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

Cody just stood there.

Brain utterly blank.

Marriage!?

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

His hands flew to his body, patting himself down.

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

He was married.

To someone.

He didn’t even know their name.

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

Boil popped his head back around the corner.

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

Cody’s eye twitched.

“Find him,” he growled. “Now.”

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

And Cody was going to kill them both.

⸻

Cody was stalking through the camp like a man possessed.

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

He jabbed at his comm unit again, teeth grinding.

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

The comm crackled — and finally, mercifully, connected.

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

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

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

Cody stiffened.

That voice—

Mandalorian accent. Rough from a hangover.

Unmistakable.

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

A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker.

Then some muffled shuffling.

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

“Uh… hey, Commander.”

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

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

“Waxer.”

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

Cody’s eye twitched violently.

“You’re with them?” he hissed.

Waxer coughed, clearly embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause.

Cody closed his eyes.

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

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

Cody opened his eyes.

Fine.

No choice.

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

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

The comm clicked off.

Cody lowered the device slowly, breathing through his nose.

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

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

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

Cody stared at him, hollow-eyed.

“That’s not comforting, sir.”

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

⸻

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

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

Every noise was too loud.

Every light was too bright.

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

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

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

Waxer scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

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

You made a wounded sound into the console.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was drunk!” you snapped.

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

You buried your face back into your arms.

Maker.

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

You groaned again.

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

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

You lifted your head just enough to glare again.

“Plan?”

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

You pointed a finger at him.

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

Waxer just smiled wider.

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

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

“You clones are a menace.”

Waxer chuckled.

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

You made a strangled sound.

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

Waxer grinned, shouldering his kit bag.

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

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

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

Commander Cody.

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

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

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

Cody stepped forward, clearing his throat.

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for it.

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

You gave him a flat look.

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

Cody cracked the faintest, tired smile.

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

You cocked your head, pretending to think.

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

For a half-second, Cody actually looked relieved.

You smirked.

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

Both you and Cody turned at the same time.

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

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

You and Cody blinked at him.

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

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

Silence.

Absolute, crippling silence.

You felt your soul leave your body.

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

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

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you blew out a breath.

“So,” you said hoarsely, “drinks?”

Cody stared at you.

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

“Please.”

Hi, me again! Could I request a comfort fic with either Rex, Fox, or Echo? This last week has been so hard with my depression- where everyday tasks, like getting ready for work, feel overwhelming. I love your stories; they are the literary equivalent of a mug of tea and a cozy blanket.

Thank you so much —it truly means the world to me. I really appreciate and am touched that my stories could bring a little comfort for you during a tough time. I hope the following is what you wanted and brings a bit of comfort xo

⸻

“Safe With You”

Echo x Reader

The hum of the Marauder was a soft lull in the background, like a lullaby Echo had never known he needed. You sat curled in a blanket on the makeshift bench-seat of the ship’s common area, half-asleep but unwilling to move to your bunk just yet. It wasn’t just the nightmares. It was the quiet loneliness that always settled too deep in your bones after the lights dimmed.

Footsteps echoed—soft but mechanical—and you already knew it was him.

Echo always walked like he didn’t want to be noticed. Like maybe the durasteel in his limbs made him take up too much space. But to you, he never felt like too much. He felt like safety.

“Can’t sleep again?” his voice was a quiet murmur, meant for you alone.

You opened your eyes and gave him a small, sheepish smile. “Was just… thinking.”

He tilted his head as he sat across from you, his cybernetic hand resting on the edge of the bench. “Thinking, huh? Dangerous pastime.”

“Yeah, well, I’m known for my recklessness,” you said, trying to joke, but it came out thin.

Echo’s eyes softened as he looked at you, shadows under his own eyes betraying he hadn’t had much rest either. The war had ended, but peace still felt like a foreign language.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he said gently, glancing down. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked a few times. No one had said that to you in a long time. Not like that. Not like they meant it.

“I’m tired of being strong all the time,” you admitted, voice small. “It’s like… the second I stop, everything I’ve been holding up comes crashing down.”

Echo didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he stood—tall, quiet—and crossed to your side. He sat down beside you on your bed, shoulder to shoulder, warm despite the metal. Without asking, he pulled the blanket over the both of you.

You leaned into him, and he let you.

“You don’t have to hold everything up,” he said, pressing his forehead gently to yours. “I’ve got you.”

Your breath hitched, and when your hand found his— you felt the weight of the world ease off your chest, even just a little.

“I feel safe with you,” you whispered.

Echo smiled, barely there but real. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft—like a warm blanket pulled over the both of you, tighter than the one wrapped around your shoulders.

Echo leaned into the wall behind him, tugging you along with him so that your head rested just over his heart. It beat steady under your cheek, a gentle rhythm that grounded you more than you expected.

“I used to hate the quiet,” he said, his voice low, like he was afraid to wake the stars outside the viewport. “When I was in the Citadel, then with the Techno Union… silence meant something bad was coming. I’d brace for pain, or for someone to take another piece of me away.”

Your arms tightened around his waist, your hand resting on the seam where flesh met metal.

“But now,” he continued, fingers lightly stroking your shoulder through the blanket, “it’s different. Now it’s just… peace. You make the silence feel safe.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded against him, letting his words settle into you like rain on parched ground.

A moment passed. Then another. Your breathing slowed, syncing with his. The last remnants of your anxiety started to unwind, like frayed threads being gently tucked away.

Echo shifted just enough to tilt your chin up with his fingers—so gentle it made your eyes sting.

“I know I don’t have much to offer,” he murmured. “Not like I used to. But whatever I have left… you can have it. All of it.”

Before you could answer—before you could even think to—he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Slow. Reverent. Like a promise.

You closed your eyes and let it linger, feeling the way his lips trembled just slightly, like he was holding back all the emotion he wasn’t sure he deserved to feel.

“You’re everything I need,” you whispered against his chest. “You always have been.”

He held you tighter, letting out a breath like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear that.

And for the rest of the night, you stayed there in his arms, wrapped in warmth, in safety, in the kind of love that didn’t demand anything but presence. The galaxy could wait.

For now, you were exactly where you belonged.

stop asking “is this good?” and start asking “did it cause emotional damage?” that’s how you know.

“Crossfire” pt.3

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

You weren’t supposed to be in the clones barracks.

But you rarely went where you were supposed to.

The corridors were quiet, the hum of the ventilation system steady in your ears. Most of the troopers were off-duty or deployed, leaving the barracks feeling like a ghost shell of itself. You moved like you belonged—fluid, confident, precise. The kind of presence that drew attention and made others question their instincts.

Then—

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice stopped you mid-step.

Commander Cody stood in the hallway, brow furrowed, arms crossed. His armor was half-off—pauldrons gone, chest plate open, undersuit exposed to the dim light. He looked tired. Suspicious.

And maddeningly attractive.

You offered him your best smile. “Missed the smell of plastoid and repressed emotions.”

Cody didn’t laugh. He didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

“I came to see a friend.”

“Name.”

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Commander Cody.”

Cody’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. “You vanished. No comms. No explanation.”

“And yet here I am,” you whispered, voice lower now. “Alive. Still on the right side… mostly.”

He stared you down. “You don’t belong in this sector.”

“You gonna arrest me?” you asked, chin tilted up, a faint challenge in your tone.

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

Silence. Charged and heavy.

He looked at you then—really looked. Not as a mission asset or potential threat. Just… you.

You took a step closer, reaching out and brushing your fingers against the edge of his unarmored shoulder. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t like when I do this?”

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

But he didn’t answer either.

And that said more than enough. You pulled your hand away from Cody slowly, leaving a ghost of heat behind.

“Still pretending?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

But when you turned to leave, his voice stopped you again.

“Don’t make me choose between you and the Republic.”

You paused.

Then, without looking back: “You might have to.”

⸻

Meanwhile – Jedi Temple, Council Chambers

Master Kit Fisto stood in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, expression solemn. “She’s not just reckless. She’s evasive. Deceptive. She’s manipulating soldiers. Getting close in ways that compromise their judgment.”

Mace Windu’s eyes were cold steel. “I’ve seen the reports. She shouldn’t have been on Teth in the first place. And then she vanishes with a Force-sensitive child?”

Yoda hummed, tapping his cane. “Proof, you lack. The Chancellor’s word, she has.”

Kit pressed forward. “I watched her outside 79’s. The way she moved. The way she spoke to the clones. She’s not interested in loyalty. She’s interested in influence.”

Obi-Wan, leaning forward, tapped the table gently. “I won’t pretend she isn’t… complicated. But she’s fought beside us. Risked her life for the Republic. There’s more to her than subterfuge.”

“She’s dangerous,” Mace said firmly. “And she has access to our inner circles through the Chancellor. That makes her a risk.”

“Or a tool,” Obi-Wan countered. “If used wisely.”

“A tool for who, I wonder,” Kit muttered.

Yoda’s eyes narrowed, deep in thought.

“The Chancellor’s friend, she is,” he murmured. “But in shadows, much hides. Watch her, we must.”

⸻

The smell of caf hung heavy in the air. Trays clattered, boots thudded, and clone chatter rose in a dull, tired murmur. The war never stopped—but moments like this made it feel like it slowed.

Rex sat at the edge of a table, arms crossed, a half-eaten ration bar forgotten on his tray.

Across from him, Kix, Fives, Jesse, and Tup were deep in a low conversation, and even though they weren’t exactly trying to hide it, the minute Kix glanced Rex’s way, the silence tightened.

He noticed.

“What?” Rex asked flatly, his tone already edged.

Kix looked reluctant. Jesse grimaced. Fives looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Tup leaned forward and said it bluntly: “She was here last night. Sector C-9.”

Rex’s spine straightened. “What?”

“Commander Cody’s floor,” Kix clarified, stirring his caf. “No clearance. No escort. Just… strolled in.”

“Unannounced,” Jesse added, a bit more cautiously. “Didn’t cause trouble, but still. It’s odd.”

“She’s got a pattern,” Tup said. “Getting close to officers. Playing coy. Smiling at everyone like she knows a secret.”

Fives grinned. “I’d let her manipulate me.”

“Of course you would,” Kix muttered.

“She’s a distraction,” Tup continued. “And a dangerous one. What’s she even doing here again? She’s not military.”

“She’s useful,” Jesse countered. “She’s worked with us before. She gets results.”

“She disappears without a trace and comes back with clearance from the Chancellor,” Kix said quietly. “No chain of command, no protocol. It’s off.”

Rex didn’t speak for a moment, staring down at his tray like it held answers.

Then, softly: “Where is she now?”

Fives looked up from his drink, smirking. “Why? Planning on asking Cody?”

Rex stood up without another word.

⸻

You were leaning against the rusted edge of a shipping container in the lower levels, checking a concealed blaster’s sight when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Didn’t know I needed a guard dog,” you said without looking. “Let me guess—Cody ratted me out?”

“You were in the barracks,” Rex said.

You turned to face him, expression unreadable. “I was.”

“Why?”

You met his stare. “Why do you care?”

Rex’s jaw clenched. “Because I don’t know what side you’re playing anymore.”

You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Does it bother you that I was with Cody? Or that you weren’t the one I came to see?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” you said, stepping closer. “You liked it better when I was gone.”

“I liked it better when I trusted you.”

The space between you was close now. Tense. Alive.

“I never asked for your trust, Captain,” you whispered. “But you gave it. And now you’re scared you’ll have to take it back.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stepped back.

“Stay away from my men,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head. “Or what?”

“You won’t get another warning.”

Then he turned and left.

You watched him go, pulse steady, mask in place—but somewhere beneath it, something twisted just a little tighter.

⸻

Mace Windu stood before a star chart, arms folded, as Kit Fisto entered and closed the door behind him.

“She’s sowing division among the clones,” Kit said without preamble. “I’m hearing it from troopers. Rumors. Questions.”

“Even Skywalker’s men?”

“Especially them.”

Mace nodded grimly. “She’s destabilizing morale.”

“Yoda still thinks she may serve a purpose.”

“He’s wrong,” Mace said. “The Chancellor’s got her in his pocket. She’s not our ally—she’s his spy.”

“And if she’s in the field again?” Kit asked.

Mace’s eyes narrowed.

“We keep watching. And when she slips—we move.”

⸻

The city outside glowed gold with the rising sun, but inside the Chancellor’s office, everything felt cold and deliberate. You stood still as Chancellor Palpatine circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth as silk.

“There’s a mission,” he said. “One only you can be trusted with.”

She didn’t flinch. “Who’s involved?”

“Master Windu. General Kenobi. Their men. You will join them as my personal attache.”

A pause.

“Officially, you’ll be assisting in clearing the last remnants of a Separatist stronghold on Erobus,” he continued. “Unofficially, there are certain… elements beneath the facility I want destroyed without the Jedi ever knowing they existed. Do you understand?”

She nodded once. “And if they suspect me?”

He gave a soft, chilling smile. “Then perhaps it is time they learned to trust my allies. You will prove yourself invaluable.”

She didn’t like it. She rarely did. But she knew better than to argue.

⸻

The dropship roared through Erobus’s dead sky. Wind carried the smoke of a long-dead battlefield. The reader sat apart from the Jedi and the clones, her gaze fixed out the narrow viewport.

General Kenobi was in quiet conversation with Commander Cody. Windu sat in silence, fingers steepled in meditation. The clones around her — the 212th — watched her like she was an animal in a cage. Not openly hostile. Just… unsure.

She didn’t blame them.

“Never thought we’d see you again,” Cody muttered as he walked past her toward the front. “You just have a habit of showing up where things are about to explode?”

She smirked. “And you have a habit of being too pretty for your own good.”

He raised a brow but kept walking.

Windu had acknowledged her presence with a nod. Kenobi had raised a brow, but said nothing. This time, there was no need to pretend. She was here by Palpatine’s orders—but acting as if she belonged among them.

They moved quickly, carving through what little resistance remained. The reader fought without flourish—blasters precise, movement efficient, lethal. She noticed how Windu watched her more than he watched the enemy. Not with distrust. With… calculation.

The mission moved fast. She fought alongside the Jedi and the troopers, not quite one of them, but not an outsider either. Not anymore.

She planted explosives in corridors no one else entered. Disabled systems no one else noticed. And when Windu asked too many questions, she deflected with just enough truth to keep suspicion from blooming.

She was the perfect tool.

When the fighting ended and the skies were silent again, the group began regrouping for departure.

But Windu stayed behind.

She stood at the edge of the rubble, arms crossed, staring at the still-burning wreckage. Windu approached silently, his presence calm and weighted.

“You were too comfortable in there,” Windu said.

She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You knew where to strike. What to look for.”

“And?”

His gaze sharpened. “And you’ve done this before.”

She hesitated.

Then said, “I’ve done a lot of things.”

He studied her. Then, in a voice low and almost too calm: “Why do you work for him? Palpatine?”

She didn’t blink. “Because I’m too afraid not to.”

That stunned him — not because she said it, but because of how honest it was.

“You hesitated,” he said simply.

She glanced at him, unbothered. “I’m always hesitant when explosives are involved.”

She exhaled, the smoke curling from the wreckage catching in the light. “The clones… they trust blindly. They don’t see the game being played around them. They deserve better.”

Windu’s voice was low. “So why play the game?”

She was quiet for a moment, then: “Because I’m not brave enough not to.”

Windu stepped closer. “The Chancellor—does he own your fear?”

She met his eyes, finally lowering her hood. “He owns everyone’s fear. I just know better than to pretend otherwise.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

Then Windu said, “You care about them. The clones.”

“I care about them,” she added quietly. “The clones. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Windu was silent for a long time. “Then maybe you’re not the threat we thought you were.”

“But I still am a threat,” she said, soft and sharp.

He didn’t argue. “So is everyone these days.”

They stood side by side, the flames crackling around them. For the first time, Windu didn’t look at her like she was a threat. He looked at her like someone caught between survival and sacrifice—like he understood.

Finally, he said, “Let’s get back.”

As they walked toward the ship, the reader didn’t look back. But deep down, a new kind of fear was blooming—because for the first time, someone from the Council believed in her.

And she didn’t know how long she could keep surviving if that belief ever turned to betrayal.

⸻

The storm had passed, but the sky was still dark.

Republic shuttles hummed, crates clanged, clone troopers barked orders as the camp disassembled around her. The reader stood near the edge of the landing pad, helmet in one hand, half-listening to the static on her comm.

“Classified orders from the Chancellor.” That’s what the officer had said. “Immediate departure. Debrief in person.”

She should’ve walked straight to the shuttle. But she lingered. And he found her.

Cody.

He walked up slow, arms crossed, boots crunching gravel beneath him. His armor was dusted in ash and plasma scarring. She glanced at him but didn’t speak first.

“I figured you’d disappear again,” he said.

“Still might.”

He nodded. “You always do.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just… tired honesty.

She looked up at him fully then. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know what to trust,” he replied, voice low. “You fight beside us. Then vanish. You show up under the Chancellor’s banner with Jedi clearance and secrets you don’t share.”

“I’m doing what I was asked to do.”

“By him.”

She stepped closer. “If I was working against you, you’d already be dead, Cody.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re on our side.”

Silence fell between them, heavy as armor.

“I’m not the enemy,” she said finally.

“No,” Cody said, his eyes locked on hers. “But you’re not really one of us either.”

She looked away first. Her jaw clenched, throat dry. “I didn’t come here to explain myself.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

But as she turned to go, his voice followed her — quieter this time, almost uncertain:

“You care about the men. I see that. But whatever it is you’re caught in… don’t let it destroy you.”

She stopped, just for a second. Looked back over her shoulder, the weight of unspoken words between them.

“Too late,” she said.

Then she walked away, boarding the shuttle bound for Coruscant — bound for the Chancellor.

And Cody stood there long after she was gone.

⸻

The doors hissed shut behind her, sealing out the sounds of the city. Inside, the chamber was dim, silent, and airless—more a tomb than an office.

Chancellor Palpatine stood alone by the wide viewport, hands folded behind his back. The galactic skyline stretched endlessly beyond him, golden and glittering, but he never looked at it. His gaze was fixed far beyond, somewhere the reader couldn’t see.

She approached without speaking. She knew better.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“You completed your task on Erobus.”

“Yes.”

“And General Windu now believes you to be… sincere.”

“More or less.”

He turned to face her, that ever-calm expression carved into something unreadable. His voice stayed velvet-smooth.

“And yet I’m hearing troubling things. From the Temple. From officers in the field. About your behavior.”

Her brow lifted. “My behavior?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Your… fondness for them. Particularly certain commanders.”

A silence settled between them.

He stepped closer.

“They are tools,” he said, tone soft but cold beneath. “Weapons. Instruments of war. Their purpose is clear. Yours is not.”

She straightened slightly. “I care about them.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A mistake. One that risks unraveling everything I’ve placed you into position to accomplish.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve done enough to sow doubt,” he snapped, his voice a sudden blade. “Among the Jedi. Among the troops. You’re being watched. And unless you want to be removed from this game completely, you will stop.”

He let the silence linger, then added with that familiar, venom-wrapped charm:

“No more flirting. No more attachments. No more secrets from me.”

She met his gaze. “You put me in the middle of this war like I’m a pawn.”

“You’re not a pawn,” he said. “You’re a scalpel. Sharp. Precise. And replaceable, if dulled.”

Her jaw clenched. But she said nothing.

He studied her a moment longer, then turned back to the window.

“You’ll be summoned soon. Another operation. One that cannot afford distraction. Stay focused, my dear. Or next time I will send someone else.”

She left without another word, the cold of the chamber clinging to her bones.

⸻

Sunlight filtered through the vast windows, casting long rays across the silent chamber. The Jedi Council had assembled in full, tension clinging to the space like smoke.

Obi-Wan stood near the center, arms tucked into his robes. Kit Fisto paced with measured steps, green tendrils swaying. Luminary Unduli remained seated but rigid, her eyes dark and sharp. Mace Windu watched all of them, silent but alert.

Chancellor Palpatine stood calmly before them, hands folded, robed in deep crimson. The ever-smiling face of the Republic.

“We have reason to believe she’s gone underground,” Kit said at last, stopping mid-step. “Not just off-world—off-grid. She’s not been seen on Coruscant in days.”

Yoda’s ears lifted slightly. “Certain, are you?”

“She hasn’t reported in to her handler. Even the Chancellor can’t locate her,” Obi-Wan added, glancing at Palpatine.

Palpatine smiled thinly. “She works alone. That’s her strength. She’s unpredictable, yes, but not disloyal.”

“With respect, Chancellor,” Ki-Adi-Mundi interjected, “you yourself said her role was to assist the Jedi and the Senate. If she’s acting without instruction, she may no longer be operating in the Republic’s best interest.”

Palpatine’s smile didn’t falter. “She has always completed her missions. Always served the Republic’s cause—even if her methods were… unconventional.”

“She disappears when it suits her,” Luminary said coolly. “We do not know her true allegiance.”

“Nor her past,” Kit added. “Only that she is dangerous. Charming, yes. Tactical. But too close to too many of our clone officers.”

A silence fell again—this time heavier.

“She has gained the respect of some among us,” Mace finally said. “She confided in me. Her concern for the clones felt genuine.”

“And yet,” Kit said, “she manipulates that very concern to gain access and loyalty. I have seen it.”

Palpatine’s expression darkened slightly. “She has been instrumental in your victories. On Teth. On Erobus. She has risked her life for your cause, and for mine.”

“She serves your purpose, Chancellor,” Luminary said carefully. “But does she serve ours?”

Yoda’s voice cut through the room, quiet and calm. “Much we do not see. Dangerous, it is, to distrust allies too easily. But more dangerous still to trust without clarity.”

Palpatine exhaled slowly, placing his hand over his heart. “When she returns—and she will—you’ll see where her loyalties lie. Until then, I advise patience.”

The Council murmured among themselves. Some nodded. Some frowned. Some, like Kit Fisto and Ki-Adi-Mundi, exchanged long, skeptical glances.

The meeting dissolved soon after, but the air remained heavy with unease.

And somewhere far beyond Coruscant’s towers and temples, the reader moved unseen, far from both Jedi and Chancellor.

⸻

The bar was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Clones leaned against the counter, some still half-dressed from field drills, others fresh from debriefs, beer and synth-whiskey in hand. Laughter echoed in pockets. But the air carried something else too—unease.

Rex sat at a table near the back, helmet on the seat beside him. Cody dropped into the chair opposite, his brow drawn tight. They both had the look of men who’d been chasing shadows.

“She’s not answering her comms,” Rex muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Not to me, not to anyone.”

“Chancellor doesn’t know where she is either,” Cody said under his breath. “I checked through back channels. Even her client records went dark.”

Rex leaned back. “This isn’t like her.”

Cody didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tabletop for a beat too long. Then:

“Isn’t it?”

That hit Rex like a shot to the ribs. He sat up straighter. “What are you saying?”

“She’s not one of us, Rex. You know that. She comes and goes. Answers to people we don’t even see. And half the time, she’s in our barracks or our war rooms like she belongs there.”

“She helped us.”

“She also got close to a lot of us. Real close.”

Rex scowled. “You jealous?”

Cody shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Jesse dropped into a nearby seat, nursing a bruised jaw and a half-drained bottle. “You two talking about her again?”

“We’re trying to figure out where she is,” Rex said.

“Probably off charming someone new,” Jesse smirked. “Girl like that doesn’t disappear unless she’s got a good reason. Maybe she’s doing something for the Chancellor again.”

“Or for herself,” Cody said darkly.

Fives leaned in from the next table, ever the one to eavesdrop. “I heard she was seen boarding a Separatist freighter.”

“What?” Rex snapped.

“Some civvie transport crew in the outer systems. Said they saw someone matching her description getting on with a kid. Republic IDs, but separatist ship. Weird, right?”

Kix joined them, arms folded. “That’s not all. Some of the 212th are saying she had unrestricted access to classified battle plans. And now she’s vanished. Doesn’t look good.”

“Dangerous woman,” Tup murmured from the side. “Real dangerous. She’s been playing the long game. With us. With the Jedi. Maybe even the Chancellor.”

“She’s not a manipulator,” Rex growled. “She’s not the enemy.”

But his voice wavered for the first time.

Cody looked at him—hard, quiet.

“I want to believe that too, vod. But she didn’t just disappear. She chose to.”

A long silence fell over the table.

In the corner, Fives just smirked. “Hot, though. Definitely hot.”

Everyone groaned.

But beneath the laughter, doubt ran deep.

And in the back of Rex’s mind, a seed had been planted. One he couldn’t shake.

⸻

There was a kind of quiet in hyperspace she never got used to.

It wasn’t silence—ships hummed, wires buzzed, engines thrummed low like a heartbeat. But it was a strange, hollow quiet. The kind that filled the space behind your ribs when you were running from something, but didn’t know what yet.

She leaned back in the pilot’s seat, one leg propped on the console, the other jittering restlessly beneath her. The co-pilot’s chair beside her was tilted back, a blanket bunched across it, and a sleeping kid tucked beneath it—her “asset,” according to the encrypted file the Chancellor had burned into her comms a month ago.

Force-sensitive. About eight. Big eyes. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her nervous.

She hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t offered one.

He just followed her like a shadow, never crying, never resisting. He watched her like he was trying to memorize her—every twitch of her fingers, every sigh she let slip when she thought he wasn’t listening. Sometimes, she felt like he was the one babysitting her.

It should’ve made her skin crawl. Instead, it just… got under it. Slipped in sideways. Left a permanent chill.

She was supposed to wait for new instructions. No contact. No Republic. Not even the Chancellor wanted her sending outbound transmissions.

“Too risky,” he’d said. “Stay buried. Until I call for you.”

That was fine.

She didn’t want to hear from him. Not after what he’d made her do.

So she flew. Drifted between systems, one jump ahead of suspicion. Took the kid to Felucia—quiet jungles, strange colors. Then to Naboo. Then to Kashyyyk. The Wookiees didn’t talk much, and when they did, they didn’t ask questions. She liked that.

The kid liked it too.

He smiled when the wind hit his face, laughed when the vines swung low enough for him to climb. He meditated with the elders under the great trees, palms flat, eyes closed, lips moving in languages he didn’t know.

She didn’t know what to do with him.

She could fight men twice her size, break into a warship, and disappear from Coruscant’s grid in under five minutes—but kids?

Force-sensitive, fragile, unpredictable kids?

Not her forte.

Still, she bought him warm food when he was hungry. Sat with him when the nights were too loud. Pulled the blanket up over him when he nodded off mid-jump.

And he… trusted her.

Gods help him.

And Then.

The transmission came mid-jump. An old code. Buried deep.

She opened it. Expected orders. Coordinates. Updates.

Instead, she got this:

“Terminate the asset.”

Just that.

No signature. No voice message. Just those three words in bloodless text.

She sat still for a long time, the cockpit lights casting pale gold across her features.

No.

Her hand hovered over the console. She could delete it. Pretend she never saw it.

Or… she could do exactly what he said.

She looked at the boy—still sleeping, thumb tucked near his mouth, his little body curled like a comma in the co-pilot’s seat.

He trusted her. Even after everything. Even knowing nothing.

And she—

She didn’t know how to kill him.

She didn’t want to.

Her fingers slowly lowered.

She encrypted the message. Buried it. Then cut off all outbound comms completely. Even the backup ones Palpatine thought she didn’t know he’d installed.

And for the first time since she agreed to this job, she felt something like resolve settle in her chest.

She wasn’t going to kill the kid.

Not for Palpatine. Not for anyone.

She’d disappear again. Go dark. Real dark.

And figure it out on her own.

⸻

Three months later and the smell of dirt never really left her hands.

Didn’t matter how long she scrubbed them, how hot the water was, how much Wookiee soap she used—the scent was baked in now. Like soot after fire. Like blood under your nails.

The kid was currently chasing a flock of half-feral featherbeasts across the field, shrieking with laughter while they squawked and ran in all directions like headless idiots. He’d tied one of her spare bandanas around his head and called himself “The King of Beaks.” She wasn’t sure if it was a game or a cult.

She squinted up at the twin suns and groaned, wiping sweat from her brow with a dirt-stained sleeve.

“This was a mistake.”

The house—if you could call it that—was lopsided and half-sunken into the earth like it had given up on being vertical. The roof leaked when it rained, which was often. The windows were warped. There was a trapdoor in the pantry she hadn’t opened yet because, frankly, she was afraid of what lived down there.

They’d been here for three months.

Three whole, uninterrupted months of staying hidden, staying off-grid, and pretending to be something other than what they were: a wanted merc with blood on her hands, and a stolen Force-sensitive child the Chancellor wanted dead.

The farm had been unoccupied when they arrived. Or rather, she’d made it unoccupied.

The farmer hadn’t been too keen on visitors, and even less keen on handing over his property to a stranger with a shifty smile and a blaster behind her back. But things got violent, as they do. He tried to gut her with a farming tool. She shot him in the throat. It was a short negotiation.

The kid never asked where the farmer went. He just helped her drag the body into the woods and asked if they could keep the loth-cat that came with the barn.

She said yes. It bit her the next day.

She’d done a lot of things in her life.

Assassinations. Espionage. Slicing into blacksite servers, seducing corrupt senators, starting bar fights, finishing wars.

But nothing had prepared her for running a farm.

Nothing.

The equipment was older than some planets she’d been to. The power converters buzzed at night like they were haunted. One of the water tanks screamed every time you flushed the toilet. The crops didn’t grow right, mostly because she forgot to plant them in any kind of order. She tried eating something she thought was edible last week and spent two hours curled up next to the loth-cat vomiting and hallucinating moisture ghosts.

She was not thriving.

But the kid was.

He’d put on weight. Color came back into his cheeks. He laughed now. Asked her questions about the stars. Sat cross-legged on the porch with his eyes closed, humming softly, moving stones with his mind and smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She watched him from the porch sometimes.

And felt something awful bloom behind her ribs.

Attachment, she thought. Stupid.

Later that night, they sat under the stars on the porch steps, sipping warm synth-milk and watching the night bugs dance in the grass.

“You ever think about going back?” he asked, voice soft.

She didn’t look at him.

“Back where?”

He shrugged. “Where people are.”

She sighed, tilting her head back to look at the sky. The stars looked close tonight. Like she could pick one and climb inside it.

“I’ve never been great with people.”

“You like me.”

“…You’re barely people.”

He giggled, and she smirked. Then, after a pause—

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” he asked.

The smile faded from her lips.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him yes.

That some of them never stopped.

She reached over and ruffled his hair instead. “We’ll be alright.”

For now.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“Where’s Your Head At”

Scorch × Reader

Blaster bolts lit the Shipyards catwalks like strobe lights in a night‑club. Not the vibe you’d planned when you sliced the maintenance door for a clean bounty grab. One step in—boom—three Separatist commandos, a Vult‑droid wing overhead, and four Republic commandos in matte Katarn armor stacking up beside you.

Boss—orange pauldrons, voice like a field sergeant holo‑ad—barked, “Unknown armed asset on deck C‑7, identify.”

You spun your WESTAR pistol. “Asset? Cute. Name’s [Y/N]. Freelance.”

To your right, the green‑striped commando muttered, “Freelance complication.”

Behind him, the crimson‑visored sniper gave a low chuckle. “Complication’s bleeding already.”

And then the demolition expert—Scorch, yellow stripes, joking even under fire—leaned out, lobbed a flash, and yelled over the alarm, “Hey, freelancer! Where’s your head at? Left or right? Pick a lane before someone decorates the floor with it.”

Something about the grin in his voice made you smirk. You dropped behind a crate with them just as the flash popped. “Guess it’s with you nerf‑herders for the next five minutes.”

Five minutes stretched into an hour of shutdown corridors, hacked bulkheads, and mortar echo. Fixer sliced the security mainframe; you handled the underside maintenance ports he couldn’t reach without alerts. Your bounty (a Neimoidian logistician) was fleeing in the same direction as Delta’s target datapack—perfect overlap.

Sev provided overwatch, grimly amused, “Bounty hunter’s got decent trigger discipline. Don’t shoot her yet.”

Boss’ voice echoed over the comms, “Mission first. Everyone out alive—optional.”

Scorch, planting shaped charges, kept the tone light. “C’mon, Boss. Optional? I was just getting to like her. She laughs at my jokes.”

“I’m laughing at the absurd probability I survive this.”

“Stick with me, you’ll live. Probably. Ninety‑ish percent.”

you and Scorch sprinted down a service tunnel to place the last charge.

He tossed you a spare detonator. “Push that when Sev says ‘ugly lizard,’ okay?”

“Why that code?”

“Because he only says it when a Trandoshan shows up, and that’s exactly when we want the bang.”

Sure enough, Sev’s dry voice soon crackled, “Ugly lizard, twelve o’clock.” You hit the switch. The deck buckled, cutting off enemy reinforcements. Scorch whooped, slammed his gauntlet against yours. “Told ya. Harmonic teamwork.”

⸻

With the datapack secured and your bounty stunned in binders, you and Delta reached the evac gunship. Boss motioned you aboard. “Republic intel could use your debrief.”

You eyed the Neimoidian. “He’s my paycheck.”

Fixer chimed in “Republic will pay more for him and the pack.”

“And we didn’t vaporize you. Factor that into the fee.” Sev said dryly.

Scorch stepped closer, visor tilting. “Look, [Y/N]—head’s gotta be somewhere, right? Why not keep it above water instead of floating in space? Ride with us, collect a bonus, maybe grab a drink later.”

You raised a brow. “With commandos?”

He shrugged. “I make a mean reactor‑core cocktail. Ask Sev, he hates it.”

“Because it’s toxic,” Sev deadpanned.

You exhaled, Chaos, adrenaline—these kriffers matched the tempo of your life better than any cartel employer had.

“Fine,” you said, hauling the Neimoidian up the ramp. “But the drink’s on you, Demo‑Boy.”

Scorch’s laugh filled the gunship bay. “Knew your head was in the right place.”

⸻

.Hours later, in a Republic forward hangar, the bounty transfer finished. Boss handed you a cred‑chip far heftier than expected. “Hazard compensation,” he explained.

Fixer simply nodded—respect acknowledged. Sev offered a half‑grin. “Next time I say ‘ugly lizard,’ you better still be on our channel.”

Then Scorch leaned against a crate, helmet off, sandy hair plastered, scorch‑mark across one cheek. “So… drink?”

You twirled the chip between gloved fingers. “Where’s your head at now, Scorch?”

He winked. “Currently? Somewhere between ‘mission accomplished’ and ‘hoping you stick around long enough for me to find out what other explosives we make together.’”

You laughed—a real laugh, no alarms or blasterfire backing it. “Buy me that reactor‑core cocktail, and we’ll see.”

As you walked out side by side, the distant clang of sortie sirens sounded almost like drums.

And in the thrum of the hangar lights, you realized: this rhythm—wild, unpredictable, deafening—might be exactly where your head belonged.

“Uncalculated Variables”

Tech x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.

⸻

If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.

Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?

You were something else entirely.

You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.

“Miss me, big guy?”

Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”

Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”

Vos grinned. “You wish.”

Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”

You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”

He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”

You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”

He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”

You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”

He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”

Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.

Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”

Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”

“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”

“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”

He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”

⸻

Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”

Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”

You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”

You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”

His ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”

You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.

You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”

And behind you, Tech mumbled—

“…I don’t understand you.”

But oh, he wanted to.

⸻

“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”

Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.

Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.

“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”

You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”

“I am not flirting—”

“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”

“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”

Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”

You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”

“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.

“Wait—don’t—!”

But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.

“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.

Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”

Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.

He didn’t see it. But you did.

“Tech!”

You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.

The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.

For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.

You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.

His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”

“I… suppose I do.”

You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”

Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”

“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”

“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”

You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”

You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.

“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”

And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.

Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.

Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.

Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.

“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.

You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”

Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”

Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”

“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”

Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.

“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”

Vos dropped his fruit.

You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”

“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”

Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.

“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”

You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”

Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”

“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”

Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”

“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

His expression fell a little.

“Yet,” you added.

From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”

You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”

He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”

Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”

You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”

Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”

Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.

“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”

He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.

“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”

He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”

Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”

And you?

You just smiled.

⸻

1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”

You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?

“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”

“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”

You snorted. “So yes.”

The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.

“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”

Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”

“Oh no.”

He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”

You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”

“Almost?”

“You lost me at neurological.”

Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”

“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”

You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”

He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”

Your breath caught.

“…Tech,” you said, gently.

“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”

You stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.

When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.

“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.

From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.

You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.

“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.

“Maker above—” Tech muttered.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”

Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”

Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”

Tech looked dazed.

“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”

“Red and Loyal” pt.2

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

The ship had gone still.

Most of the squad was asleep or at their rotating stations, the buzz of activity finally reduced to soft footsteps and quiet system hums. You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was too full. Of war. Of your people. Of him.

You stepped into the small mess area, wrapped in a light shawl, datapad abandoned for now. The stars shimmered through the viewports—quiet reminders that home was still a jump away.

Fox stood near the corner of the room, arms folded, armor still on, posture straight as a blaster barrel. He didn’t sleep either, apparently.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up. “Senator.”

You crossed over to the small counter, pouring two glasses of the modest liquor you’d brought from home—a deep, rich amber spirit your father once called “liquid courage.” You turned and held out a glass to him.

“A peace offering,” you said. “Or a truce. Or a bribe. I haven’t decided yet.”

His eyes flicked from the drink to your face. “I’m on duty.”

“I figured,” you murmured. “But I thought I’d try anyway.”

He didn’t take it. You didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, you set it beside him and leaned back against the opposite wall, cradling your own drink between your fingers. “Do you ever turn it off?”

Fox was quiet for a moment. “The job?”

You nodded.

“No.” He said it without hesitation. “If I do, people get hurt.”

You watched him carefully. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

He gave a small shrug. “It’s the only way I know how.”

Another beat of silence.

“Why did you do it?” you asked. “Come on this mission. Really.”

Fox’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s my job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you personally assign yourself to every Senator in distress?”

He hesitated. For once, his gaze flicked away.

“I’ve seen how the Senate works,” he said. “Most of them wouldn’t even look at a trooper if we were bleeding out in front of them. But you… you stayed after the session. You fought for people who can’t fight for themselves. You saw us.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And I didn’t want you to walk into danger alone.”

You stared at him for a long moment, glass forgotten in your hand. “That doesn’t sound like just your job, Commander.”

His eyes finally met yours again—steadier now. More open. And, stars help you, so full of weight he didn’t know how to express out loud.

“No,” he said finally. “It doesn’t.”

The silence between you changed—no longer empty, but thick with understanding. The kind you didn’t speak of because it was too real.

You stepped forward slowly, picking up the untouched glass you’d offered him earlier.

“Still on duty?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers against his as you took the drink back in your other hand.

Fox didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away, either.

You finally excused yourself, your steps quiet as you retreated toward your quarters with a whispered “Goodnight, Commander.”

Fox didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

His gaze lingered where you’d just stood, your scent still in the air—soft, warm, like something grounding amidst all the cold metal and chaos.

The untouched glass in your hands, the brush of your fingers on his glove, the way you looked at him like you saw him—not just the armor, not just the title.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He didn’t do feelings. Not on duty. Not ever.

And yet.

“Thought I smelled something burning.”

Fox didn’t need to look to know it was Hound. Grizzer padded quietly beside him, tongue lolling lazily, clearly amused.

Fox muttered, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Could say the same about you.” Hound stepped into the light, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow raised. “So. You gonna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh-huh.” Hound’s tone was flat, unimpressed. “You stood there like a statue for five minutes after she left. You’re not even blinking. Pretty sure even Grizzer picked up on it.”

The strill let out a low chuff, like it agreed.

Fox turned his face away. “Drop it.”

“I would,” Hound said casually, “but it’s hard to ignore the fact that our famously emotionless commander suddenly cares very much about one specific Senator.”

“She’s… different.”

“Ohhh, so we are talking about it now?” Hound smirked.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stepped closer, lowering his voice—not mocking now, just honest. “Look, vod… We’ve all seen how they treat us. The senators. The brass. Most of them wouldn’t notice if we vanished tomorrow. But she sees you.”

Fox’s jaw flexed again, the ache behind his eyes growing sharper.

“She sees you, Fox,” Hound repeated gently. “And I think that scares the hell out of you.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Fox murmured, “I can’t afford to feel anything. Not right now. Not while she’s in danger.”

Hound studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” He turned to leave. “But when it’s all over, and you still can’t breathe unless you’re near her? Don’t act surprised.”

Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

Didn’t deny it.

⸻

The ship touched down just outside the capital’s perimeter, the soft hiss of the landing gear punctuated by the high-pitched whine of distant warning sirens—testing protocols, for now. Not real.

Not yet.

The skies were overcast, a thick grey ceiling hanging low over the city like a held breath. Your home was still standing, still calm, but tension clung to the air like static.

Fox stood at the bottom of the ramp, visor angled outward, scanning the buildings and courtyards that framed the landing pad. Thire, Stone, and Hound fanned out without instruction. The city guard was present—under-trained, under-equipped, but trying.

You stepped off the ramp and immediately straightened your posture as a familiar man approached—Governor Dalen, flanked by two aides and a pale-faced city official clutching a datapad like a lifeline.

“Senator,” Dalen said, his voice tight but relieved. “You came back.”

You offered a small smile, but your eyes were already on the buildings, the people, the quiet way citizens walked just a little too quickly, too aware.

“Of course I came,” you said. “I told you I would.”

“I didn’t think they’d let you,” he admitted.

“They didn’t,” you said plainly. “But I wasn’t asking.”

Fox’s eyes shifted slightly, his stance tensing at the edge of your voice. That edge had returned—sharp, determined, the voice of someone who belonged here, in the dirt with her people.

You took a breath. “We stood before the Senate. I made our case. I begged.”

Dalen didn’t speak.

You shook your head. “But they’re stretched thin. We’re not a priority. They said they’d ‘review the situation’ once the Outer Rim sieges ease.”

Dalen’s face hardened. “So they’ll help us when there’s nothing left to save.”

“That’s the game,” you said bitterly. “Politics.”

Behind you, Fox’s shoulders shifted—just barely—but enough that you knew he heard. Knew he understood.

“But,” you added, lifting your chin, “we’re not alone. Commander Fox and his squad have been assigned to protect the capital until reinforcements can be spared.”

The governor’s gaze flicked past you, eyeing the bright red armor, the silent, imposing soldiers who looked more like war machines than men.

“They’re few in number,” you said, “but I’d trust one of them over a hundred guardsmen.”

Fox stepped forward then, speaking for the first time. “We’ll secure the palace perimeter and establish fallback zones in the city. If the Separatists make a move, we’ll hold them as long as needed.”

You didn’t miss the subtle weight behind his words: We’ll hold them off long enough for you to survive.

And somehow, even in all that steel and stoicism, it made your heart ache.

The governor gave a hesitant nod, but the weariness in his posture didn’t fade. “We’ll do what we can to prepare, but if they attack…”

“We hold,” you said simply.

Fox turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you. “And we protect.”

You gave him a small, fierce smile. “I know you will.”

⸻

The market square was quieter than you remembered.

Stalls were still open, vendors selling fruit and fabric and hot bread, but the usual bustle was muted. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing nervously at the skies every few minutes as if expecting Separatist ships to appear at any second.

You didn’t take a speeder. You walked.

You wanted them to see you—not as some distant official behind Senate walls, but as someone who came home. Someone who stayed.

“Senator,” an older woman called, her hands tight around a child’s shoulders. “Is it true? That the Republic isn’t coming?”

You crouched to the child’s eye level, your expression gentle. “They are coming,” you said carefully. “Just not yet. But we’re not alone. We have soldiers here. Good ones.”

Behind you, Fox lingered in the shadow of a nearby wall, helmet on, arms folded. Watching. Always.

A young man stepped forward, anger shining in his eyes. “We heard rumors. That they think we’re not worth the effort.”

“They’re wrong,” you said, rising to face him. “You are worth the effort. I went to the Senate myself. I fought for this place. And I will keep fighting until we get what we need. But until then… we hold the line.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. A few people clapped, quietly. Some didn’t. But they listened.

And they saw you.

After several more conversations—reassurances, promises, words you hoped you could keep—you stepped into the alley behind the square for a breath of quiet. The pressure was starting to catch up with you, sharp and cold in your lungs.

Fox was already there, leaning against the wall, helmet off, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have come out without a perimeter,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You were the perimeter.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, stepping closer. “If they attack, the capital will be first. The square could be turned to ash in minutes. You can’t be in the middle of a crowd when it happens.”

“They needed to see me.”

“I need you alive.”

The words came out harsher than he intended—too fast, too sharp—and he immediately looked away like he wished he could take them back.

You stared at him, heart catching in your throat.

His jaw clenched. “Your death won’t inspire anyone.”

Silence.

“You’re worried about me,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

“I’m responsible for you,” he corrected, but there was no strength behind it.

You reached out, fingers brushing the gauntlet on his arm. “You don’t have to lie, Fox. Not to me.”

He looked down at your hand on his armor, at the softness in your voice that disarmed him more than any weapon ever could.

“This is going to get worse before it gets better,” he said. “And if you keep walking into the fire…”

You smiled sadly. “You’ll follow me in?”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

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me: I write for myself, not validation

also me after posting a fic *refreshes ao3 every five minutes*

(two things can be true)

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