“Red Lines” Pt.4

“Rules of Engagement”

Commander Neyo x Senator Reader

⸻

You weren’t what the Senate expected.

You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.

Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.

He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.

He followed you everywhere.

And you made sure to give him a show.

“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.

“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”

“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”

You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”

“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

“How noble.”

That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.

Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.

You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.

“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.

You smirked as the man scurried off.

“Jealous?” you teased.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”

You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.

“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.

Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.

“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”

“And yet…”

He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You grinned. “Good.”

He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.

And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.

Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.

⸻

You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.

Your stomach roiled.

There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.

“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.

You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.

Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.

You were dying.

And still—you were determined to win.

A sharp knock came at the door.

“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.

You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.

He blinked.

“You look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He nodded. “Fair.”

He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.

Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”

You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”

To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.

By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.

Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.

Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.

“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.

“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”

“I was warmed up.”

He blinked. “You threw up.”

“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”

He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.

Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.

He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.

Lights brightened. All eyes on you.

You smiled.

Then you spoke.

Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.

When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.

In the corridor, he finally said:

“You’re… something else.”

You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”

⸻

The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.

You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.

“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”

“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”

“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“Also a lie.”

You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”

When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.

“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.

Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.

He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.

Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.

The door shut behind you.

And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.

Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.

“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”

Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.

Then—

“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.

You made a muffled whining sound.

“You’ll stab yourself.”

“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.

But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.

And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.

One by one.

You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.

His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.

“Better,” he said softly.

You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.

“You’re being weirdly sweet.”

“I’m not sweet.”

“Well, you’re weird then.”

A long pause. He didn’t move away.

Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”

He hesitated.

Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”

Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.

You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.

You knew he wouldn’t leave.

And that—for once—felt like safety.

⸻

It was past 0200 when you stirred.

The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.

You found Neyo right where you expected him.

Standing just outside your bedroom door.

Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.

Unmoving.

“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.

“Yes.”

You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”

“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”

You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”

“I’m consistent.”

“Irritatingly so.”

You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.

Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.

Neyo noticed.

Then everything happened at once.

A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—

And Neyo tackled you to the ground.

The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.

Another shot. Close.

Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.

They hadn’t met Neyo before.

He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.

The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.

Then silence.

Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”

You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.

The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.

You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.

The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.

Smoke. Dust. Silence.

Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.

You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:

Your liquor cabinet.

You limped over.

From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.

You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.

Then you held it out to Neyo.

“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.

He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.

He took the bottle from your hand.

Took a sip.

Didn’t even flinch.

You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”

He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”

You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.

“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”

He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.

But it did.

⸻

You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.

Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.

Your apartment looked like a warzone.

Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.

The door buzzed.

You groaned.

“Tell them I’m dead.”

Neyo didn’t even turn.

The door buzzed again.

You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.

The door slid open.

“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.

Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.

Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”

Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”

“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”

Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.

Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”

“So was my liver,” you muttered.

Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”

“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.

Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”

“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”

“You nearly died.”

“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”

He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”

Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”

You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”

The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.

Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.

Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”

You stared at it.

Then smiled.

“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”

⸻

The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.

“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”

“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”

“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”

Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.

They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.

In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.

Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.

And now, word had come down.

He was being reassigned.

⸻

The knock on your door was unnecessary.

You already knew it was him.

You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.

Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.

He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”

“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”

“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.

You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.

“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.

He nodded.

You stared at him, your throat tight.

“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”

That caught his attention.

“Why?”

“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”

His eyes dropped for a moment.

Then rose again—meeting yours.

“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”

You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”

“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”

Your heart stung.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.

And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.

Then pulled away.

Duty won again.

“Goodbye, Senator.”

You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.

Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.

Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.

And toasted to what almost was.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

a printer error is an attempt from god to get you to kill yourself but you must be stronger and you must must must beat the printer to death with a large object like object

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.”

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Wolffe x Reader (79’s)

It was another night at 79’s, the bar where the clones and the occasional visitor came to unwind after a long day of battle. The flickering lights cast shadows on the grungy walls, but the lively chatter, laughter, and clinking of glasses created a comforting hum in the background. You leaned against the bar, swirling your drink, eyes scanning the room when your gaze landed on a familiar face.

Commander Wolffe, as always, had a commanding presence even when he was off-duty, but tonight he was uncharacteristically relaxed. His armor was discarded in favor of the usual clone-issue tank top and fatigues, his black-and-grey hair tousled in a way that made him look rugged, even more so than usual. You’d bumped into him here plenty of times, always with the same playful banter and flirtatious remarks that made you look forward to your time at 79’s.

Tonight, however, something was different. You weren’t alone.

A new face—a clone commander you didn’t recognize—was sitting at a nearby table, chatting you up with ease. His dark hair was shaved close, a subtle scar above his eyebrow, and his grin was disarming, though his overconfidence was starting to wear on your patience. You were just humoring him for the moment, enjoying the banter and not entirely bothered by the attention. After all, it was 79’s, and a little flirtation never hurt anyone.

It was harmless enough, or at least you thought so, until you noticed Wolffe watching the exchange from a distance.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been flirted with by clones here, but you could sense Wolffe’s usual relaxed demeanor had shifted. The intensity in his eyes was unmistakable as he made his way over to you, standing a little too close, his presence commanding the room.

You flashed him a smile, unfazed by the tension that had suddenly thickened between them. “What’s up, Wolffe? You seem a little tense tonight.”

“Everything alright here?” Wolffe’s tone was sharp, his eyes flicking to Cody, who was now giving him a questioning look. He then turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening for a moment before he added, “Is this guy bothering you?”

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin pulling at your lips. “No,” you teased, “we’re just having a drink.”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened as he turned to Cody, who hadn’t broken his cool demeanor. “Well, he’s bothering me,” Wolffe said, and before anyone could react, he delivered a quick, sharp punch to Cody’s jaw.

Cody staggered slightly, more out of surprise than anything, his usual calm expression barely cracking. He recovered quickly, though, smirking as he rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that’s one way to say hello, Wolffe,” Cody said, voice tinged with amusement.

“Just a friendly reminder,” Wolffe grumbled

The room fell silent for a brief moment before laughter erupted from the nearby tables, the other clones eyeing the two commanders like they were about to see something more entertaining than a training session. The bartender, however, wasn’t as amused.

“You three! Out!” The bartender called, waving a hand at the trio of you, his patience running thin.

Wolffe flashed Cody a final look, an unspoken challenge in his eyes, before he gave a half-smile in your direction. “Guess we’re kicked out,” he muttered, already stepping toward the door.

Outside, the cool night air hit you, the chaos of the bar quickly fading behind you as you all stood on the street. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Well, that was interesting,” you said, grinning. “Couldn’t help myself, you know? It’s hard to resist a little harmless flirtation with handsome clones.”

Wolffe smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, though there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “Next time, try not to get two clones in a punch-up over you.”

Cody, rubbing his jaw with a slight wince, chuckled. “I’ve had worse, Wolffe. But maybe you’ll want to keep that temper in check next time.”

You grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about it. I mean, you’re both so handsome. It’s hard not to get a little distracted.”

Wolffe shot Cody another look, then glanced at you with a half-smile. “Well, I suppose it’s good to know where I stand,” he said dryly. “But just remember, no one’s going to flirt with you as much as I do. So maybe I’ll keep punching my way to your heart.”

Cody snorted, shaking his head. “Brotherly rivalry at its finest, huh?”

You laughed, amused by the two of them. “Yeah, looks like it.” You gave Wolffe a playful look. “But I have to admit, I like the way you fight for my attention.”

Wolffe grinned, his usual cool demeanor returning. “Good,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because I’m not going to let anyone else take it.”

The three of you shared a brief, comfortable silence, and though the situation had been far from ordinary, there was a sense of camaraderie that you wouldn’t have traded for anything. And even though it had been an unexpected turn of events, you couldn’t help but enjoy the playful rivalry—especially when it involved such intriguing company.

“You two are something else,” you said, shaking your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “But it looks like I’m going to have to pick a side, huh?”

Wolffe gave you a smirk that told you everything you needed to know. “I’m already on your side,” he said, his voice full of quiet confidence.

Cody chuckled, stepping away with a wink. “Don’t think I’ll let you forget this, Wolffe.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wolffe shot back with a grin. And with that, the three of you parted ways for the night, the bond of camaraderie—and the subtle, unspoken rivalry—lingering between you all.

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader

Summary: Domino Squad is a disaster, and you're the trainer stuck trying to fix them. They're cocky, chaotic, and hanging by a thread—especially Fives. But somewhere between the bruises, barking orders, and late-night drills, something starts to change. Maybe even you.

———

Kamino always smelled like wet metal and too much polish. The kind of place that made your trigger finger itch just to remind yourself you were still alive.

You stood alone in the empty training room, arms crossed, helmet hooked on your hip, waiting.

Fifteen minutes. You weren't used to waiting. Especially not for kids.

Domino Squad. Shak Ti's special case. Her voice still echoed in your ear from the briefing: "They have potential... but they lack unity. I believe a different kind of instructor might help."

You weren't sure if she meant your experience training commandos... or the fact that you had the patience of a womp rat with a blaster wound.

The door finally hissed open, and five clone cadets filtered in—already mid-argument.

"I told you she'd be here," one snapped.

"No, you said hangar, genius."

"I said rec room, actually."

You turned slowly to face them, expression unreadable.

"You're late."

They froze like kids caught slicing into a security terminal.

One of them—broad-shouldered, short hair, an attitude problem already radiating off him—stepped forward. "Ma'am, we were told to meet you in the hangar."

You stared him down. "Why the hell would I meet you in the hangar for live combat drills? That's where people go to leave. Not get their shebs handed to them."

Another chimed in, confused. "CT-782 told us the mess hall."

The tall one groaned. "I never said that!"

"Did too!"

"I said we should check the mess hall—"

"Why would she train us in a cafeteria?!"

They were full-on bickering now. Voices overlapping, fingers pointing, logic disappearing with every word.

You just stared. Shak Ti hadn't been exaggerating.

These kids were a walking tactical disaster.

You let them go another three seconds before barking, "Enough!"

Silence.

You stepped forward, boots echoing against the durasteel floor.

"You think this is funny? Cute? You think this is how squads survive out there in the field? Getting your coordinates mixed and your shebs blown off because nobody can get their story straight?"

They said nothing. At least they had the sense to look guilty.

You exhaled through your nose, less angry now. More tired.

"Alright. Names. One by one. And don't kriffing lie."

The one who'd spoken first crossed his arms. "CT-782. Hevy."

You gave him a look. Accurate. He was the one with the mess hall theory.

The next was shorter, more nervous. "CT-4040. Cutup."

You nodded once.

Then came a cadet with a perpetually sour expression. "CT-00-2010. Droidbait."

"Unfortunate name," you muttered.

He shrugged. "I didn't pick it."

Then came the silent one—stiff posture, emotion locked down like a vault. "CT-1409. Echo."

You raised a brow. "Because you repeat yourself?"

"Because I follow orders," he replied, a little too sharp.

You liked him already.

And finally... the fifth cadet. His armor was slightly looser, hair a little unruly, grin already forming.

"CT-5555. Fives."

You blinked. "Seriously?"

He gave you a cheeky salute. "I take training very seriously, ma'am."

You folded your arms. "And yet you still ended up fifteen minutes late to a scheduled ass-kicking."

His grin widened. "Better late than dead."

Force help me, you thought. This one's going to be a handful.

But as the squad fell into a loose formation, shoulders brushing, complaints subsiding—you saw it. The spark. They were disorganized, sure. Rough around the edges. But there was something under all that chaos.

Especially with that one.

Fives.

You didn't smile.

Not yet.

But you already knew you'd have your eye on him.

---

The simulation room smelled like ozone and bruised pride.

Smoke curled from a spent training turret. The floor was littered with foam stun bolts. And Domino Squad? Lying in a tangled heap of limbs, groaning and stunned after getting their collective asses handed to them. Again.

You stood over them, blaster still warm in your hand, utterly unimpressed.

"You know," you said, holstering your weapon, "the point of the exercise was *not* to see how many of you could trip over each other while a single assailant takes you all out in under two minutes."

Cutup coughed. "It was under two minutes?"

"I'm generous. It was forty-two seconds."

Hevy swore softly.

Fives pushed himself up onto one elbow, panting. "Okay, so—hear me out—we *let* you win. Morale-boosting strategy."

You turned slowly. "You let me what?"

He gave you that same lopsided grin from yesterday, hair mussed, lip split. "Had to make sure your ego was intact. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings."

"Oh," you said sweetly. "Is that what this is? You playing nice?"

Fives dragged himself to his feet, still grinning. "Wouldn't want to upset someone who looks that good while kicking my ass."

There it was. The line.

The others groaned behind him.

Echo muttered, "Maker, Fives, not again."

You stepped into his space. Fives barely flinched, even with you nose to nose.

"You know what's funny?" you said, eyes locked on his.

"Me, I'm hilarious," he offered.

You slammed the butt of your blaster into the back of his knee. He dropped like a sack of supplies, flat on his back with a surprised grunt.

You knelt beside him, elbow resting on your knee, casual. "Commandos don't flirt during training."

He blinked up at you. "Maybe they should."

You bit back a laugh.

It was infuriating. It was charming. It was a problem.

You stood, stepping over him to address the squad.

"You've got potential," you said flatly. "But potential doesn't mean anything if you can't get your heads out of your own shebs long enough to function like a unit. Commandos are sharp. Focused. They move like a single weapon."

Droidbait raised a hand from the floor. "So... we're more like a broken vibroblade?"

You stared down at him. "Right now? You're a butter knife."

A few of them snorted.

You rolled your shoulders, then hit the reset on the simulation. The room flickered. Walls shifted. Obstacles reformed.

"Again."

"Now?" Echo asked, winded.

"Yes, now. You think clankers are gonna give you a breather 'cause you're winded? Again."

The lights flickered red, and the first wave of simulated droids poured in.

---

The squad filed out of the training room, grumbling and limping, drenched in sweat and ego damage. You stayed behind, checking the scoring logs. You didn't look up when footsteps returned behind you.

"Back for round four?" you asked.

Fives leaned against the doorway, arms folded, nursing a fresh bruise on his jaw.

"Thought you might want some company while you reviewed our failure."

You arched a brow. "That's sweet. But I prefer my pity parties without commentary."

He grinned. "Not pity. Just... curiosity."

You turned toward him fully, arms crossed now. "About what?"

He shrugged. "Why you took this assignment. You're a bounty hunter. You train clone commandos. So what are you doing babysitting a bunch of squad rejects?"

You stared at him for a long beat.

"I don't babysit," you said finally. "I break bad habits. Yours just happen to be louder and dumber than most."

His grin faltered—just for a second.

But then he stepped closer. Not quite in your space, but almost.

"You think we've got no shot, huh?"

"I think you've got no discipline. No unity. No idea how to shut up and listen. You've got heart, sure. Fire. But fire without direction burns out fast."

Fives looked at you differently then. The grin softened. The smartass faded, just a little.

"And me?" he asked, quieter.

You blinked.

"What about you?"

He shrugged again, casual and reckless. "Where do *I* fall on your little critique list?"

You stepped closer, leaned in with a smirk of your own.

"You? You're the most dangerous one of all."

His eyebrows lifted. "Oh yeah?"

"Because you've got the spark. But you'd throw your life away in a second for someone who doesn't even like you yet."

Fives opened his mouth to reply, but you were already walking out past him.

"Be better tomorrow, cadet," you called.

He turned to watch you go, smirking despite himself.

"Oh, I will."

---

The lights were low in the training dome. It was well past curfew. The Kaminoan facility echoed with rain and distant alarms. Most cadets were asleep—except Domino Squad.

And you.

The moment you'd walked into the barracks and barked, *"Up. Now. You've got five minutes,"* they knew better than to ask questions.

Cutup groaned as he jogged alongside you toward the dome. "You realize some of us like sleeping, right?"

"You can sleep when you're competent," you shot back.

"Guess I'll be dead first," Droidbait muttered.

Fives, ever the golden retriever with a blaster, nudged Hevy. "Come on. This'll be good."

"You say that every time," Echo said, deadpan. "And every time, you eat dirt."

"Yeah," Fives grinned. "But at least I look good doing it."

You rolled your eyes but hid the smile tugging at your mouth as you keyed in the sim code. The floor shifted. A close-quarters layout, reduced visibility, enemy droids loaded for full-speed pursuit. No stuns. They had to think. Move fast. Adapt.

"Alright," you said. "You've improved. Slightly. So now we make it harder."

Droidbait groaned. "I liked it better when you just yelled at us."

"You're welcome."

You turned to Fives as he checked his blaster, already flashing you that boyish, too-easy smile. "So what's the challenge this time, boss? Try not to fall in love with you mid-firefight?"

You tilted your head. "That happen to you often, cadet?"

He winked. "Only with the deadly ones."

Your smirk was slow and wicked. "Careful, pretty boy. That flirting'll get you shot."

"Oh, I'm into danger."

"Good," you purred. "I'll make it hurt."

That got a low *ooooh* from the squad.

Fives faltered—just for a second. It was enough.

The droid in the corner of the sim fired. Fives barely turned in time before the stun bolt caught him square in the chest and sent him sprawling to the floor with a *thud.*

You crossed your arms, standing over him with a grin. "Lesson number one: distractions on the battlefield get you *killed.*"

Cutup leaned over him. "Damn, man. She really *floored* you."

"Shut up," Fives wheezed.

You turned back to the rest of them. "Get up. Formation. Now."

As they fell into line, Echo muttered under his breath, "This feels like bullying."

"You all volunteered to be here," you called over your shoulder. "This is mercy."

Fives finally staggered upright, cheeks flushed—maybe from the stun, maybe not.

He jogged to catch up, falling in step beside you.

"I'm still your favorite," he said under his breath.

"You're on a very long list, cadet."

He grinned. "But I'm climbing."

You just smirked and let him believe it.

---

The squad had been dismissed and were off licking their wounds (and egos). But you were still in the dome, reviewing footage, adjusting the next sim's layout.

You didn't look up when the door hissed open.

"You don't sleep either, huh?"

Fives.

He walked in slow, still in training gear, bruised, towel slung around his neck like some cocky prizefighter.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. "Thought I'd come get a private lesson."

You raised a brow. "Need help falling on your face again?"

"Thought I'd try doing it *on purpose* this time," he shot back, stepping up beside you.

You shook your head, amused despite yourself.

The silence stretched for a moment—comfortable. Weirdly so.

Then he asked, quieter, "Do you think we're gonna make it?"

You looked over at him, surprised.

He wasn't grinning anymore. Not really.

"I mean," he added, "Domino Squad. We screw everything up. Shak Ti thinks we're hopeless. Our last trainer quit after two weeks. You're the only one who hasn't given up on us yet."

You watched him for a beat.

"You want the honest answer?"

He nodded.

"You will. But not because of some miracle. Not because someone fixes you. You'll make it because you stop trying to be five separate heroes and start fighting like one team."

He looked at you like you'd said something *important.*

Then, because it was Fives: "Also probably because I look so good in armor."

You rolled your eyes. "And you were *so* close to having a character moment."

He chuckled, easy and low. "I like you."

You turned back to the screen, not smiling, but not not-smiling either.

"I know."

---

You stood with arms crossed in the control room above the Citadel, staring down at the training ground. The room was cold, sterile—just like the expressions on the two bounty hunter instructors beside you.

Bric scowled. "They're not ready."

El-Les sighed, gentler, but still resigned. "Too fractured. They'll fall apart under pressure."

You clenched your jaw. "They've improved."

"Not enough."

Down below, Domino Squad prepped for the exam. They looked... okay. Not perfect. Not polished. But their footing was better. Their eyes sharper. Even Hevy wasn't muttering complaints under his breath. You'd drilled them to exhaustion over the past week.

They had heart.

But heart only got you so far.

---

It started strong.

Tight formation, decent communication. Droid targets were taken down efficiently, if a bit loud. But then the turret fired.

Hevy went off plan.

Droidbait hesitated.

Cutup tripped.

Echo tried to rally them—but it was too late.

Fives shouted over the chaos. "Fall back, *together!*" but no one was listening anymore.

The blast sent them sprawling. Timer hit red.

"Simulation failed," the droid voice droned.

Silence.

You looked down at them through the glass, jaw clenched.

Below, the boys didn't even argue. They just stood there, stunned.

Disappointed.

Shak Ti's voice was calm, as always, from beside you. "They're not without merit."

Bric scoffed. "They're without skill."

You bristled. "They're not without *potential.*"

But it didn't matter. The test was failed. Domino Squad walked off the field with heavy steps and heavier hearts.

---

You found them later, back in their barracks, silent for once.

"I've seen worse squads," you said, leaning against the wall.

Echo didn't look up. "You've trained worse squads?"

"No," you admitted. "But I've seen them. You want pity, or you want another shot?"

Fives finally looked at you. "They're not gonna let us retake it."

You tossed a datapad onto the table. "Shak Ti overruled Bric. Said you were worth the gamble."

They all stared.

Hevy slowly blinked. "...You serious?"

You gave him a sharp nod. "Final shot. Pass, and you graduate. Fail, and I'm not gonna waste my time making your funerals look nice."

Fives grinned, eyes gleaming. "You do care."

You shoved a practice baton into his chest. "I care about not wasting good talent. Let's go, squad. Again."

---

You watched from the same control room, this time with arms folded, jaw tense, heart stubbornly in your throat.

Domino Squad hit the field. Silent. Steady.

They moved like a unit.

When Hevy took the high ground, Echo and Cutup covered the flank. Fives ran point, calling out shots, focused, fast, precise.

When the turrets came, no one panicked. When Droidbait hesitated, Fives yanked him out of the way without missing a beat.

They didn't fall apart.

They didn't fall at all.

The simulation ended with the squad fully intact, the objective secured, and the droid voice confirming: "Simulation complete. Pass."

Bric said nothing. El-Les smiled.

You? You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

---

You met them outside the dome, arms crossed again—but this time your eyes betrayed you.

Pride. Real pride.

They were grinning, sweaty, bruised, but *standing taller* than they ever had.

"Well?" you said. "You gonna thank me, or what?"

Cutup smirked. "Thank you for the emotional trauma?"

Hevy laughed. "Wouldn't be the same without it."

You looked at Fives. He looked back, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them.

And then, without thinking, you stepped in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

A beat.

Then two.

The entire squad: *"OOOOHHHHHHH—"*

Fives flushed crimson, frozen in place. "Did—Did anyone else feel the room spin or—?"

You smirked, stepping back. "Don't let it go to your head, pretty boy. You're still just a cadet."

He blinked. "A cadet who *just graduated.*"

You held his gaze a moment longer, something unsaid between you.

Then you turned. "Until we meet again."

"Wait—" he called after you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He smiled, still a little dazed. "You're gonna miss me."

You grinned. "I already do."

And then you were gone, leaving Domino Squad behind to bask in their victory.

And Fives?

Well, he touched his cheek for a suspiciously long time that day.

———

Part 2

A/N

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