“Red Lines” Pt.3

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.

Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️

“First‑Name Basis”

Kix x Reader

Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.

A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”

Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”

From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”

You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”

Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.

You pointed down the line:

“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.

“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”

“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”

Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.

Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”

“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”

A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”

Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”

Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”

“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.

Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”

⸻

Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”

“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”

His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”

Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”

Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”

You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”

Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”

Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”

⸻

Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”

“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.

Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.

Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”

You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.

Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”

Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”

And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.

i finished playing republic commando last week and just cannot stop thinking ab them

“War on Two Fronts” pt.7

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

War had a way of compressing time—days blurred into nights, missions into months. And somewhere in the quiet pockets between battles, between orders and hyperspace jumps, something had bloomed between the you and Bacara.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy.

But it was real.

They didn’t speak of love. Not openly. That would be too dangerous. Too foolish. But in the stolen moments—fingers brushing during debriefings, wordless glances across a war room, a hand on the small of her back as they passed each other in narrow corridors—it was undeniable.

He wasn’t good with words, not like Rex had been. Bacara showed his affection in action: the way he checked her gear before missions without asking, or how he always stood between her and enemy fire, whether she needed it or not. He never said “I love you.” But when she bled, he bled too.

She caught herself smiling as she boarded the cruiser for Mygeeto. Her datapad buzzed with her new orders—assist Master Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Bacara for the Fourth Siege. The final push.

She hadn’t seen Bacara in weeks. The campaign on Aleen had separated them again, followed by a skirmish in the mid-rim, but her heart pulled northward like a magnet toward Mygeeto. Her fingers tightened around her travel case as she stepped aboard the assault cruiser, heart quickening.

When she entered the command deck, Bacara stood over a strategic map display, armored and severe as ever. Mundi stood beside him, still every bit the stoic Master she remembered, though his greeting was warmer this time.

“General,” Mundi said with a nod. “Good to have you back.”

Bacara said nothing at first, just glanced up—his expression unreadable. But then, a flicker. The tiniest softening in his eyes that only she would notice.

“General,” he echoed in his clipped tone, nodding once.

Later, when the debrief was done and the hallways had quieted for the night, she found him waiting near the barracks. They stood in silence at first, just listening to the hum of the ship, the distant thrum of hyperdrive.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He gave the barest of shrugs, then looked at her. Really looked.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His jaw flexed. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat from his armor. “But I needed to see you before everything starts again.”

There, in the half-shadowed corridor, his hand brushed hers. A silent agreement.

That night, she didn’t return to her quarters.

They didn’t speak of the war. They didn’t speak of what might happen next. They existed only in that moment, a breath of peace before the storm.

In the dim lighting of the officer’s quarters, he kissed her again—firmer this time, as if grounding himself in the only certainty the war hadn’t taken from him.

When she fell asleep curled into his side, Bacara stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

Because tomorrow, they dropped on Mygeeto.

And nothing would be the same after that.

⸻

Mygeeto was a graveyard.

Shards of glass and collapsed towers jutted from the ice like bones. The wind howled endlessly, scouring the broken streets with frozen dust. The Fourth Siege had begun days ago, and already the Republic’s grip was tightening.

The reader moved through the war-torn ruins beside Bacara, her boots crunching through frost, her senses prickling with unease she couldn’t name.

Even Bacara seemed quieter than usual.

Their squad had pushed deep into the southern district, routing droid forces and holding position near the abandoned Muun vaults. Mundi was coordinating an assault to breach the city’s primary data center. Every minute was another layer of pressure, another reason her gut twisted tighter.

And then, the transmission came through.

It was late. The squad had returned to their mobile command shelter to regroup and patch injuries. Bacara was at the long-range transmitter when the encrypted message chimed in. She approached just as he turned, helmet off, eyes dark.

“It’s confirmed,” he said.

“What is?”

“Kenobi.” A beat. “He killed General Grievous.”

The words didn’t register at first.

The breath in her chest caught. “So… it’s over?”

“Almost.”

She sat slowly, bracing her elbows on her knees. “We’ve been fighting this war for three years. And now it just… ends?”

Bacara didn’t sit. He stood near the entrance flap, staring out into the howling cold.

“I don’t think it ends. Not really.” His voice was low. “Something’s coming.”

She looked up at him. “You feel it too.”

He nodded.

The Force was thick, oppressive. The kind of quiet that comes before a scream.

“Have you heard from Mundi?” she asked.

“Briefly. He wants us to hold until his unit circles back to regroup. We deploy again in the morning.” He paused, then added, “He was… unsettled.”

That alone chilled her. If Mundi was unsettled, it meant something was very wrong.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Bacara outside the tent, cloaked against the wind, their shoulders brushing.

“Whatever’s coming,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No matter what?”

She didn’t flinch. “No matter what.”

And somewhere far away, across the stars, a coded transmission began its journey to clone commanders across the galaxy.

Execute Order 66.

But it hadn’t reached them yet.

Not yet.

⸻

The morning was bitter cold.

Frost crackled beneath their boots as they moved out in formation, the clouds above Mygeeto hanging low and grey, like a lid waiting to seal the planet shut. The reader walked just behind Master Mundi and beside Bacara, her cloak drawn tight against the wind.

Mundi was speaking, his voice cutting through the comms. “This push will be final. The Separatist defense grid is thinning—we press forward, clear the vault entrance, and signal the cruiser for extraction.”

The reader nodded slightly. Bacara said nothing, but she could feel the tension in him—coiled tighter than usual.

They advanced through the ruins in a steady column. Mundi led the charge across a narrow bridge, lined on both sides with jagged drops and half-fallen towers. The droids emerged first, as expected. The clones fanned out, taking cover and returning fire in sharp, well-practiced bursts.

It felt normal.

But something was wrong. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how—but the Force around her buzzed like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Then, it happened.

A static shiver through the comms. A code, sharp and cold.

“Execute Order 66.”

Her head snapped to Bacara. He was silent. His helmet was already on.

Mundi turned. “Come on! We must push—!”

The first bolt hit him in the back.

She froze.

The second bolt pierced Mundi’s chest, dropping him to his knees. He reached out, shocked. More fire rained from above, precise, emotionless, cutting him down mid-step.

The clones didn’t hesitate. Bacara didn’t hesitate.

Her breath caught in her throat, the world slowing to a nightmare crawl. “Bacara—?” she whispered.

He turned.

And opened fire.

She moved on instinct. A Force-shoved wall of ice rose between them as she leapt off the bridge’s edge, tucking and rolling onto a lower ledge as blasterfire trailed her path.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Her squad. Her men.

Him.

She fled, ducking through ruined alleys and broken vaults, chased by the echoes of boots and bolts and the question clawing at her chest:

Why?

Nothing made sense. No signal. No warning. Just sudden betrayal like a switch flipped in their minds. Like she’d never mattered. Like they’d never fought beside her.

She kept running until her legs burned and her heart broke.

Mygeeto burned around her.

The vault city trembled with explosions and echoing blasterfire. The sky had darkened with the smoke of betrayal, and her boots slipped on shattered crystal as she ran through what remained of the inner ruins.

She had no plan. No backup. No Jedi.

Only survival.

The Force screamed through her veins, adrenaline burning hotter than frostbite. Behind her, the clones advanced in perfect formation—ruthless, silent, efficient. Just as they’d been trained to be. Just as she’d trusted them to be.

Her saber ignited in a flash of defiance. She didn’t want to kill them—Force, she didn’t—but they gave her no choice.

Two troopers rounded the corner, rifles raised. With a spin and a sharp, choked breath, her blade cut through one blaster, then the clone behind it. The second she disarmed with a flick of the Force, sending him slamming into a pillar. He didn’t rise.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, but there was no time for grief.

She sprinted through the lower vault district, rubble crunching beneath her. Her starfighter wasn’t far—hidden in a hangar bay northeast of the city edge. She was almost there.

Almost.

Then he found her.

Bacara.

He dropped in from above like a specter of death, slamming her to the ground with brutal precision. Her saber clattered across the ice. His weight bore down on her, a knee to her chest, his DC-15 aimed square at her head.

His visor glinted in the frost-glow, his silence more terrifying than a scream.

She stared up at him, panting, hurt. “You were mine,” she rasped.

No answer.

His finger moved toward the trigger.

The Force pulsed.

She thrust her hand upward and a wave of raw power flung him off her, launching him into a support beam with a sound like breaking stone. He dropped, groaning, armor dented, stunned.

She didn’t stop to look. She grabbed her saber and ran.

Two more troopers blocked her path to the hangar. She deflected one bolt, then two—but the third she sent back into the chest of the clone who fired it. His body fell beside her as she charged the next, slashing his weapon before delivering a stunning kick that sent him flying.

The hangar doors groaned open.

She threw herself into the cockpit of her fighter, fingers flying over the controls, engines screaming to life.

Blasterfire pinged against the hull as more troopers swarmed the bay. She closed her eyes, guided by instinct, by pain, by loss—and took off into the cold, storm-choked skies.

Mygeeto shrank behind her.

And with it, the last pieces of everything she’d trusted.

⸻

The stars blurred past her cockpit like tears on transparisteel.

She didn’t know how long she’d been flying—minutes, hours. Her hands trembled against the yoke, white-knuckled, blood-slicked. The silence in the cockpit was deafening. No clones, no saber hum, no Bacara breathing just behind her. Just the thin rasp of her own breath and the stinging wound of betrayal burning behind her ribs.

Mygeeto was gone. Bacara was gone.

They were all gone.

She barely made it through hyperspace. Her navigation systems stuttered, and she’d been forced to fly blind, guided only by instinct and muscle memory.

The planet she chose wasn’t much—Polis Massa. An old medical station and mining outpost on the edge of the system. Remote. Quiet. Forgotten.

Safe.

Her ship touched down with a shudder, systems coughing and sparking. She slumped against the controls, body aching, mind fractured.

She stumbled out into the cold, sterile facility. No guards raised weapons at her, no sirens screamed Jedi. Just quiet personnel, startled by her bloodied robes and wild, hollow stare.

They gave her a room. She didn’t ask for one.

The medics patched the worst of her wounds. Someone gave her water. A blanket. A moment.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, everything hurt. Her skin, her bones, her heart. She sat upright on the small cot, still in half armor, saber clipped loosely at her hip. Her communicator blinked on the nearby table—flashing red.

Encrypted message.

She nearly dropped it trying to pick it up. The code was familiar. Old. Republic-grade clearance. She swallowed and activated it.

The holoprojector buzzed—and then there he was.

Kenobi.

His projection flickered in the dark, singed, exhausted, speaking quickly and low.

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen. With the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Her stomach clenched.

“…The clone troopers have turned against us. I’m afraid this message is a warning and a reminder: any surviving Jedi, do not return to the Temple. That time is over. Trust in the Force.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“We will each find our own path forward now. May the Force be with you.”

The message ended. Just a small flicker of blue light, fading into silence.

She stared at the projector long after it dimmed, her face unreadable. Then she whispered, as if the stars might still be listening:

“…What did we do to deserve this?”

⸻

Coruscant.

The city-world pulsed under a grey sky, its endless towers casting long shadows over the Senate District. Republic banners were being torn down and replaced with crimson. No one called it the Republic anymore. Not truly. Not after the declaration.

Bacara stood at attention in a high-security debriefing chamber, helmet under his arm, armor still caked in the dust and ice of Mygeeto. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes—something usually precise and locked in—seemed… dislodged.

His mission was complete. Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi was dead.

He had reported it cleanly, efficiently. Nothing of hesitation, nothing of how she escaped. Only that she turned traitor, resisted, killed his men. That she was lost in the chaos of the siege.

The brass accepted it. They always did. Too much war. Too many traitors.

He was dismissed with a curt nod from an officer in dark new uniform. The Empire moved quickly. No more Jedi. No more second guesses.

He exited the chamber with stiff precision, walking the stark halls of the former GAR command center—now flooded with black-clad officers, techs, and white-armored troopers with fresh paint jobs. A few bore markings he recognized, some didn’t. The old legions were being divided, repurposed. Branded anew.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two familiar faces in a side hallway.

“Commander Wolffe. Cody.”

Wolffe gave him a once-over, eye narrowed. “Bacara. You’re back from Mygeeto.”

“Confirmed. Mundi is dead. Target neutralized.”

Cody didn’t smile. He rarely did these days. “And the other Jedi?”

“Escaped,” Bacara said curtly. “Presumed dead. Ship went down in atmosphere. Unconfirmed.”

Wolffe raised a brow, but let it go.

The conversation would have ended there—cold and flat—but a datapad in Cody’s hand flashed. He frowned, tapped the screen, then muttered, “Damn…”

“What is it?” Bacara asked.

Cody handed him the pad.

“Captain CT-7567 — Status: KIA. Location: Classified. Time: Immediately post-Order 66.”

Bacara stared at the words, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

Wolffe crossed his arms, jaw tight. “It’s spreading fast. Some say Ashoka killed him. Some say it was Maul. No one knows. But there were no survivors.”

Cody shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone.”

Bacara looked away, jaw grinding. Rex was dead. That’s what the record said.

He should’ve felt… nothing. Relief, maybe. One less problem. One less thorn in his side.

But the silence between the three of them said otherwise.

“Shame,” Wolffe muttered. “He was one of the good ones.”

She loved him.

The thought hit Bacara like a gut punch, but he gave no sign.

He offered a stiff nod. “He did his duty.”

And walked away.

⸻

The Outer Rim.

No one looked twice at the battered Y-wing that landed half-crooked in the backlot of Ord Mantell’s grimiest district. The ship hadn’t flown since. She’d let the local rust take it. A relic no one asked about. One more ghost among the debris of a fallen Republic.

Three months.

That’s how long she’d been hiding on this dusty, low-grade world, tucked into the shadows of a run-down cantina operated by a sharp-tongued Trandoshan named Cid. Cid wasn’t friendly—but she wasn’t curious either. That alone made her safer here than anywhere near Coruscant.

The cantina was dim, the stench of stale ale thick in the air. Smoke curled from a broken vent in the ceiling. Old Clone War propaganda still clung to a wall like a molted skin. No one talked about the war anymore. They drank to forget it.

She moved quietly between tables, clearing empty mugs, wiping down grime, keeping her head down. Her once-pristine Jedi robes had been traded for utility pants, a threadbare top, and a scuffed jacket a size too big. Her lightsaber was hidden—disassembled and buried in a cloth bundle under the floorboards of her bunk behind the kitchen. Sometimes she reached for it at night, half-asleep, still expecting it to be on her belt.

Every day she woke up expecting to feel the warmth of the Force beside her.

And every day, she didn’t.

She missed them. All of them. Even him.

Bacara.

His face still haunted her. The betrayal. The way his blaster hadn’t even hesitated when he gunned down Mundi. The way he’d turned on her—stone-faced and unfeeling, as if their moments together had meant nothing. She hadn’t had time to ask why. Only to run. To survive.

And Rex… she didn’t even know if he was alive. The transmission from Kenobi hadn’t mentioned him. The Temple was gone. The Jedi were gone. She was gone.

No one had come looking. Not the clones. Not the Empire. Not Bacara.

Not Rex.

Not even Mace—though maybe she’d never expected him to.

At first, she’d been sure someone would come. That the galaxy couldn’t forget her so quickly. But three months had passed. No wanted posters. No troopers sweeping the streets. No shadows at her door.

Nothing.

She was no one here.

She wiped the same table twice before realizing she’d been staring through it, lost in memory. The war felt like another lifetime.

But even the Force had gone quiet. As if it, too, had moved on.

“Hey!” Cid’s sharp voice cracked through the cantina. “You forget how to carry a tray, or you just feel like decorating my floor with spilled ale again?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

Cid snorted. “You’re always sorry.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much of herself left to defend anymore.

The streets outside were quieter than usual. A dust storm had rolled in from the western flats, coating everything in a layer of filth. She stepped out back after her shift, sitting on a crate and staring up at a sky smothered by clouds.

It was strange how peaceful nothing could be.

No orders. No battles. No war.

No one looking for her. No one needing her. No one remembering her.

It should have felt like freedom.

But it didn’t.

⸻

The bell above the cantina door jingled.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But her breath hitched in her chest. She heard the unmistakable weight of clone trooper boots on the wooden floor—too heavy to be locals, too careful to be drunks.

She didn’t need to look. She knew those steps by heart. Years of war had taught her how clones moved—each one slightly different, and yet the same at the core. And somehow… somehow they were here.

In Cid’s.

In her nowhere.

She ducked behind the bar a little more, scrubbing the same patch of wood with trembling fingers, her face hidden beneath a cap and the dull glow of the overhead lights.

“Cid?” a calm, steady voice asked.

That one—Hunter.

Cid didn’t even look up from her datapad. “That depends on who’s asking.”

“We were told you could help us.”

“By who?” Cid’s tone was suspicious, as always.

“Echo,” Hunter said, motioning slightly.

She froze. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Echo.

She dared a glance over her shoulder.

There he was—taller now, armor more modified, with half of his head and legs taken by cybernetics. He looked different. Paler. Haunted. But it was him. And he was staring.

Right at her.

Her stomach dropped.

But he didn’t say anything. His expression barely changed, just narrowed eyes and a twitch of something she couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or disbelief.

Either way—he wasn’t saying her name. And she didn’t dare say his.

She ducked her head again and retreated to the back counter, trying to blend in.

The squad spread out, letting Cid do her usual banter. Tech scanned things. Wrecker picked something up and nearly broke it. Omega stood in wide-eyed awe of the dingy place.

And then, like a quiet ripple in the Force, she felt Omega’s presence behind her.

“Hi,” the girl said.

The reader turned just slightly, trying not to panic. “Hi.”

“You work for Cid?”

She nodded, hoping it was enough.

“I’m Omega.”

The girl was painfully sweet. The kind of pure the galaxy hadn’t seen in years.

“You got a name?”

“…Lena,” the reader lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the burn behind her eyes.

“That’s pretty,” Omega said, hopping up onto the stool across from her. “Are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” She kept her eyes down.

Omega tilted her head. “You feel sad.”

That startled her. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant—your eyes look sad,” Omega said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The reader forced a smile. “You didn’t.”

Echo walked by again. His gaze lingered on her for one long second. But again, he said nothing.

She didn’t know if he was sparing her or trying to figure her out. Maybe both.

She went back to cleaning.

And for the first time in months, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

⸻

Echo watched her from the corner of the cantina as she quietly wiped down a table in the far back, avoiding all eye contact, keeping her presence small.

Too small.

He leaned slightly toward Tech, lowering his voice so Cid and the others wouldn’t catch it. “Do you recognize her?”

Tech didn’t even glance up from his datapad. “The worker? No.”

“She looks familiar,” Echo said, arms crossing over his chest plate. “I’m not sure from where, but… I think she’s a Jedi. Or—was.”

That got Tech’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. “A Jedi?”

“She fought with the 501st a few times. A long time ago,” Echo said. “I was still… me.”

Tech considered that for a long moment, then looked over toward her discreetly. “You’re certain?”

“No. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t tell if she’s someone I actually remember or if it’s a glitch in my head from… everything.” He gestured vaguely to his augmentations.

Tech nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the datapad. “I’ll run a scan. Discreetly. If she is a former Jedi or officer, her face might still be buried in the Republic’s archived comm logs. Assuming the Empire hasn’t wiped everything yet.”

Echo nodded once, still watching her.

She never once looked back.

Tech sat back slightly, the datapad in his lap casting a faint glow on his face. The scan had taken time—far more than he liked. Most of the Jedi archives were either firewalled or fragmented. But a clever backdoor through an old 501st tactical log had revealed what he needed.

The image was slightly grainy, pulled from a recording during a battle on Christophis. A Jedi—young, lightsaber ignited, issuing commands beside Captain Rex.

Her.

Tech adjusted his goggles, double-checking the facial markers. Ninety-nine-point-seven percent match.

He glanced across the cantina where she was wiping down a counter with feigned disinterest, like she hadn’t felt the moment his eyes landed on her. But he knew better. Jedi always felt when they were being watched.

He stood and approached casually, careful not to spook her. “I take it this isn’t your preferred line of work.”

She stiffened slightly, then looked over at him with cool neutrality. “Not really, no. But it’s honest.”

“Curious,” Tech said. “That honesty would be your refuge. Especially for someone like you.”

She paused. The rag in her hand stilled. “Someone like me?”

“A Jedi Knight,” he replied plainly. “Confirmed through tactical footage of Christophis. You served alongside Captain Rex.”

Her throat worked once, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be looking into me.”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said, calm and even. “And cautious. After all, fugitives tend to attract the Empire’s attention.”

“You’re fugitives too,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Then why out me?” she asked, voice quieter, with the weight of exhaustion clinging to it.

“I didn’t say I would. But perhaps… we could be of use to each other.”

That made her blink. “You want to align with a Jedi?”

Tech pushed his goggles up slightly. “You have experience. Strategic value. And the Empire has already labeled us traitors. I see no logical reason not to align with someone equally hunted—especially someone who once fought for the same Republic we did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the rag before setting it down.

“I’m not who I used to be,” she said.

Tech tilted his head. “Neither are we.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Collateral Morals” pt.3

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

The door to the medcenter’s private lounge hissed shut behind you.

Thorn stood by the window, shoulders square, helmet tucked under his arm. He hadn’t moved since your approach—not even when you softly said his name. He just stared out over the Coruscant skyline like it held all the answers he didn’t want to give.

“You didn’t have to say any of that,” you murmured.

He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t have heard it.”

“I did.”

Silence. The kind that suffocates instead of soothes.

“I almost died today,” you said, quieter now. “And I wasn’t afraid—not until I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

That got him. His jaw clenched, his hand flexed slightly around the helmet.

Still, he didn’t turn.

You stepped closer.

“I know what I am to Palpatine,” you said. “I know what I am to the Senate. But I also know what I am to myself. And I decide who I fight for. Who I—”

You stopped yourself.

He finally turned.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable. But there was fire under it. Desperation held at bay by sheer force of discipline.

You reached up slowly and brushed your fingers across his cheekbone.

Then you kissed his cheek—softly, gently—just a press of lips and intent.

He inhaled like it hurt. Like that tiny moment cracked something deep in him he’d welded shut for too long.

You barely had time to step back before his hand caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse.

“Don’t what?” you asked, eyes searching his. “Don’t remind you you’re human? Don’t care about the man who’s taken a thousand blaster bolts for people who’ll never say thank you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened—but not in anger.

In surrender.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

It was weeks—months—of denial and fury and silent longing crashing into one devastating moment. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you flush to him, mouth slanting against yours with heat and hunger and restraint just barely breaking.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the chest plate of his armor.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.

“This can’t happen,” he whispered. “Not with the world watching.”

“No one’s watching right now.”

Another breath.

Another pause.

“Stars help me.”

And then he kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, with the kind of reverence that felt like goodbye…but tasted like finally.

⸻

You didn’t see Thorn for the rest of the night.

He left with a muttered apology and a promise to update the security perimeter. Left you standing in that medcenter hallway with your lips tingling and your heart pounding like it had just broken orbit.

By morning, he was back to his place at your side—precise, professional, and maddeningly unreadable.

But you felt it. Every time he stood too close. Every time his fingers brushed yours when he handed over a datapad. Every time you looked up from your notes and found him already watching you.

The morning dragged with briefings, follow-up reports, and a thousand quiet, political fires to douse. The media was frothing at the mouth, both condemning and romanticizing the assassination attempt. Holonet headlines split between calling you reckless and righteous. Some claimed the attack was staged.

None of that mattered.

Because your speech on clone rights was in twenty-four hours, and everything would either change or implode.

Which is why, after dodging three lobbyists and an overzealous committee head, you found yourself in the Chancellor’s private garden, seated across from him in the dappled sunlight of the Senate’s oldest courtyard.

“You never were good at letting people protect you,” Sheev said lightly, sipping his tea. His guards, including Fox, stood discreetly in the background. Yours stood just as close. Thorn, like a shadow.

“I don’t need protection,” you replied, tone too sharp. “I need the truth.”

Sheev smiled—soft, amused, a little tired. “Ah. There she is.”

You frowned. “You always say that. What do you mean by it?”

His eyes flicked toward yours, and for the briefest moment, something ancient passed between you. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… knowing.

“You forget, my dear,” he said quietly, “I’ve known you since before you even knew who you were.”

You blinked. “Sheev…”

“I warned you this bill would make enemies.” He set his cup down gently. “And still you press forward. Still you speak for them, even when they cannot speak for themselves. That’s why I… care. Why I sent the guards before you even asked.”

You didn’t respond right away. A breeze lifted the hem of your shawl. Thorn shifted behind you, ever-present, ever silent.

“Sheev… Why do you always look out for me, really?” you asked at last, softly.

His smile was small, secretive. “A legacy. A spark. Perhaps… the only one left who remembers who I was before all this.”

He reached out and gently patted your bandaged arm. “So take care, my dear. The brighter you burn, the more shadows you cast.”

Later that evening, as you reviewed the final draft of your speech, you felt the tension coil tighter in the room.

Thorn stood by the window, pretending to review security updates. But you knew he wasn’t reading them.

“I’m still doing it,” you said, not looking up from your datapad.

“I know.”

“And you’re still going to try and stop anyone from hurting me.”

“I’ll kill them first.”

You glanced up.

Thorn’s face was blank. But his eyes weren’t.

You stood and walked toward him, datapad forgotten.

“This doesn’t scare you?” you asked. “What’s about to happen?”

“I’ve been bred for war,” he replied. “But you… you’re marching into something I can’t shoot my way out of.”

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move.

“They’ll come for you after this,” he said. “They’ll smear you. Silence you. Maybe worse.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked down at you, jaw tight.

“I do.”

There was no kiss this time. No heat. Just quiet. Just that fragile thing neither of you could name anymore.

Then he whispered, almost against his will,

“If I lose you… I lose the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

⸻

The Chamber was filled with a hundred murmuring voices, thousands of glowing pods drifting through its cavernous air like stars in orbit—an artificial galaxy of opinions, power, and politics.

You stood at its center.

Not on a podium.

Not behind the usual barrier between you and them.

You requested to speak from the floor, where soldiers stood during war briefings. Where men like Thorn bled for a Republic that still debated whether they were people or property.

The moment your pod activated and floated to the center, the chamber dimmed. Silence rippled outward. The Chancellor looked down from his high throne, unmoving. The Senators stared, curious.

And Thorn?

He stood by the wall behind you, a silent sentinel, his helmet clipped to his belt. He watched you like the entire galaxy depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

You exhaled slowly, adjusted the mic, and began.

“I stand before you today not as a politician,” you said, “but as a citizen of the Republic… and as someone who refuses to look away any longer.”

A few murmurs. Standard fare. You kept going.

“The Republic abolished slavery. We enshrined freedom and autonomy into our laws. And yet—every single day—we send a slave army to die for us.”

That got attention.

Real, shifting, heavy attention.

You could feel it in the air. The stirring. The discomfort.

“I have seen firsthand how the clones live. How they are bred, trained, deployed—and discarded. And I ask you this: when did we decide that genetically engineered soldiers were somehow less deserving of the rights we promised every sentient being in this galaxy?”

One senator stood abruptly. “These are dangerous accusations!”

“They are truths,” you countered, voice ringing clear. “I am not here to shame the army. I am here to shame us. They serve with honor. We lead with cowardice.”

Palpatine did not react.

Not visibly.

But you saw his fingers fold together slowly, precisely.

You turned slightly, catching Thorn’s eyes briefly. He gave you the smallest of nods.

“They are not expendable. They are not tools. They are men. Brothers. Sons. Heroes. And they deserve recognition, freedom, and the right to choose their own futures.”

You reached into your sleeve and produced a small datapad.

“This bill—The Sentient Rights Amendment—will enshrine personhood into law for all clone troopers, mandating post-war compensation, choice of discharge, and full citizenship.”

Outrage. Cheers. Scoffs. A wave of sound rolled over the chamber.

You let it.

You wanted it.

Because silence had kept them enslaved for too long.

You looked straight at the Chancellor’s pod.

And for once, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I have been warned. Threatened. Nearly killed. But I will not stop.”

Your voice dropped slightly, but the words struck harder than ever.

“Because if we cannot recognize the humanity in those who fight for us… then perhaps we never had any to begin with.”

The mic shut off.

Silence fell once more.

And in that breathless moment, your eyes found Thorn again—still unmoving, but his hand had curled into a fist against his thigh.

Not out of rage.

Out of hope.

And maybe… something dangerously close to pride.

⸻

The door to your private quarters sealed behind you with a soft hiss.

Your fingers trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline still crackling in your veins like an aftershock. You’d done it. You’d stood before the entire Senate and spoken the truth, every brutal syllable. No sugarcoating. No diplomacy. Just raw, righteous fire.

Your hand reached for the decanter near the bar, but before you could pour, you sensed him.

Thorn. Silent. Present. A force of nature in your periphery.

“I didn’t ask for a shadow tonight,” you said over your shoulder, keeping your voice light. “Unless you’re here to drink with me.”

“You were nearly killed last week,” he replied. “You’re not getting one night off from protection because you’re feeling brave.”

You finally looked at him.

He stood just inside the doorway, helm tucked under one arm, red kama dark in the low lighting. His face unreadable—always unreadable—but his eyes had that sharp, glowing heat that you were beginning to recognize. Something he kept buried. Something you kept digging up.

“You heard it all?” you asked, quieter now.

He nodded once.

“What’d you think?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. Each one sounded louder than it should have. Maybe because your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Maybe because you wanted to hear him move, like confirmation that he was real.

When he stopped in front of you, barely a foot away, you could smell the faint trace of durasteel and citrus polish that always clung to him.

“You speak like a weapon,” he said, voice low. “You make people listen. You make them feel.”

That wasn’t what you expected. “I make them angry.”

“You make them remember they still have souls.”

There it was again—that crack in the armor. That flicker of something he refused to name. But it was closer now. Closer than ever.

You looked up at him, suddenly too aware of the space between you.

And the fact that neither of you was stepping back.

“Thorn,” you said softly, unsure what was about to happen.

He leaned forward, head tilting just slightly until his forehead almost touched yours. Almost.

“I remember everything,” he murmured. “Every time you test me. Every time you look at me like you’re daring me to slip.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“You do.”

A beat of silence.

Your breath caught.

And his gloved hand reached up, slow, steady—cupping your cheek like he was touching something sacred. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, and your resolve shattered like glass beneath his calloused touch.

“I can’t be what you want,” he said, jaw tight. “Not while this war is still burning.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

And for a single, stolen moment, his walls collapsed.

You pressed your lips to his—not out of seduction, but desperation.

And Thorn… let it happen.

Then returned it.

Firm. Unapologetic. Hands gripping your waist like a man starved of something only you could give.

When he finally pulled away, breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours.

“This doesn’t change who I am,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t want it to.”

“You’re going to make this impossible, aren’t you?”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “That’s kind of my thing.”

⸻

The Senate floor was still echoing with the aftermath of your speech. The proposed bill—once a bold declaration—was now a detonated explosive, and the shockwaves had begun to rattle the Republic’s most carefully constructed pillars. Some senators were emboldened. Some were enraged. But most… were afraid.

And fear was Sheev’s favorite thing.

So when you received his personal request for a private meeting—no guards, no aides—you didn’t hesitate. You knew what it meant.

This wasn’t a request.

This was a reckoning.

Sheev stood at the broad window overlooking the City, hands clasped behind his back, as though he were observing a galaxy already in his grasp. His robes shimmered faintly in the dim light. For once, he didn’t mask the edge in his voice when you entered.

“You should have listened when I told you to let this go,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never listened to you when it mattered. Why start now?”

He turned to face you slowly, expression carved from marble. “This bill has made enemies of powerful people. Systems that were once on our side are pulling their support. You’re fracturing the illusion of control. Of order.”

“Good,” you said coolly. “Maybe they’ll finally see that this war isn’t order—it’s manipulation. It’s slavery with a shinier name.”

A flash of irritation crossed his face. “You are standing on the edge of a very thin wire, my dear. And I am the one who decides if you fall.”

Your gaze sharpened, steel beneath silk. “So don’t catch me next time?”

He blinked. Slightly caught off guard.

You took a step forward. Not threatening—but unshaken.

“You want to protect me, Sheev. Because once, we were friends. You watched me rise in this Senate. Watched me set rooms on fire with my words. And maybe—maybe—there’s a part of you that remembers what it felt like to believe in something before power hollowed you out.”

His mouth twitched. A rare, dangerous smile.

“I protect what I can control,” he said simply.

You tilted your head. “Then that explains it. Why you’re finally done protecting me.”

Silence settled like dust between you.

Then, you let the words fall from your lips like the cut of a knife:

“You’re not the puppet anymore. You’re the master. No more hidden hands. No more cloaks and whispers.”

His face remained neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes. The faintest flicker. Not surprise—no, he was beyond that. But perhaps a recognition. Of danger. Of defiance.

You stepped closer, voice quiet but sharp as a vibroblade.

“You want strings? Find another doll. Because I won’t dance for you. Not in chains. Not ever.”

For a moment, he just stared.

Then he chuckled, low and slow.

“You’re braver than most,” he said softly. “But bravery is so often mistaken for foolishness. And foolish senators tend to meet… premature ends.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to be loud enough that the whole galaxy hears me before I go.”

You left the Chancellor’s office with your jaw set and heart hammering. The air outside the Senate complex felt thinner somehow. Like the planet knew. Like something knew.

There was a weight on your chest as you descended the polished steps, the kind you couldn’t reason away. Thorn wasn’t waiting for you—he had been pulled to another meeting, a reassignment shuffle. You were supposed to be protected. But at the Chancellor’s request… you’d come alone.

Your speeder sat sleek and silent in the private loading dock. You didn’t notice the subtle shimmer of tampered wiring along the undercarriage. Didn’t feel the wrongness in the air as you keyed in the start code.

Too angry. Too rattled. Too sure of yourself.

You rocketed upward into the Coruscant skyline.

And then everything ruptured.

Not in fire—not at first. It was more like the air being ripped apart. Then heat. Then white light and spinning glass and screaming metal and a blinding flash that swallowed the world.

Your speeder broke apart mid-air. Rigged. Remote-triggered.

There was no time to scream. No time to brace.

You were weightless.

Then…

Nothing.

⸻

He didn’t run.

He walked with iron in his spine and a hollow in his chest. Walked like a man who already knew, but needed to see with his own eyes before the earth gave out under him.

Fox was there. No words exchanged.

They didn’t need to be.

She was already gone when they pulled her out of the wreckage. No pulse. No miracles. Just wrecked beauty and blood on marble skin.

Thorn stood over the body, jaw clenched, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he reached out and brushed a piece of charred hair from her forehead.

“I was right behind you,” he said hoarsely. “I was coming.”

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, muscles locked in silence, until a nurse gently placed her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded once. Then left the room like a man retreating from a war he’d already lost.

⸻

Later That Night Fox stood before Chancellor Palpatine.

“She’s dead,” Fox said, his voice low, unreadable.

Palpatine stood with his back to the towering windows, the light of Coruscant’s endless skyline gleaming coldly on his robes. He didn’t turn.

“I know,” he said quietly.

There was no satisfaction in his voice. No cunning, no venom. Just… stillness.

“She was my niece.”

Fox froze.

Palpatine finally turned to face him, eyes shadowed but bright—burning with something deeper than grief.

“Not by blood most would count,” he said. “But I raised her like my own. Protected her. Watched her grow into that firebrand of a woman.” He inhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “She defied me to the last breath. As I expected.”

Fox’s throat worked. “Then why—?”

“I didn’t order this,” Palpatine interrupted sharply, the chill in his voice sharp as a blade. “I warned her to stop because I knew it was coming. I heard whispers. But I never gave the command.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I want the one who arranged it,” Palpatine said, voice dropping to a deadly low. “I want them found. I want them dragged before me, crawling, broken, pleading for death.”

He stepped closer to Fox, and though his posture was composed, the darkness behind his gaze crackled.

“She was mine. And my blood has been spilled.”

He paused. The mask of the Chancellor slipped just enough for the monster beneath to bleed through.

“Tell Thorn,” he said, voice like a storm about to break, “that if he truly loved her—he will find the ones responsible… before I do.”

Fox nodded stiffly, spine straight. “Yes, Chancellor.”

“And Fox,” Palpatine said, voice lowering once more, “when we find them… there will be no mercy.”

⸻

Previous Part

new quiz y'all! worked on this until 4 am lol. reblog and tell me, what kind of supervillain are you?

omega

“It’s On Again”

Commander Bly x Jedi!Reader

⸻

There were moments—even in war—that felt still.

In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.

You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.

You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.

And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.

But never just… you.

⸻

“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.

“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.

“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”

You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”

“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.

You didn’t answer.

She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”

That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”

Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”

⸻

Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.

He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.

He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.

It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.

You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.

But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.

⸻

The ambush came fast.

You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.

The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.

You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.

Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.

“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.

“I’m not done,” you rasped.

“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.

⸻

Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.

Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.

“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”

You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”

“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”

You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.

“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”

“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.

But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”

⸻

The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.

But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.

And for once, you didn’t stand alone.

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

- Rebels Wolffe x reader “somewhere only we know”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

- x Reader “hit me (like you mean it)”❤️

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List

“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.