My Darling I've Said This Before But You Deserve So Many More Likes, Every Time I Read One Of Your Fics

i need to be fucked like he would die without it

“Only One Target”

Captain Rex x Sith Assassin!Reader

Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.

⸻

Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.

You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.

Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.

“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.

“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.

Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.

Skywalker.

Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.

Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”

Simple. Clean.

But Jedi never made things easy.

A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.

Perfect.

Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”

You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.

But Skywalker—he came for you.

He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.

“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.

“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”

“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”

Your blades clashed.

He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.

Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.

You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

“Who sent you?” he snarled.

“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”

His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.

This wasn’t going to plan.

Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”

“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.

“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”

You turned—but it was already too late.

A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.

Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.

Coward.

You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.

And in front of them stood a clone captain.

Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.

He didn’t look at you like a person.

He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.

You smirked through the pain.

“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t shoot you either.

⸻

The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.

You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.

Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.

“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.

You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”

He stopped pacing, turned on you.

“Who sent you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”

He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”

He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.

“I will get answers out of you.”

You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”

“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”

He stared at you for a long, tense beat.

Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.

“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.

Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.

⸻

Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.

You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.

“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Rex didn’t move.

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”

“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”

You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”

Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.

“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”

Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.

“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”

You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.

“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”

He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.

Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.

“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”

Your smirk softened. Just a bit.

“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”

“Convenient.”

“True.”

The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.

“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.

You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.

“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”

He paused in the doorway, head tilted.

“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

But you knew.

You always knew.

⸻

Captain Rex hadn’t come back.

Not once.

And it was driving you crazy.

Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.

But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.

Something had changed.

The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then the alarms started.

Again.

You stood.

Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.

Then the scream of a clone dying.

You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.

So dramatic.

She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.

“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”

You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”

She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”

You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.

“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”

Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”

She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.

Chaos.

And in chaos… came opportunity.

Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.

And you intended to walk through it.

You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”

But you were already lunging at him.

The fight was brutal.

He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.

But you were sharper.

He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.

You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.

Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.

You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:

“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”

Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

You smirked, breath warm at his ear.

“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”

And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.

Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.

“Damn it.”

⸻

The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.

You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.

You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.

The kiss.

You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.

Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.

Maybe it was to mock him.

Or maybe it was something else.

You pushed the thought away.

The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.

He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.

The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.

“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”

“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.

“For now.”

Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”

You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”

Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”

“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”

You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”

“They were in your way.”

You were quiet.

Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.

“You toyed with them.”

The words sliced like ice.

“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”

You tensed.

Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.

Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”

Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”

“You failed the objective.”

His voice rose like thunder.

“You kissed the enemy.”

You blinked once. Slowly.

“I did,” you said.

Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.

He stepped closer.

“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”

“I haven’t.”

He leaned in, towering.

“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”

You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”

He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.

“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”

He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.

“Next time, you kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure you could.

⸻

The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.

Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.

He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Back in that hallway.

Back in the smoke.

Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.

It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.

Instead, she kissed him.

And now she was out there.

Alive.

And he hated that he kept thinking about her.

Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.

Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”

“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”

Rex shifted. “Just processing.”

“Hm.”

Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.

“She messed with your head,” he said casually.

Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”

“She kissed you, didn’t she?”

That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

Anakin grinned, triumphant.

“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”

Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”

“That’s not evidence of anything.”

“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”

Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”

Skywalker’s brow furrowed.

“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”

A pause. Tense. Thick.

Rex looked away.

“I hesitated.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“…I don’t know.”

It was the only honest thing he could say.

Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”

He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.

“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”

Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”

Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.

“You find her.”

A beat.

“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”

Rex nodded once.

But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.

⸻

“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.

Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”

Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”

Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”

That got his attention.

Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”

“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”

“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”

Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.

Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—

He clenched his jaw.

“She’s bait.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.

“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”

But he wasn’t sure he believed that.

Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.

She wouldn’t hide.

Not unless she was hiding from them too.

⸻

You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.

Every shadow was a threat.

Every sound could be them.

You hadn’t slept in days.

Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.

He hadn’t even tried.

You were nothing to him now.

Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.

And yet, part of you was relieved.

No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.

But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.

You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.

Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.

Rex.

You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.

To his defiance.

His strength.

His disgust.

That heat in his stare when you kissed him.

You’d told yourself it was just a game.

So why did it still make your chest ache?

You swallowed hard.

And then you felt it.

A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.

And getting closer.

“They found me.”

⸻

Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.

“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.

Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”

Rex ignored them.

“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.

Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

“No.”

But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.

This woman was running.

And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.

⸻

The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.

Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.

She should’ve known better.

She was good.

But he was better.

A flash of movement to his right.

He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.

And there she was.

Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.

She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.

In fact—she looked tired.

“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.

The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.

“Drop the weapon,” he barked.

You raised your hands. Slowly.

“I’m unarmed.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”

“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”

You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”

Rex didn’t answer.

He studied you.

No backup. No escape route. No fight.

This wasn’t an ambush.

This wasn’t a trap.

This was… surrender.

“Where’s your army?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“Dooku?”

You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”

“And Ventress?”

A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”

That, at least, made sense.

Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.

“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.

“Why should I believe you?”

You looked at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“I don’t care if you do.”

Another beat of silence.

And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.

“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”

He stared at you.

One word. One plea.

“Please.”

It wasn’t seductive.

It wasn’t tactical.

It was real.

And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.

The wind howled between you.

And he… didn’t pull the trigger.

Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The truth sat thick between them.

“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”

There was a pause.

Then static cracked and—

“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.

“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.

Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.

When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.

“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”

Rex followed without a word.

⸻

The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.

You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.

Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.

Always watching.

“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.

“But you didn’t call me in.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

You looked up. Eyes meeting his.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”

You exhaled, slowly.

“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”

Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.

You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”

The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.

Then—

“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.

You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”

“A dangerous one.”

“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”

Rex looked at you then. Really looked.

You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”

He flinched at that.

“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”

Rex didn’t respond right away.

Then, finally—

“I believe you.”

The words hung in the air like a confession.

You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”

He hesitated.

“…I don’t know yet.”

Another pause.

Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.

“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”

His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”

You smiled. “Did it work?”

He didn’t answer.

You were closer now. Too close.

And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.

But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.

Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”

He met your gaze.

“I don’t have time to wonder.”

“Maybe you should start.”

You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.

Then, at the last second, you pulled back.

“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.

Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

And outside, the storm raged.

⸻

Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.

“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.

Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”

Fives smirked. “He found her.”

“And didn’t bring her in.”

They shared a look.

“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.

Fives clicked his tongue.

“I think he hopes not.”

⸻

The storm had passed.

The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.

You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.

Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.

You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.

“They’ll know soon enough.”

“I know.”

“They’ll think you let me go.”

“I did.”

Finally, you turned to him.

Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.

“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.

“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”

You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you stepped forward. Closer.

“This is the part where I disappear again.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step forward.

Didn’t say stay.

Because he couldn’t.

You leaned in, eyes searching his.

“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”

And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.

Just real.

Warm.

A goodbye.

Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you were gone.

Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.

Like you’d never been there at all.

Except he’d never forget.

⸻

Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”

Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”

Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.

“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.

“She was never there,” Rex said.

Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”

“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”

They watched him.

Said nothing.

Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.

And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.

A smear.

No, not a smear.

Lipstick.

Fives blinked.

Then grinned like a menace.

But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.

And muttered without looking back—

“Don’t.”

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

omega

Yeah you could say I’m doing numbers on tumblr. And that numbers? One

“Crimson Huntress” pt.3

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

CT-4023 once had a name. A stupid one, maybe. But not a joke. His brothers gave it to him, and he wore it with pride.

They used to call him “Havoc.”

*Flashback*

The silence that day was like being buried alive. The mist on Umbara curled like claws.

It started with the air—heavy, choked with smoke and the chemical stench of burnt plastoid and cordite. Umbara was a graveyard before the first body hit the dirt.

He stood in the trench, helmet off, sweat streaking through black camo paint. His fingers shook against his DC-15. He didn’t know if it was fear or adrenaline or both. Probably both.

He wasn’t a rookie. Had served since Geonosis. But this? This was something else.

The sky never cleared. The sun never rose. They fought blind in the fog, in the dark, against an enemy they could barely see—until it turned out the enemy was themselves.

He remembered that moment too clearly.

The comm call. The confusion. The order.

Fire. On the approaching battalion.

They’re Umbarans in disguise.

No time to hesitate, trooper.

The first shot was fired. He didn’t know by who. Then it became a massacre.

It wasn’t until they closed the distance that they saw the helmets. The blue stripes. The 501st.

Their brothers.

He’d vomited in his helmet.

Later, when they found out Krell had manipulated them, that he was playing both sides—using them like pawns in a nightmare—it didn’t matter. The bodies didn’t un-die. The screams didn’t fade.

When it was over, they were commended for following orders.

For their loyalty.

For their “success.”

Something inside him broke.

He stayed quiet. Always quiet. But something… detached.

Later, during cleanup, he walked out into the forest and stared at the scorched battlefield. Ash fell like snow.

A sergeant came up beside him.

“We survived.”

“Did we?”

The next day, he volunteered for a deep recon mission off-grid. Just him. A week. He never came back.

They thought he was dead.

He let them think that.

*Flashback Ended*

He stared into the cup of tea that K4 had made earlier, now gone cold. The hum of the ship filled the silence.

Sha’rali watched him from the other side of the table, saying nothing.

“You ever kill someone you weren’t supposed to?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “I’m a bounty hunter.”

“I don’t mean for money. I mean by accident. Orders. Fog of war.”

Her silence stretched longer this time.

“I’ve tortured people who didn’t deserve it,” she said at last. “Does that count?”

He gave a humorless huff.

“I was loyal. I believed in it. Every order. Every command.” He looked at her, eyes bleak. “And it turned me into a murderer.”

“You’re not the only one.”

He studied her face, unsure if she meant herself—or every clone who ever wore a number.

“You didn’t desert because you were weak,” Sha’rali said. “You left because you couldn’t live with what they made you do.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked down at his gloved hands, now black and silver.

“Maybe I don’t deserve a new name,” he said softly. “Maybe I deserve to stay a number.”

Sha’rali leaned forward, her voice low.

“Then pick a number they don’t know.”

CT-4023 sat in the small galley of Sha’rali’s ship, elbows on the durasteel table, his hands still faintly marked with old bloodstains—some visible, most not.

He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

Sha’rali leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not in judgment, but consideration. Her long montrals cast shadows over the dim galley light, and her pale facial markings seemed more stark now, like war paint rather than tradition.

“I was wondering when you’d talk,” she said finally, voice low. “You hide it well. But your eyes give you away.”

4023 didn’t look up. “How so?”

“They’re quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. Like someone turned all the noise off inside, and just left you with static.”

He finally lifted his gaze. “You sound like you know the feeling.”

Sha’rali gave a short, bitter laugh. “I do.”

She pushed off the wall and moved to sit across from him. She set a steaming cup of stim down between them—probably from K4’s endless tea service—but didn’t touch it.

“I’m not like most Togruta,” she said. “Not even close.”

He said nothing, so she continued.

“We’re supposed to be communal. Peaceful. Guided by spirit. Our connection to each other and the land is everything. Most of us find calm just by being near one another. But I don’t. I never have.”

Her voice lowered.

“I don’t feel serenity. I feel… disconnected. Like something in me didn’t wire right. Where others found balance, I found blades. Rage. Violence.”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“There’s a defect in me.”

He blinked slowly. “Maybe it’s not a defect.”

“Oh, don’t romanticize it,” she scoffed. “I kill people for money. I enjoy it sometimes. Not because it’s just—it rarely is—but because it’s easy. Because it makes the noise stop. Even if only for a little while.”

He nodded.

“That… sounds familiar,” he murmured.

They sat in silence. No sympathy, no pity—just recognition.

After a long moment, she leaned back and exhaled.

“I used to think maybe I was Force-touched,” she muttered. “Some genetic thing. An imbalance. But the Jedi came to my village once when I was young. Scanned everyone.”

“They scanned you?”

She nodded. “Said I wasn’t Force-sensitive. But the Knight who tested me looked at me for a long time. Like he saw something he didn’t want to.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.

A pause.

Sha’rali looked at him again, more openly now. “Whatever broke you… I think it broke me too. Just in a different shape.”

4023’s lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.

He nodded again. “We’re good at pretending we’re not the ones who need saving.”

She smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I never needed saving. I just needed someone to aim at.”

A pause.

4023 looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, “And now?”

She held his gaze.

“Now I’m not sure what I need.”

⸻

The Jedi Council room was dimmed with twilight. The room was quiet but tense, evening sun casting long shadows through the high arched windows. Some Masters were seated, others stood, gathered in a semi-circle around the central holoprojector. In the center flickered the grim face of the Trandoshan informant Cid—grainy, but clear enough.

“She’s not here anymore,” Cid rasped. “Was never supposed to be. I didn’t send her a job. Someone used my name. Set her up, maybe. She came asking about it… and she wasn’t alone.”

That was the part the Council had fixated on.

“She had him with her,” Mace Windu said, standing with his arms crossed. “The clone.”

Master Plo Koon tilted his head. “The one from Saleucami?”

“Same body type. Same gait. Same refusal to register. Cid said he didn’t give a name. But the description matches CT-4023.”

“CT-4023…” Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, expression hardening. “That was the ARC we tried to extract during the intelligence breach. Delta Squad was pulled out under fire. He was taken by a bounty hunter—this same Togruta.”

Shaak Ti nodded gravely from her hologram feed. “We believed he was compromised. Assumed he’d be transferred offworld. Perhaps dissected. And yet—he survived.”

“He didn’t just survive,” Windu said darkly. “He vanished. With her.”

Kit Fisto stood by the edge of the chamber, arms folded behind his back, quiet until now.

“And now he’s resurfaced,” Kit said. “On Ord Mantell. With the bounty hunter. After killing a Death Watch Mandalorian in open combat. Witnesses say she fought him hand-to-hand and took his armor.”

“The clone helped?” Koth asked.

“We don’t know,” Kit replied. “But the report says she nearly lost. Someone intervened. No footage.”

Yoda exhaled a slow breath. “A choice he made. To go with her.”

“Which suggests she didn’t capture him,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She persuaded him.”

“Or worse,” Windu added. “Whatever’s in his head, it was enough for her to extract him from a live Separatist stronghold and disappear. She might not know the value of what she’s carrying… or she might know exactly what he’s worth.”

Master Yoda’s ears tilted downward. “Curious, this bond. Curious, the timing. Dangerous, the silence since Saleucami.”

“There’s more,” Kit said. “Cid has now gone to ground. She said she’d report the sighting to us if we left her alone, but she’s clearly nervous. She saw something she didn’t like.”

Mace nodded once. “Then we move. Kit Fisto. Eeth Koth. Go to Ord Mantell. See if the trail’s still warm. We need to know what the bounty hunter is planning. And if the clone’s still alive.”

Shaak Ti’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the chamber where the clone’s name might have once been honored. “If it is 4023… he was among the last assigned to Umbara.”

That earned a beat of silence.

“A reason to break,” Plo Koon said softly.

“A reason to run,” Windu agreed. “But no reason to stay missing. No reason to hide—unless he’s protecting something.”

“Or someone,” Koth added.

Yoda’s voice cut through like a blade. “A ghost. From a war of ghosts. Find him. Find them both.”

Kit bowed his head. “We’ll leave tonight.”

As the Masters began to turn away and the room dimmed again into shadow, the holoprojector winked off, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of the Temple’s energy field.

⸻

The sun of Ord Mantell were sinking behind rusted cityscapes as Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth moved quietly through the narrow alleys of the industrial quarter. The air stank of oil, sweat, and molten metal. It was loud—always loud here—and perfect for hiding.

They didn’t wear robes here. Jedi cloaks would be like blood in the water.

Death Watch was already sniffing.

At the end of a cracked alley, a crowd gathered around scorch marks and torn duracrete. Bloodstains were still being cleaned from the wall by a nervous rodian janitor. He worked under the sharp eye of two Mandalorians in blue armor, their visors reflecting the flickering street lights.

“Third time we’ve come by this area,” Koth murmured, low and clipped.

Kit nodded. “No fresh leads. But the smell of fear hasn’t gone anywhere.”

The two Jedi lingered just out of sight, watching as a third Mandalorian approached. His armor was heavier, jetpack hissing slightly as he stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His voice barked sharp in Mando’a, silencing the chatter from the onlookers.

“That one’s been here since the first report,” Kit whispered, gesturing with his chin toward a thin Zabrak street vendor watching from behind a broken cart.

Koth approached first.

“We have a few questions.”

The Zabrak’s eyes darted toward the Mandalorians.

“I didn’t see nothing. Nothing,” he said quickly. “Look—everyone’s got a blaster down here, yeah? People die every night.”

“Not by Mandalorian hands,” Koth replied coolly. “And not to Mandalorians either. Someone fought one of their elites. And won.”

Kit stepped forward, his smile warm and easy. “We’re not Death Watch. We’re just trying to find someone. A Togruta bounty hunter. Tall, coral pink skin, long montrals. Accompanied by two droids—one purple astromech and a rather impolite butler-type.”

The Zabrak hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “No… don’t know any bounty hunter like that.”

“You do know something,” Kit said gently. “Even if you don’t realize it. Try again.”

After a tense pause, the vendor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Someone said she fought the Mando. That she took his armor. Left the body in the trash compactor down two levels.”

Koth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bold. Even for her.”

“But here’s the thing,” the Zabrak continued, leaning closer. “Whoever helped her—no one saw his face. Some say he fought like a Jedi, but used a blaster. One guy swore he heard him shout military code in the fight. Real clean and quiet, like he knew how to move. But when it was over, nothing. No footage, no trace. Gone.”

“No one saw his face?” Kit echoed.

The vendor nodded.

“Then they don’t know,” Koth said under his breath.

Kit looked toward the Mandalorians again. “Death Watch still in the dark.”

“For now.”

They slipped away, vanishing into the crowd like vapor. They passed another alley, where a pair of Death Watch grunts interrogated a pair of street kids who just shook their heads in terrified silence.

Once out of earshot, Koth turned toward his fellow Jedi.

“If they knew it was a clone under that armor, they’d burn this district to the ground. No witnesses is the only reason they haven’t already.”

“We can’t stay much longer,” Kit replied. “She’s already gone. All traces lead cold.”

Koth nodded grimly. “But they’re leaving a trail of ghosts.”

“We’ll find her,” Kit said, eyes narrowed. “We’ll find him too.”

Somewhere above them, unnoticed by either Jedi or Mandalorian, a familiar purple astromech dome blinked once behind a rusted pipe—then quietly rolled back into the shadows.

Kit Fisto’s boots crunched across broken glass in the gutted remains of an old comms relay tower. The metal frame above groaned with wind, swaying gently as shadows flickered beneath the half-moon light. Eeth Koth swept the ruins with his saber hilt gripped tight in one hand, unlit but ready.

“This tower was reactivated three days ago,” Kit murmured, running his fingers over a half-melted panel. “Then shut off again, abruptly. No trace in the central net.”

“Off-grid hardware,” Koth replied. “Could be old slicer work, or could be our bounty hunter. Maybe both.”

Then—click.

Koth turned sharply. “Did you hear that?”

Kit lifted a hand, motioning for silence. From beneath a warped support beam, something shifted, too small for a person—then rolled away with a faint whirr of servos.

“Droid.” Kit’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved instantly. With a graceful sweep of his hand, a panel was Force-flung from the floor, revealing the last flicker of a dome disappearing into the ventilation ducts.

“Purple,” Koth muttered. “Fast.”

“That matches the description of her astromech,” Kit confirmed.

⸻

Sha’rali’s lekku twitched as she paced the cockpit, nails tapping rhythmically on her armour plating. K4 stood near the control panel, ever stately, ever calm—until he spoke.

“R9 reports that the Jedi are now actively scanning the upper sector. I estimate they will locate him within seven minutes.”

“I told that little rust-ball to keep its distance,” she hissed, fangs bared in frustration. “I should’ve left him with you.”

“You left him to spy on Death Watch,” K4 replied with maddening evenness. “Not Jedi.”

Her claws clenched into fists.

A sharp beep pulsed in the cockpit—a direct feed from R9.

:: THEY SAW ME. TWO JEDI. BLACK ROBES. ONE HAS TENTACLES. PANICKED LEVEL 4. INITIATING EVASIVE ROLLING. ::

:: DUCT SYSTEM COMPROMISED. ::

Sha’rali swore in Togruti—harsh syllables rarely heard outside her mouth. Then in Huttese. Then something old and violent from a long-forgotten hunting language.

She stopped mid-rant.

“I never wiped his memory,” she said aloud.

K4 inclined his head. “Correct. Nor mine.”

Her eyes snapped to the droid. “You’ve got decades of jobs, contacts, hits—he’s got logs on half the galactic underworld.” Her voice turned ice cold. “And he’s got logs on 4023.”

“You did intend to wipe us several times,” K4 said helpfully. “You just never followed through.”

Sha’rali let out a breath between her fangs. “Because I got sentimental. Because I’m stupid.”

The clone—4023—entered the cockpit, helmet tucked under one arm. “What’s going on?”

She rounded on him. “My droid’s been spotted. The Jedi are sniffing his tracks.”

He stilled. “Do they know it’s yours?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. If they catch him, they’ll tear him apart. Every data string, every encrypted log, every…” She stopped. Her jaw worked.

“You’re going back.” It wasn’t a question.

K4 interjected, “May I remind you both that this is, objectively speaking, moronic.”

“Yeah, well.” Sha’rali growled. “I’m a moron who doesn’t want her brains uploaded to the Jedi archives.”

She began strapping her weapons back into place. Hidden vibroblade in the boot. Double-blaster rig to her hips. Backup vibrodagger at the small of her back. 4023 watched her work, face unreadable.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally.

She paused.

“No. I do.”

A sudden silence passed between them. Then her hand tapped the comms panel, locking coordinates.

“Get the ship ready to move the second I’m back.”

“And if you’re not?” the clone asked.

K4 answered for her. “Then we burn the evidence and flee. Standard procedure. Perhaps even play the funeral dirge for her if we’re feeling sentimental.”

Sha’rali offered a dry smile. “You are sentimental. You just hate it.”

As the ramp lowered, she paused and glanced back toward 4023.

“Don’t wait long. If I’m not back in twenty, leave.”

Then she vanished into the misty orange night of Ord Mantell, chasing shadows… and secrets.

⸻

R9 careened down a narrow duct, his purple dome clanging with every turn. The golden trim along his chassis caught sparks from loose wiring overhead. Blasts of hot air whooshed through the maintenance vents as he rolled at breakneck speed, fleeing the two organic Force-users hot on his tail.

:: CURRENT STATUS: SCREWED. ::

He took a sharp left, nearly tipping over.

:: ERROR: ADJUST GYROSCOPIC BALANCE. ::

Behind him, a hiss of lightsabers igniting echoed faintly through the ductwork. The sound prickled his auditory sensors like static.

He rolled out of the vent shaft into the open skeleton of a collapsed warehouse rooftop and immediately initiated a low-power visual dampener. A shimmering flicker of cloaking shimmered over his dome. Temporary. Imperfect.

And just in time.

Kit Fisto dropped from a higher level with the grace of falling water. He landed softly, eyes narrowed.

Eeth Koth followed, his saber active but lowered.

“He’s somewhere here,” Koth said. “I felt him pass through that duct.”

Kit’s eyes swept across the darkness. “He’s hiding. Clever droid.”

They split up, Kit moving in a wide arc around the edge of the roof, Koth stepping forward slowly. R9 barely dared beep. His systems were whirring in overdrive.

:: SITUATION: EXTREMELY SCREWED. ::

But then—footsteps. Not Jedi.

Clanking. Heavier.

Down on the streets below, the sound of three figures moving in perfect paramilitary formation. Black and blue armor. Jagged symbols on the chest plates. Jetpacks. Antennas.

Death Watch.

“Thought I saw something drop,” one muttered.

Another paused and looked upward toward the roof.

“The Jedi are here,” he said. “Kit Fisto. That’s him.”

A third voice, sharper: “You sure?”

The first nodded. “I saw him on once during some riots. That’s a Jedi Council Master.”

The second bounty hunter grunted. “And he’s chasing a droid like his life depends on it. What if that tin can has something we don’t?”

“Or someone.” The leader’s voice turned hungry. “The man who killed our brother.”

They disappeared into the warehouse below, slipping inside like ghosts.

Up on the roof, Kit Fisto froze.

“I felt that,” he whispered. “There’s more down there.”

Koth raised a brow. “Separatists?”

“No… something else. Watching.”

From beneath a crate, R9 watched everything. And as silently as his aging servos would allow, he activated his last-resort subroutine.

:: PRIORITY PING TO UNIT K4 – IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION REQUIRED. INTRUSION MULTIPLIER: +3 ::

Then he started rolling again—fast.

A flicker of movement caught Kit’s eye.

“There!”

He leapt. His green saber flared to life.

R9 took the impact and spun down a cargo chute, bouncing off steel walls and into an open alley. He skidded across duracrete and slammed into a pile of garbage.

Behind him, booted footsteps approached.

A door burst open—but not Kit’s.

Death Watch soldiers stormed the alley, weapons drawn. One knelt where R9 had landed. Another looked toward the rooftop above, scanning.

“Still want to follow the Jedi?” one of them said.

The leader growled. “No. We follow the droid. He’s running from the Jedi too.”

They turned and began tracking his route. Carefully. Coordinated.

Kit Fisto appeared in the alley seconds later, just missing them. He crouched by the scrape marks on the duracrete.

“Someone else is following him,” he said aloud.

Koth looked around, tense. “Death Watch?”

Kit nodded slowly. “Possibly.”

“But why?”

Kit didn’t answer. His gaze turned distant, thoughtful. “We need to report this. Now.”

They took off in the other direction, unaware that down the street, R9 had ducked into a half-buried loading dock, hiding behind a dead speeder. His circuits buzzed.

:: SHA’RALI, IF YOU’RE LISTENING… GET ME OUT OF HERE. ::

⸻

The stars above Ord Mantell burned cold and distant, a velvet ceiling cracked by neon haze and industrial smoke. Sha’rali Jurok perched on the ledge of a rusted scaffolding beam ten stories above the street, her lekku twitching with impatience. The red tint of her coral-pink skin shimmered faintly under the glow of a nearby spotlight, her white facial markings harshly defined in the night.

K4’s voice buzzed in her ear.

“Your plan is recklessness disguised as bravery, Mistress.”

“It’s worked before.”

“Statistically, it’s worked 31.7% of the time. Hardly inspiring odds.”

She adjusted the power cell in her blaster rifle, then scanned the rooftop below. R9’s heat signature blinked weakly in her HUD. Surrounded. Four Death Watch enforcers closing in.

Breathe in.

Sharpen the chaos.

She dropped like a stone.

Landing behind the first Mandalorian, she didn’t bother being quiet—her electrified gauntlet crackled as it slammed into his spine. He spasmed and fell forward, armor clanking. The others whirled just as she dove into them with a roar, blaster firing one-handed, saber dagger in the other.

One shot sizzled off her shoulder pauldron—stunned, not dead, but it pissed her off. Her lekku swayed as she ducked under a wild jetpack swipe and sliced a belt cord—sending the hunter tumbling sideways off the roof.

“R9!” she barked.

The droid squealed in binary, his dome rattling as he zipped toward her. The last two Mandalorians regrouped, advancing with synchronized precision, firing. Too close.

Then—

A blur of green and blue light.

Kit Fisto surged from the shadow like a tide, lightsaber spinning, deflecting bolts in radiant arcs. Eeth Koth followed, hammering one Death Watch fighter into the rooftop with a Force-augmented slam.

Sha’rali blinked, mid-slash.

“…Didn’t expect you two.”

Kit offered a grin even in the chaos. “We didn’t expect to help you.”

The rooftop trembled. More Death Watch approaching—six, maybe eight, from adjacent buildings. A few took flight, closing the distance fast.

“Mistress,” K4 said through comms. “You have approximately twenty seconds before an unpleasant level of Mandalorian reinforcements converge.”

“Bring the ship. Now!”

The rooftop began to burn—one of the fleeing jetpackers had tossed an incendiary before dying, and now the upper decks were crackling with fire.

Sha’rali grabbed R9 under one arm, lunging toward the edge with the Jedi in tow.

Jetpacks buzzed in the air behind them.

Kit flung out a hand—Force-pushing three of them back—but even he looked winded.

A sleek shadow dropped from the clouds with roaring engines and a bark of metallic thrusters.

K4 piloting with refined menace.

“Landing on fire-laden rooftops was not in my original programming.”

The side hatch blew open.

Sha’rali grabbed the nearest Jedi—Koth—and yanked him bodily through the air with a grapple cable. Kit followed with a Force-assisted leap.

She was the last to jump—nearly clipped by a blaster bolt as she hurled herself toward the hatch. Kit caught her by the wrist and yanked her in, just as K4 pulled the ship skyward, engines screaming.

Behind them, the rooftop exploded in sparks and fire.

Inside the ship, silence reigned for one long second.

Sha’rali dropped R9 with a grunt. “That was close.”

Koth glanced between them, tense. “You could’ve left us.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

Kit chuckled. “Why didn’t you?”

Sha’rali’s sharp smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess I’m going soft.”

From the cockpit, K4 chimed:

“Observation confirmed. Mistress has displayed increased emotional indulgence, borderline sentimentality. Recommend immediate psychological review.”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes. “Shut up and plot a course to deep space. No trails, no trackers.”

As she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the two Jedi looked at her with new eyes—unsure what they’d just been part of, or what game she was really playing.

Even she wasn’t quite sure anymore.

⸻

The hum of The ship’s engines was the only sound for a long moment. The Jedi sat across from their unexpected rescuers in the ship’s dimmed briefing room, if it could even be called that—Sha’rali had refitted the cramped space with mismatched chairs and a jury-rigged holotable now running diagnostics.

Sha’rali sat with her boots up on the table, seemingly unbothered, one lekku lazily coiled over her shoulder. Across from her, the clone—CT-4023—stood with arms crossed, helmet now tucked beneath one arm, black-and-silver Mandalorian armor freshly scorched from their rooftop scuffle. His posture was tense, wary, and silent.

Kit Fisto broke the silence first, voice calm but firm. “We’re not here to detain you. Either of you. We just want the truth.”

“Funny,” Sha’rali said, not smiling. “That’s usually what people say before trying to kill me.”

Eeth Koth leaned forward, hands laced together. “This isn’t an inquisition. We were sent to recover a deserter. That was the mission.”

She gestured toward the clone. “You can’t recover what’s already gone.”

The Jedi turned their attention to him.

He didn’t flinch under their gaze.

Koth narrowed his eyes slightly. “CT-4023… you’re not exactly making this easy.”

“I’m not him anymore,” the clone said at last. His voice was gravel—deep, tired, and burdened. “Whatever version of that number was assigned to Kamino, it died on Umbara.”

Kit regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You were part of the 212th?”

He nodded once. “What’s left of it.”

“Why leave?” Koth asked gently. “Why disappear?”

4023 hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Sha’rali, who gave him a subtle nod.

“You’ve never felt it, have you?” he said quietly. “That… hollow snap in your head when you realize the people giving you orders stopped being right a long time ago? When you start to think that maybe… you’re not meant to survive the war you were made for?”

Kit’s gaze softened. “You chose freedom.”

“No,” 4023 said. “I chose not to die in someone else’s lie.”

Sha’rali stood, walking toward the corner cabinet. She keyed in a command, and a medical scanner flickered to life.

“I assume you’ll want proof,” she muttered. “That he’s not Republic property anymore.”

From a holotray, a full scan of the clone’s body projected in grainy, rotating detail.

“Cloning markers? Burned. Biochips? Removed. CT barcode? Surgically flayed and regenerated.” Her voice was clinical, almost bored. “Even the facial markers have been subtly altered—minor surgical shifts to the cheekbones and jawline. Nothing that would raise flags on facial recognition unless you really knew what you were looking for.”

Kit Fisto examined the scan with mild surprise. “This is… thorough.”

“He wanted out,” she said, shrugging. “He asked. I obliged.”

Eeth Koth stood slowly. “But why keep him with you? What purpose does he serve?”

Sha’rali leaned one hip against the table and gave the Jedi a long, unreadable look.

“I don’t need a purpose to show someone mercy. Rare as it is.”

4023’s voice cut in low. “She could’ve sold me out a dozen times by now. To the Separatists. To Jabba. She didn’t.”

Koth turned his attention to him. “And what do you want?”

He took a breath. “To be nobody.”

There was silence. The kind that filled the space when everyone realized there was no easy solution.

After a beat, Kit Fisto turned off the scan and stepped back. “There’s no traceable connection to the Republic anymore. No chain of command, no markers, no active file. CT-4023… doesn’t exist.”

Sha’rali arched a brow. “So we’re done here?”

Koth hesitated. “The Council won’t be pleased.”

“Good,” she said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”

Kit Fisto nodded slowly. “We’ll report that the deserter is… unrecoverable.”

“Dead,” she said. “That’s usually easier for them to hear.”

He inclined his head, then turned to the clone. “You chose your path. I hope it brings you peace.”

4023’s expression barely changed. “It hasn’t yet.”

The Jedi rose and prepared to disembark at the next neutral outpost, neither chasing nor warning. Just… leaving. Because there was nothing else to be done.

As they filed toward the docking bay, Sha’rali remained by the doorway, arms crossed, watching them go.

“You know,” Kit said without turning, “whatever this is you’re doing—it doesn’t seem like you anymore.”

Sha’rali didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly. “Yeah… I get that a lot lately.”

When the Jedi were gone and the ship was sealed, R9 gave a warbled snort and beeped something foul in Binary from the corridor.

K4’s voice echoed from the cockpit:

“So. Shall I ready the guns in case the peacekeepers change their mind?”

Sha’rali exhaled slowly and headed down the corridor. “No. For once… I think they’re really letting go.”

⸻

The GAR war room dimmed as Master Kit Fisto’s hologram flickered into full resolution. Eeth Koth’s projection stood beside him, arms folded, expression somber.

“We searched the surrounding sectors thoroughly,” Eeth said. “But there was… nothing to recover.”

Kit nodded. “The signs were conclusive. If he survived Ord Mantell, he didn’t stay. He’s long gone. No traceable identifiers, no Republic gear. He’s not the man you knew anymore.”

Silence settled like dust across the chamber.

Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the center of the gathered assembly, a hand to his beard, visibly subdued.

“CT-4023,” he murmured. “He was one of ours. 212th ARC.”

“He fought under me,” Cody added, voice low and deliberate. “Bright kid. Loud. Smartass. Called himself Havoc.”

A quiet ripple of chuckles passed among the clones seated in the rear—muted, nostalgic, strained.

“He was always fidgeting,” Rex added with a rare, soft smile. “Said it helped him shoot straighter.”

“He made every shot count,” Bacara said. “I saw him clear a whole ridge on Mygeeto. Grenade pin in his teeth.”

“Never took cover,” Wolffe muttered. “Cocky little di’kut. But brave.”

Fox crossed his arms, leaning against a marble pillar near the edge of the chamber. “Brave or not, he deserted. All we’re doing now is telling war stories about a traitor.”

Rex turned slowly to look at him. “Were you on Umbara, Commander?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened.

“He was last seen after that campaign,” he said quietly. “A lot of good men went home from Umbara different. Some… never did.”

“He didn’t go home,” Cody said flatly. “He walked into the jungle one night after Krell fell. Left his armor behind. All he took was his rifle and a backpack.”

“He left a message, didn’t he?” Rex asked.

Cody nodded. “On the inside of his chest plate. Scratched in with a vibroblade.”

Rex remembered it too. He quoted it aloud. “I won’t die in another man’s war.”

A long silence followed.

Eeth Koth finally broke it. “There is no body to recover. No tags. No serials. Whatever life CT-4023 had, it ended in that jungle—or sometime soon after.”

“Is that your official report?” Obi-Wan asked, tone carefully measured.

Fisto gave a solemn nod. “It is.”

Fox scoffed quietly, turning away. “Coward’s death.”

“You don’t know that,” Howzer replied, voice steely. “You didn’t know him.”

“I knew what he became.”

“No,” Rex said sharply. “You know what he left behind. There’s a difference.”

Fox said nothing.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “He was one of mine. One of many. He earned the ARC designation. Saved my life once. I mourn him now, the same as I would any fallen brother.”

Cody gave a curt nod. “If he’s gone, he’s gone. No shame in death. We all meet it one day.”

“But he didn’t go down fighting,” Bacara stated.

“Maybe he did,” Cody said. “Just not on a battlefield.”

The Council meeting dispersed quietly. Some stayed behind, murmuring. Others left in silence, helmets under their arms.

Rex lingered a little longer, staring out the high Council windows at the speeder traffic beyond.

“He was a brother,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s gone, I hope he found peace out there. Wherever he went.”

Howzer gave a quiet hum. “If anyone deserved it… maybe it was him.”

Wolffe folded his arms. “I don’t agree with the desertion, it’s a cowards way out.”

Fox, for all his bitterness, remained still and quiet for a long moment.

Only Obi-Wan noticed the flicker of conflict in his eyes before he turned and left without another word.

The Jedi were satisfied with the explanation.

The Republic would not search further.

But not everyone believed in ghosts.

Some knew they were still walking among them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“I wanna wreck our friendship”

Wrecker x GN!Reader

⸻

“Why’d you bring me flowers?” you asked, squinting up at Wrecker from the cot in your makeshift corner of the Marauder. You’d twisted your ankle on the last mission—nothing dramatic, just stupid—and now he’d shown up with a bouquet of local wildflowers. Half of them were wilted. One had a bug.

He scratched the back of his head, sheepish grin spreading wide. “’Cause you got hurt. And you like pretty things.”

“You carried me bridal-style over your shoulder,” you reminded him, raising a brow. “Pretty sure that’s enough.”

Wrecker snorted. “You weigh nothin’. I carry crates heavier than you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He chuckled and plopped down beside you, taking up half the damn space as usual. Your thigh touched his and neither of you moved away. You hadn’t for weeks. Months, maybe. The casual touches had crept in like sunlight through cracked blinds—innocent, warm, and unavoidable.

You’d always loved Wrecker’s energy. Loud, wild, reckless. But lately, you were noticing things you hadn’t before. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his laugh softened when you were the one making him smile. The way his hand would linger a little longer when helping you up.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it was.

But… you didn’t know what he wanted.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, voice gentler than you expected.

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You got that thinky look. The one you get when you’re worried I’ll jump off something too high again.”

You laughed. “That’s a fair worry.”

He leaned closer. “You sure you’re okay? ‘Cause, uh… I’ve been meanin’ to ask you somethin’.”

Your heart stuttered. “Shoot.”

He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “We been friends a long time, yeah? And it’s been real good. I like you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. More than just the regular ‘I’d body slam a bounty hunter for you’ kinda like.”

You stared at him.

“I think I like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.”

“You, uh…” he swallowed. “You ever think about us? Bein’ more?”

You looked at Wrecker—your best friend. Your chaos. Your safety.

“I do,” you said softly. “I think about it. All the time.”

His eyes lit up like a sunrise. “Yeah?!”

You laughed, heart fluttering. “Yeah.”

“Well, kriff,” he grinned, scooping you into a hug so strong it knocked the air out of your lungs, “you should’ve said something sooner!”

“I didn’t know if you felt the same!” you wheezed, still laughing as your ankle throbbed in protest.

He looked at you with a soft kind of wonder. “You’re my favorite person, y’know that?”

You touched his cheek, grinning. “Wrecker?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re mine too.”

⸻

Can i request a fox x reader where he's super soft towards them, not like in a ooc way but where he's just nicer and more relaxed with them than anyone else. And maybe the corrie guard overhears him being soft and they burst into the room like "who are you and what have you done with fox?" lmao

Loveyourwritingmydarlingokeybyeeee <3

“Soft Spot”

Commander Fox x Reader

The Commander of the Coruscant Guard was many things: stern, intense, inflexible, direct, and famously immune to nonsense.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

No one really noticed it at first. Fox wasn’t exactly the hand-holding type. His version of affection was a nod of acknowledgment or the way he’d always check to see if you made it back to your quarters safely after Senate briefings. But lately, the cracks in the durasteel facade were getting harder to ignore.

Like now.

You were perched on the edge of his desk in the command center, arms crossed lazily while he keyed in reports with one hand and let the other rest lightly—casually—on your thigh.

His voice, low and gravelly, was uncharacteristically gentle.

“You didn’t sleep much last night,” he murmured, not looking at you but very much not hiding his concern. “You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, giving a little smirk. “That’s just how my face looks when a certain commander forgets to bring caf.”

Fox exhaled a quiet laugh. A laugh. “That’s mutiny talk. You want to end up in a holding cell?”

“With you? Might be worth it.”

He stopped typing. Finally looked up. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

You were just about to tease him back when the door burst open so violently that one of the wall panels actually rattled.

Thorn, Hound, Stone, and Thire stood there like they’d just walked in on a crime scene.

Stone was the first to speak, horrified: “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH FOX?!”

Fox blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hound squinted suspiciously. “No, no, something’s not right. He laughed. I heard it. He laughed. He touched someone willingly. I’m calling medbay—Fox, are you concussed?”

Thorn pointed an accusing finger. “That was flirtation! You flirted, Fox! In Basic! With smiling! You’re a danger to the chain of command!”

Thire just slowly turned to you, deadpan. “How long has this been going on?”

You lifted your hands, grinning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fox stood, dead calm. “Get out.”

“No,” Hound said flatly, arms crossed. “Not until you admit you’re in love and also apologize for emotionally terrorizing us with your… softness. I mean, stars, Fox. You said she looked tired like you care. That’s romantic horror.”

Thorn leaned against the doorframe like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all cycle. “Is this why you actually smiled yesterday when she waved at you across the hall? I thought you were having a stroke.”

“I’m calling a medic anyway,” Stone added. “Just in case.”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. Fox just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I am going to file so many disciplinary reports,” he muttered.

“And we’ll burn them all,” Thire chirped.

Hound grinned. “C’mon, just admit it, vod. You like her.”

“I never denied it,” Fox replied, surprisingly quiet. His eyes met yours. “I just didn’t think it was any of your business.”

The room went dead silent.

Then Thorn wheezed. “He said it. He said it out loud. Commander Fox has feelings.”

You leaned into Fox’s side, bumping your shoulder into his. “You might want to start locking your door if you’re gonna keep being sweet on me like this.”

“I will now,” he muttered, glaring at the four guards still standing there. “Get. Out.”

Stone waved as he backed out, still looking like he’d witnessed a live explosion.

Thire saluted dramatically. “We’ll leave you to your romantic crimes, sir.”

“I’m telling Jet,” Thorn added gleefully.

Fox groaned and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

You leaned down to kiss his temple. “You okay, Commander?”

He grabbed your hand and pressed it to his chest like it grounded him. “Only because you’re still here.”

From the hallway: “SICKENING!”

Fox raised his blaster. “I will shoot them.”

You just smiled and kissed him again.

hi!! I adored your recent tech fic “more than calculations” abd was wondering if I could request something between tech and a reader who doesn’t flirt or do all the romance things kind of how tech is? I love the idea of them having the same way of showing each other love and they just understand each other even if others don’t really understand how they are together! I hope that made a bit of sense 🙈🩷 thank you!! 💗

“Exactly Us”

Tech x Reader

“Are you two… together?”

Omega blinked up at you, head tilted with that signature mix of innocent curiosity and surgical precision, like she was investigating the oddities of adult behavior again.

Tech glanced up from his datapad, not the least bit ruffled. You didn’t look away from the gear you were calibrating, either. A beat passed.

“Yes,” you both said in perfect unison.

Omega squinted, unconvinced.

“But you don’t do anything!” she exclaimed, arms flailing slightly. “No hand-holding, no kissing, no—ugh—staring at each other like Wrecker and that woman from the food stalls!”

You shrugged. “We fixed the water pump system together last night. That was plenty.”

Tech nodded. “And we enjoy our shared quiet time between 2100 and 2130 hours. Typically on the cliffside bench.”

Omega made a face. “That’s it?”

“That is a significant amount of bonding,” Tech replied, tapping at his datapad. “Just because it doesn’t conform to more overt romantic displays does not mean the bond is any less valid.”

You added, without looking up, “We don’t need to prove anything.”

Omega grumbled and wandered off, muttering something about how weird grownups were. You smirked faintly.

When the datapad made a soft chime, Tech turned it toward you. It was a thermal reading—your shared analysis project on the geothermal vents near the northern cliffs.

“You were correct,” he said, adjusting his goggles. “There is a secondary vent system. I suspect it branches beneath the island’s reef shelf.”

You leaned closer to the screen. “Nice. That’ll stabilize the water temps around the farms. You wanna go check it out?”

“Affirmative,” he said. Then, after a pause: “I enjoy when we do these things together.”

You looked up at him and nodded, your version of “I do too.”

The two of you set out across Pabu, walking in companionable silence. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t have to. There was a rhythm, an ease to your presence beside each other. When you handed Tech a scanner without being asked, or when he adjusted your toolbelt with a small, thoughtful flick of his fingers — that was your version of affection.

Sometimes, Wrecker would nudge Crosshair (visiting, grumbling, but always watching) and whisper, “How do they even like each other?”

Crosshair would reply, “They don’t need to. They get each other.”

Later, the sun dipped low, casting warm gold across the cliffs. You and Tech sat side by side on your usual bench. No words. Just a datapad between you, exchanging quiet theories, occasionally pointing at the sea when a bird swooped or a current shifted strangely.

Tech finally broke the silence.

“Most people… expect something different from a relationship. More expression. More effort.”

You looked at him. “This is effort. Just a different kind.”

His lips curled slightly at the edge — his version of a full grin.

“I concur.”

After a moment, he added, “You are the first person I’ve encountered who does not require translation of my silence.”

You gave a small smile and leaned just enough to bump your shoulder against his. “And you’re the first person who doesn’t expect me to say things I don’t feel like saying out loud.”

He reached over and adjusted your sleeve where it had folded weirdly. Not romantic. Not flashy. Just… quietly right.

Behind you, somewhere near the beach, Omega was laughing, chasing a crab and antagonising Crosshair.

But here, in this quiet little corner of peace, you and Tech sat in absolute understanding.

No need to explain. No need to perform. Just existing.

Exactly as you were.

Exactly together.

“The Brightest Flame”

Gregor x Fem!Reader

Inspired by “The Last Goodbye” by Billy Boyd

The desert winds of Seelos whispered through the rusted bones of the old Republic walker.

Gregor sat at the top of a jagged ridge, legs dangling over the edge like a boy far younger than the years he wore in his bones. You sat beside him in silence, watching the sun fall slowly into the red horizon. The heat clung to your skin, but his shoulder was warm in a different way.

You glanced at him. He was smiling, a faint, tired little thing.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Gregor hummed, voice gravelly but calm. “Guess I’ve said all the crazy things already.”

You chuckled softly. “Not all of them.”

He turned to you then—eyes bright, clear. Not like they used to be. Not the dazed flicker of a soldier half-lost in his own mind. These days, there were more good hours than bad ones. More memory than confusion.

You reached over, brushing a curl of silvered hair from his brow. “You’ve come a long way, you know.”

“So have you.”

“I didn’t have to claw my way out of an explosion and then survive a war I barely remember,” you said.

He tilted his head. “No, you just chose to stay. With me. That’s a different kind of hard.”

The wind picked up. A low, lonely sound that echoed like old battlefields buried in the sand.

Gregor’s smile faded, just a little.

“I think about them sometimes,” he admitted. “My brothers. Darman. Niner. The others I can’t remember.”

You didn’t speak. You just let him.

“I remember fire. And noise. And… laughing. I think I laughed a lot back then.”

“You still do.”

He shook his head gently. “No. Not the same. That laugh back then—it didn’t have so many ghosts in it.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones.

“I love your laugh now. Even when it’s haunted.”

He turned to you, really turned, and the ache in his expression nearly undid you.

“You know what scares me?” he asked softly.

You waited.

“That I’ll forget everything. That one day, I’ll wake up, and your name will be gone. Your face. This moment.”

You gripped his hand tighter. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He let out a shaky breath, lips curving into something fragile. “You’d do that?”

You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder, heart aching in the quiet.

“Every single time.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The sky bled into twilight—soft, violet hues kissing the edges of the wrecked cruiser below. It was beautiful in a way only something broken could be.

Gregor broke the silence with a whisper.

“You know that song you sing sometimes? About farewells?”

You nodded slowly. “‘The Last Goodbye.’”

He tilted his head against yours. “Sing it again?”

Your voice was soft, barely above the wind. The words carried into the dark like starlight.

“I saw the light fade from the sky

On the wind I heard a sigh…”

Gregor closed his eyes.

You didn’t sing to fix him. You sang because he deserved to be remembered. To have beauty tethered to his broken edges.

You sang until your voice trembled.

Until the stars blinked awake above you.

Until his breathing slowed and steadied, his hand never leaving yours.

And when the final verse faded—

“Though I leave, I’ve gone too soon

I am not leaving you…”

Gregor whispered, voice rough:

“I love you.”

You smiled through tears. “I love you, too.”

And in the stillness, wrapped in the ghosts of his past and the promise of your presence, Gregor held on.

To the moment.

To you.

To what little peace he had left.