Hardcase X Medic Reader

“Brothers in the Making” pt.1

Command Squad x reader

The Kaminoan rain never stopped. It pounded endlessly against the sleek platform outside Tipoca City, a cold and hollow sound that seemed to echo the clinical detachment of the place. Even standing in full beskar, the chill somehow crept in — not through the armor, but somewhere deeper.

You stood on the edge of the landing pad, arms crossed, helmet clipped to your belt, dark hair damp with saltwater mist. This place felt wrong. Too sterile. Too… quiet. Even the air smelled like antiseptic and damp steel. But you'd come because he had asked.

Footsteps. Precise. Heavy. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Su cuy’gar,” Jango Fett said in that gravel-deep voice, stopping beside you. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. But something in his eyes told you he was glad to see you.

You gave a nod. “Didn’t think you’d come calling, Fett. Figured you liked working alone.”

“I do.” He glanced out at the sea, then back at you. “But this… this isn’t something I can do alone.”

You raised a brow. “Clones?”

He nodded once. “Ten thousand strong already. All of them made from me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You never struck me as the paternal type.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But they’ll need more than Kaminoan routines and simulations. They need real training. Real people. Mandalorians.”

You studied him for a moment. “And you want me to babysit them?”

His lips twitched — almost a smirk. “No. I want you to help forge commanders. The Kaminoans have preselected cadets they think show leadership potential. I want them to have someone who can teach them more than drills. Someone they’ll listen to. Someone they’ll respect.”

“And that someone is me?”

“They’re kids,” he said quietly. “They’ll be soldiers in a few years. But right now, they need a guide. A warrior. And someone who remembers what it means to be Mandalorian.”

You looked at him, thoughtful. “What about Skirata? Or Vau?”

“They’re here. Kal’s working with Nulls. Vau’s got his own batch. But I need you to take this one. They’re special, and they’re watching everything. The others are rougher around the edges. You’ve got… a way.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the grey horizon. He wasn’t wrong. You’d trained younglings before. Fostered war orphans on Concord Dawn, taught them how to survive, how to fight. This was different, but maybe not by much.

Finally, you looked back at him. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

He nodded again, and for a moment — just a moment — you saw gratitude flicker in his expression.

---

The hallways inside Tipoca were too white. Too clean. Too... wrong. Like they were afraid dirt might somehow corrupt the clones.

Jango led you through the corridors toward the training barracks. “They’re all designated cadets, but these ones are pre-coded for advanced training. Commanders and captains, if the Kaminoans have it their way.”

He stopped before a wide blast door. “You’ll be living in the barracks. You eat with them. Train with them. Earn their respect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not that much older than them.”

“No,” he said. “But they’ll see you as a superior anyway. That’ll matter.”

With a hiss, the door opened.

Inside were about two dozen boys, aged around nine or ten, all with identical faces — his face. But their expressions varied. Curious. Alert. Some stiff, trying to look tough. Others hiding behind wide eyes.

They straightened the moment they saw Jango. You stepped in behind him, hands on your hips, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Cadets,” Jango said, his voice sharp and commanding. “This is your new instructor. She’s Mandalorian. She’s been in more fights than you’ve had meals. She’s here to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed before the war even starts.”

The boys’ eyes widened slightly at that.

You stepped forward, giving them a once-over. “Name’s [Y/N]. You don’t need to salute me, and I’m not here to yell at you every time you mess up. But I will push you. Hard. Because I’m not interested in making you follow orders. I’m interested in making you leaders.”

There was a long pause. Then, one of them — a little shorter than the rest — raised his hand.

“Yes?” you said.

“Are you going to teach us Mando’a?”

You grinned. “First lesson starts tomorrow. Right after we run the perimeter course. In full gear.”

A few groaned. Some grinned. One boy, standing just a little taller, gave a silent nod of approval.

You had a feeling that one would be your troublemaker. The kind who’d grow up to wear yellow.

“Get some sleep,” you said. “You’re mine now.”

As the lights dimmed and the boys returned to their bunks, murmuring quietly among themselves, Jango watched you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You think they’ll listen?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “They already are.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the future soldiers of a galaxy-wide war, you didn’t feel like a babysitter. You felt like something else.

A guide to warriors yet forged.

And maybe — just maybe — the one thing standing between them and the emptiness that awaited.

---

The Kamino rain pounded on the durasteel above, a dull rhythmic hammer that never seemed to end. It echoed through the open training yard, where the clone cadets stood at attention, armor damp, expressions locked into disciplined stillness.

They were still young. Barely ten. Not quite boys, not quite soldiers — something in between. Something manufactured, yet undeniably alive.

You stood in front of them, arms crossed, cloak shifting with the wind.

These were the Kaminoans’ selections. Future commanders. Leaders. Advanced training candidates, chosen by behavior patterns, genetic nuance, projected loyalty metrics — whatever sterile system the aiwha-huggers had cooked up in their labs.

But you weren’t interested in the science. You were interested in them.

You stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

“You’ve been trained,” you began. “You know your formations. Your tactics. How to handle a blaster and break down a droid line. You’re sharp. Efficient. You’ve passed every metric the Kaminoans put in front of you.”

They stayed still.

“But I’m not them,” you said. “I don’t care about their spreadsheets and projections. I care about who you are when everything breaks down. When orders aren’t clear. When it’s your call.”

A few eyes flicked to you. Subtle. Curious.

You stopped in front of the tallest in the line. Sharp jaw. Controlled stance. Commanding presence already starting to form.

“You. Designation?”

“CC-2224, Instructor.”

You moved to the next one. The one with the fast eyes — always scanning, always calculating.

“CT-7567.”

Another.

“CC-1010.”

“CC-5052.”

“CC-5869.”

“CC-4477.”

It was like listening to a datapad reading off serial codes. Precise. Identical. Empty.

You looked down the line again — at all of them. All these boys with the same face, but not the same fire behind their eyes. Not if you knew how to look.

And you did.

You let the silence stretch.

“I know that’s what they call you,” you said quietly. “Your CCs and CTs. Your numbers. But let me tell you something. Numbers are easy. You lose a number, you assign a new one. But a name? That’s earned. That’s kept.”

A shift in the air. Barely noticeable, but it was there.

They were listening now. Not because they had to. Because they *wanted* to understand what you meant.

You didn’t say more. Not yet. You weren’t ready to name them. They weren’t ready to carry it.

But you were watching.

You glanced at CC-2224 again — precise, sharp, already holding himself like a commander. He’d be the first. Eventually. But not yet.

CT-7567 — the quiet focus, the twitch of awareness every time someone moved. Tactician in the making. You could feel it.

CC-1010 — the shield. No emotion on the surface, but his squad respected him, followed him without hesitation. That meant something.

And the smaller ones — the ones who tried harder to stand out, to be something more than the face next to them. They would rise too. Some through grit. Some through pain. Some through sheer, unrelenting heart.

You stepped back, letting your gaze sweep across the line.

“One day,” you said, voice calm but clear, “you’ll have names. Not because I give them to you, but because you’ll earn them. Through blood. Through choice. Through fire. And when you do… they’ll mean something.”

The wind howled between you all, tugging at your cloak, flapping against the plastoid armor of twenty-three boys trying to be men.

“Until then — on the field. Four perimeter laps. In full gear. Then squad sim rotations. Move.”

They ran hard.

Harder than they needed to.

Because for the first time, you hadn’t seen twenty-three clones.

You’d seen twenty-three stories waiting to be told.

---

The rain was still coming down in sheets, but no one noticed anymore. The training sim was running full tilt inside Tipoca’s open-air field chamber — a perfect recreation of a small ruined city block. Crumbling walls, wrecked speeders, low visibility.

Perfect chaos.

You stood above the sim on the observation platform, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm. Down below, your cadets were mid-exercise: split into two squads, one to defend a location, the other to take it. Non-lethal stun rounds, full armor, comms restricted to local chatter only.

They were doing well — mostly.

“CT-7567, you’ve got a flank wide open,” you muttered, watching his marker blip across the holo. “Come on…”

A blur of movement below — one of the smaller clones dove through a gap in the wall, skidding behind cover and popping off two clean stuns. A third clone — one of his own squad — shouted through the comms, “You weren’t supposed to breach yet!”

The smaller one’s voice came through half a second later. “You’re too slow, ner vod!”

You smirked.

Below, the chaos grew. Blasterfire crackled against shields, tactics fell apart, a few cadets started improvising wildly. A few… maybe too wildly.

“CC-5052,” you snapped into the comm. “What are you doing on the roof?”

A pause.

“Recon, Instructor.”

“There’s no recon objective.”

“Thought it’d look cool.”

You closed your eyes, exhaled. “It doesn’t. Now get down!”

Another pause.

“I’ve got good balance.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple.

A second voice cut in — this one from the other team. “He doesn’t have good balance.”

“I do!”

“Last week you fell off a bunk.”

“That was sabotage—”

“Enough!” you barked through the comm, trying to hold off a laugh. “ I swear, if I have to come down there…”

You leaned over the railing, watching as CT-7567 moved into position. He’d adapted quickly — circled his squad around, set up a pincer, and was moments away from breaching the enemy defense. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp.

You watched the moment unfold — the way he made a silent hand signal, the way the squad moved as one, trusting him without a word. They cleared the position in seconds.

And he didn’t celebrate.

He just started checking on the stunned cadets.

You smiled to yourself. Not yet, you thought. But soon.

Later, when the sim ended and they were all dragging themselves out of the chamber — soaked, tired, armor scuffed — you leaned against the bulkhead by the exit, arms crossed.

CC-5052 walked by first, helmet under his arm, smug as ever. “Still think I looked cool.”

You raised a brow. “Keep this up and I’ll name you ‘Clown’.”

A cadet snorted behind him. “Told you.”

5052 flipped him off behind his back — you saw it.

CT-7567 was next. Quiet. Focused. His brow furrowed like he was still playing through the whole thing in his head. You gave him a nod, subtle. He didn’t react much — but the way his shoulders squared said he noticed.

CC-2224 followed, calm and methodical, giving a half-report before you even asked. “Squad cohesion broke down mid-sim. We’ll run fireteam drills tomorrow, break the habits.”

“You’re not wrong,” you said. “But your breach response was solid.”

He gave a nod, firm and confident. “We’re learning.”

“I can see that.”

They filed past, dripping water, bickering quietly. Someone slapped someone’s helmet off. Someone else tried to act innocent. You let it all happen.

Because this — this was the good part. The growing pains. The chaos before clarity. The laughter between brothers.

They weren’t ready for names yet.

But they were getting closer.

And when the day came — when one of them truly showed you who he was — you’d give him the first name.

And it would mean something.

---

Kamino’s storms didn’t rest, but the facility did.

Lights dimmed in the barracks, casting long shadows across the corridor as you walked the cadets back to their bunks. Their chatter had softened into yawns and half-whispered jokes. The chaos of the sim was gone, replaced by the quiet fatigue of young soldiers trying not to admit they were still just boys.

You moved beside them like a silent sentinel, hands tucked behind your back, helmet clipped to your belt. You stopped at their dormitory door, letting them file in — one by one — muttered "Instructor," and "Night, ma’am," as they passed.

“You’re not getting extra stimcaf tomorrow if you stay up talking all night,” you warned as the last few ducked inside.

CC-5052 gave you a tired smirk. “Even if it’s tactical debrief?”

“You say ‘tactical’ like it’ll stop me from making you do perimeter drills in the rain.”

A few chuckles, then a wave of yawns as they climbed into the bunks. Blankets tugged over armor-clad bodies, helmets set neatly at bedsides. The rain beat a gentle rhythm outside.

You lingered at the doorway a moment longer, watching as their movement slowed, heads rested back, breath evened out.

And then you turned.

Your own quarters were spartan — a small room not far from theirs, but far enough to give them space. You sat on your bunk, pulled off your boots, leaned forward with a sigh. It wasn’t exhaustion so much as weight. Of command. Of care. Of responsibility for twenty-three lives that had never known anyone but you who treated them like they were something more.

You didn’t hear the door open at first — it slid open quiet, hesitant. It was the breath that gave him away. Soft. Uneven.

You glanced up, hand instinctively reaching toward the blaster on your bedside.

CC-1010 stood there.

Helmet off. Shoulders stiff. Eyes uncertain in the low light. Not afraid of you — not exactly. Just… afraid.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded, once. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“Didn’t want the others to see,” he said finally. “They’d think something’s wrong.”

You stood slowly, motioned him in. “Close the door.”

He obeyed.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle before you spoke again. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“What if I mess up?”

You turned slightly to look at him. His brow was furrowed. His jaw clenched hard. “Not in sims. In real combat. What if I give an order and someone dies? What if I don’t see something, or I freeze, and my brothers—”

His voice cracked and stopped.

You stood again — close enough to reach out, but you didn’t touch him. Not yet.

“1010,” you said quietly, “you’re already thinking about how your choices affect others. That alone makes you better than half the commanders I’ve seen.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” he said. “I’m supposed to protect them. What if I can’t?”

You looked at him — really looked.

Behind the calm, behind the training, behind the cloned perfection, there was a kid terrified of not being enough.

You stepped closer.

“You remember what I said about names?”

He nodded slowly.

“They’re not just earned in battle. They’re earned in who you are. And I’ve watched you since the first day.”

You didn’t hesitate this time — you placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You carry more than the others realize. You hold it all in so they don’t have to. You think before you speak. You lead without needing the spotlight. You protect your brothers before yourself. That makes you a shield.”

You looked him in the eyes.

“And you’re strong enough to take the hit.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

“That’s why your name is Fox.”

His breath caught. For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel something about it. Then his shoulders dropped — not in defeat, but in relief.

“…Fox,” he repeated, testing it. “That’s me?”

You nodded. “That’s you.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t need to. But he gave you a look you’d never forget — one of raw, unfiltered trust. The kind that meant you weren’t just his instructor.

You were *his person.*

“Get some sleep,” you said softly. “You’ve earned it.”

He turned to go, then hesitated. “Thank you… for seeing me.”

You smiled.

“Always.”

When the door slid shut behind him, you sat back down on the bed and leaned back against the wall. The rain drummed steady outside.

Fox.

The first to earn his name.

One down.

Twenty-two to go.

---

Next Chapter

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

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

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

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

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

You squinted. “Warmer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

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

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

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

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

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

“Wrecker.”

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

“So I’ve been told.”

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

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

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.3

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.

And then, the arrival.

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.

Uninvited.

You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.

The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.

But your stomach twisted.

“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.

Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.

Then lightsabers.

Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.

You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.

Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.

“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”

You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.

He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”

Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.

“Cody is my Commander.”

You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.

You didn’t respond.

But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.

You weren’t alone.

Not yet.

⸻

“General?” Cody asked, voice low.

Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.

“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”

Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Cody looked down, exhaling.

“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”

Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”

Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”

Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”

“She joined the Death Watch.”

“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”

Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”

Later That Night

Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.

But still… he keyed in a short phrase.

Just two words.

Still there?

He sent it.

And waited.

The barracks were quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.

Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.

And then—

Ping.

His datapad lit up.

An encrypted file.

No message. No words. No source.

He stared at it.

He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.

And now…

A file.

Cody clicked play.

And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.

“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?

I fill my pockets full of stones and sink

Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.

He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.

And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…

He was hearing it again.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

The river murdered you and now it takes me

Dream, my baby

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

He blinked, chest tight.

Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.

But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.

You okay, sir?”

It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.

Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”

Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”

Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”

The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.

No one spoke.

They just let her voice fill the room.

⸻

On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.

Helmet tucked under her arm.

She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”

She would never send them words.

They already knew them.

But she could still sing them to sleep.

⸻

The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.

She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.

Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.

One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.

“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”

Her voice came low, worn. “No.”

The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.

She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.

“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”

“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”

She nodded slowly.

“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”

“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.

“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.

He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.

“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”

The recruit shifted uncomfortably.

“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”

“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”

The fire crackled between them.

After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”

She smiled, just a little.

“I hope they remember the song.”

⸻

The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.

She kept walking.

Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.

When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.

“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”

The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.

Then: “The Duchess will see you.”

Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.

The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.

Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”

The reader dropped to one knee.

Not in submission.

In promise.

“I left them.”

Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”

“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”

Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”

The reader’s head lifted.

“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”

Satine studied her.

Something in her eyes softened.

“You pledge yourself to me?”

“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”

A long pause.

Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.

“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”

⸻

The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.

It needed Jedi.

And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.

You.

You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.

You were a guest here.

But you were also something dangerous.

t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.

The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.

As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”

You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.

The clones blinked, surprised.

Then one of them spoke, stunned.

“…Buir?”

Your eyes met his.

Cody.

He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.

“Cody,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.

“You look taller,” you shot back.

“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.

“Let’s test that once we survive this.”

Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.

Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.

He stood in front of you silently.

“You left,” he said.

You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”

His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.

“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

A pause.

“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.

“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”

Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.

They laughed.

For the first time in years.

⸻

Coruscant never changed.

Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.

The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.

You weren’t welcome here.

But you didn’t need to be.

You were here for Mandalore.

And for them.

As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.

The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.

But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.

And locked on him.

Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.

“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.

Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”

You smirked.

He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”

“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”

Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”

“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”

“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”

He hesitated.

Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”

He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”

“Tell them I remember every one of them.”

“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”

You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”

He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”

“And meant it,” you added.

He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”

You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”

“Fair.”

⸻

The danger came in silence.

You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.

The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.

Your instincts screamed.

“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.

The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.

“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”

You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”

Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.

You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.

Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”

Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”

“Yeah. Probably.”

You leapt from the bike.

Time slowed.

Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.

You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.

By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.

Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.

“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.

“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.

You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.

“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.

You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”

You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”

He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”

⸻

The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.

You hadn’t left her side once.

Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:

“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”

Your breath caught.

“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.

You didn’t wait.

⸻

The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.

You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.

They looked up at the same time.

It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.

“Buir.”

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.

“You’ve grown,” you said.

“You say that every time.”

“Because you always do.”

Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.

“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”

“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.

Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”

“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”

Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.

“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”

“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.

Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”

You grinned.

“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.

“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”

Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”

“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”

Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”

Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”

“Still your buir.”

You embraced them both, tighter this time.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.

The lullaby.

Altamaha-Ha.

A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.

Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.

Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.

They would carry that sound into every battle.

Just like they carried you.

⸻

The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.

It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.

Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.

You wore your beskar anyway.

“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.

“I’m protecting them.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”

She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”

“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”

“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”

A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”

She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”

You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”

A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.

You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

TBB Echo x Senator!Reader

The Senate was silent—eerily so. Your voice echoed as you stood center-stage, the holocams rolling, senators holding their breath.

You stared up at the massive screen where Palpatine’s hologram flickered with dispassionate cruelty.

“You may rule through fear, Emperor. You may bend systems, strip rights, and silence voices. But the power you believe you wield is nothing more than mere arrogance, left unchecked for far too long. And every tyrant who’s mistaken fear for loyalty has eventually learned the same truth: fear fades. Resistance doesn’t.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber. One senator spilled their drink. Another ducked behind their chair like you’d just tossed a thermal detonator.

The Emperor said nothing. Just smiled.

You finished your speech, spine straight as a durasteel blade. And when you left the chamber, you knew your days were numbered.

~~~~~~

Stormtroopers swarmed the upper districts now. Rumors had spread fast. A senator going rogue? Publicly? That kind of dissent couldn’t go unpunished.

So you went to the one person you hoped still remembered how to keep people off the radar: Cid.

She responded with a single message:

“You’re lucky I owe you. Got a crew incoming. Don’t get dead before they get there.”

~~~~~~

Blasterfire lit up the alley as a squad of troopers chased you through the lower levels. One shot narrowly missed your shoulder as you turned a corner, lungs burning. You weren’t trained for this. Your boots slipped on the slick metal flooring—and you stumbled, crashing against a wall.

A trooper raised his blaster, finger tightening on the trigger—

Then a blue bolt slammed into his helmet.

You blinked. He crumpled. And standing just behind him, face tight with focus and eyes locked on you, was Echo.

“Senator,” he said calmly, extending his arm, “Time to go.”

You grabbed his hand, letting him haul you up.

“Am I glad to see you,” you breathed.

“I know,” he said, smirking slightly. “You’re welcome.”

More troopers rounded the corner, and Echo pulled you behind cover, activating his comm.

“Now would be a great time, Hunter.”

“Exit’s two blocks south. Wrecker’s waiting with the ship. Move fast.”

“Copy that.” Echo glanced at you. “Can you run?”

“I’m a senator, not a senator’s aide,” you snapped, brushing off your robes. “I’ll manage.”

“Then keep up.”

~~~~~~

Wrecker was waving them in, Omega already at the ship’s edge, hair windblown and face alight with curiosity.

“Is that her?” she asked loudly. “The senator who told the Emperor off to his face?”

“Yep,” Tech said, not looking up from his datapad. “I analyzed her speech. Statistically, she’s either incredibly brave or terminally reckless.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Echo muttered.

You darted up the ramp beside him, chest heaving.

Omega grinned. “You’ve got guts.”

You gave her a breathless smile. “And you’ve got a very large clone glaring at me. Should I be worried?”

Wrecker beamed. “That’s my welcome face!”

Hunter approached, giving you a once-over. “You’re lucky Echo was close. Another second and you’d be space dust.”

You turned to Echo, heartbeat still thundering. “You saved my life.”

“Let’s make a habit of not needing that,” he replied, voice softer now. “But… yeah. I did.”

The ship lifted, and you finally allowed yourself to sink into the bench beside him, the weight of your speech, your betrayal of the Empire, and the sudden turn your life had taken crashing down on you.

“You’re not safe anymore,” Echo said after a beat. “They’ll hunt you.”

You met his gaze. “Then I’m in the right company, aren’t I?”

He nodded, his hand resting lightly on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

From across the ship, Omega whispered loudly to Wrecker: “Told you they’d be into each other.”

Wrecker: “Do I owe you credits again?!”

~~~~~~

The Marauder rumbled to a halt just outside Cid’s bar. It still smelled like sweat, spilled ale, and wet carpet. You wrinkled your nose as you stepped off the ship, scanning the place like a senator inspecting a back-alley establishment—which, to be fair, was exactly what this was.

“You sure this is the right place?” you muttered to Echo under your breath.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, offering a small smirk. “Welcome to the galaxy’s finest example of poor life choices and questionable hygiene.”

Cid looked up from behind the bar, munching on what looked like a pickled frog. “You made it. And with all your limbs. That’s new.”

You gave her a tight nod. “We need to talk.”

She waved her stubby fingers toward her office. “Go on then. Let’s discuss what this little favor is gonna cost you.”

As you disappeared behind the door, the Batch headed for a corner booth.

Wrecker slid in first, already eyeing the snacks Cid had laid out. “So…” he said around a mouthful of something crunchy, “Echo’s got a thing for the senator.”

Echo’s head snapped toward him. “What?!”

Tech adjusted his goggles without even glancing up. “Your heartrate elevated approximately twelve percent every time she spoke to you. Statistically speaking, that suggests attraction. Possibly infatuation.”

“I do not have a thing,” Echo muttered, looking around like someone might hear—besides the four people very obviously hearing.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You did dive in front of a blaster for her.”

“I would’ve done that for anyone.”

Wrecker grinned. “Yeah, but you didn’t look that heroic when you saved me last week.”

“That’s because you dropped an entire crate of detonators on your own foot.”

Omega slid into the seat beside Echo, kicking her legs casually. “She is really pretty.”

Echo stiffened. “Omega…”

“I saw the way you looked at her,” she said with that knowing look that made even Hunter flinch sometimes. “Like she was a sunset and you hadn’t seen one in a long time.”

Wrecker blinked. “Wow. That was poetic.”

Echo scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t—look, she’s a senator. I’m—”

“A clone with a heart,” Omega finished for him. “She saw it, too. The way she smiled at you? She likes you back.”

Echo opened his mouth, then shut it. Then sighed.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“I love it,” Omega chirped. “You should tell her.”

“I just saved her life. I’m not gonna flirt with her right after that.”

Hunter leaned back. “Might be the perfect time, actually. Emotions are high. Could work.”

Tech blinked. “Are we… encouraging romantic entanglements mid-fugitive status?”

Omega grinned. “Yes.”

Echo shook his head, cheeks tinged with color. “You’re all impossible.”

From behind them, the door to Cid’s office creaked open. You stepped out, looking just as poised and stubborn as you did in the Senate—but your eyes immediately found Echo’s across the cantina.

You offered a small, grateful smile. “Still alive, thanks to you.”

Echo stood, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

Omega elbowed him hard as you approached.

“Ask her about sunsets!” she whispered.

As you made your way back to the booth, you caught the tail end of Omega’s whispering to Echo, her grin too wide and mischievous.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Sunsets?” you asked, stepping closer. “What about sunsets?”

Echo stiffened, clearly scrambling for an explanation. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, only for Omega to literally jump into the conversation.

“Echo wanted to show you the sunset!” she blurted out, her eyes sparkling with that cheeky mischief only she could get away with. “He said they’re beautiful on the outer rim. He even said you might like them.”

Echo turned bright red, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment as his brain tried to catch up to Omega’s open confession. “I—wait, I—no… That’s not what I said—”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips at his obvious discomfort. “Sunsets, huh?” You cocked an eyebrow, leaning on the edge of the table. “That’s a pretty romantic gesture for a soldier.”

Echo quickly waved his hands, as though trying to physically push the words back into his mouth. “It’s not like that. I—I just—Omega, you—you…!”

Omega leaned back in her seat, arms folded with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what they’d just done. “You should definitely go watch a sunset with her,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s perfect. You’re both already really good at staring at the sky.”

You gave Echo a playful look. “Well, I don’t mind the idea of a sunset. It’s been a while since I’ve actually seen one.”

Echo exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the table, clearly overwhelmed by the situation. His usual calm and composed demeanor was nowhere to be found.

“I—uh—I—” He paused, his hand running over his short-cropped hair in frustration. “I mean… if you want to, I could show you one. I’ve got some good spots, but I really don’t—uh—expect you to—”

Wrecker, always the instigator, leaned forward from the opposite booth. “You wanted to show her a sunset, Echo. Sounds like a date to me.”

“Wrecker!” Echo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not asking her out—!”

“Well, someone should,” Wrecker grinned. “It’s a good idea. A beautiful sunset and all that. You know, romantic-like.”

Omega crossed her arms and gave Echo an exaggerated side-eye. “You’re really bad at this.”

You watched the whole exchange with a lighthearted smile, clearly amused by how Echo was fidgeting like he was trying to dig his way out of a hole he’d accidentally fallen into. Finally, you leaned in, lowering your voice to something playful and teasing.

“If you’re really offering to show me a sunset, Echo, I’ll take you up on it,” you said, smirking as you watched his eyes widen in disbelief. “But I’m not making any promises about it being romantic.”

Echo blinked, clearly struggling to hide his relief. “Good. Yeah, good. I can do that. I mean—I can show you the sunset. That’s… normal, right?”

Omega gave him a thumbs up from across the table. “Normal! Totally normal.”

Hunter chuckled from the booth. “I don’t think it’s ever been normal with you, Echo.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Echo muttered, shooting Omega a glare that barely had any heat behind it. “You’re lucky I like you, kid.”

“You’re welcome,” Omega chirped, her eyes glimmering with the kind of satisfaction only a matchmaker could feel.

~~~~~~~

You followed Echo out of the cantina and into the wilds of the Outer Rim, the two of you walking side by side in the fading light. It wasn’t a long journey, but Echo was unusually quiet, his usual confident stride now hesitant. You glanced over at him, trying to gauge whether he was just as nervous as he seemed.

“So,” you began, attempting to break the silence, “this sunset better be worth all the buildup.”

Echo glanced at you, his face turning slightly pink as he looked away quickly. “I mean, yeah, it’s a good spot,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s peaceful. Not a lot of people know about it.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You smiled softly. “You must really like this place. It’s hard to believe a soldier like you would be into something so… serene.”

“Hey, even soldiers need some quiet,” Echo replied, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “I’ve seen enough battlefields to last a lifetime. This? This is… different.”

As you reached a ridge overlooking a vast expanse of orange and purple sky, you stopped. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows and bathing everything in golden light. The view was incredible. You couldn’t deny that Echo had chosen well.

“This… is beautiful,” you said quietly, letting the moment settle around you.

Echo stood a few feet away, glancing at the sky, but you could tell he wasn’t really focused on it. He fidgeted with his hands, his posture stiff, as though unsure of what to do with himself.

“Yeah. It is,” he said softly, though he didn’t seem to be looking at the sunset himself. His eyes kept darting back to you, and he swallowed hard.

A beat passed, then another, the two of you standing there in the stillness of the moment.

“So,” you began again, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “Omega told me you’ve been staring at me like I’m the sunset or something. I’m starting to think she might’ve been onto something.”

Echo let out a strangled sound, something between a cough and a nervous laugh, and quickly turned away, his scomp fumbling with the edge of his armor. “I—look, I didn’t mean for her to—Omega… she has a way of—”

You laughed, your voice light and airy. “It’s fine, Echo. I’m just teasing.”

“Right,” he muttered, scratching his head. “You… you’re teasing. Yeah.”

The silence between you both grew, but now it was different—quieter, more relaxed, despite the awkward tension that had settled in. You couldn’t help but enjoy the strange warmth in the air.

Finally, Echo broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “I’m really bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“At… this,” he gestured vaguely, not looking at you. “At not being awkward. You know, with people. I mean, I spent most of my life with clones, and—well, we didn’t exactly do sunsets.”

“Yeah, I imagine that would be difficult,” you said, your voice softer now. You could see how much this mattered to him, how much he was trying to make the moment right.

“You probably think I’m an idiot,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“No,” you said quickly, walking closer to him. “Not at all. You’re just… not used to doing this.”

Echo didn’t meet your eyes. “And I’m not great at… not being awkward around someone I think is way out of my league.”

That stopped you cold. You blinked, processing the words. “Out of your league?”

Echo shrugged, pulling at his sleeve nervously. “You’re a senator. You could have anyone you want. And I’m just—well, I’m just me. A soldier.”

You took a small step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “Echo,” you said gently, your voice soft but firm. “I’m here because I want to be here. Because I trust you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching your face as though looking for any sign that you were just being kind. But what he found was sincerity. You meant it.

The sun dipped lower, the sky ablaze with colors, and Echo took a deep breath, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m really bad at this… but I’m glad you came anyway.”

You smiled and stepped forward, your hand brushing against his—just enough for him to notice. “Me too, Echo. Me too.”

You and Echo walked back in silence, though the tension between you was different now—softer, less painful. The cantina was as busy as before, the dim lights casting long shadows across the floor. The rest of the Batch was already there, and as soon as you and Echo entered, the teasing began.

Wrecker was the first to speak. “So,” he began with a huge grin, “how was the sunset?”

Echo shot him a glare. “I didn’t—we didn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wrecker laughed. “You two were just looking at the sky, right?”

You gave him a playful side-eye. “Why don’t you ask Omega? She’s the one who knows all about sunsets.”

Omega was sitting at the booth, her feet kicked up, looking entirely too smug for someone her age. “I told you it would be perfect,” she said, glancing at Echo with a knowing look.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “So, Echo, what happened with the sunset? You get all the way out there just to not—”

Echo groaned and covered his face with his hand. “I’m not answering any of you.”

Tech, ever the neutral party, smiled faintly. “I believe this is the point where you’re supposed to express how much you enjoyed the company of your… companion.”

“Shut up, Tech,” Echo grumbled.

Omega leaned in, looking at you, then at Echo, her grin impossibly wide. “Did you kiss her, Echo?”

Echo nearly choked on his drink. “What? No! We—we—”

“I’m just saying,” Omega continued innocently, “there was some serious chemistry, and I don’t think you’ll be able to ignore it for much longer.”

“Omega,” Echo hissed, looking at her like she’d just dropped a thermal detonator at his feet.

But you just laughed, the tension from earlier melting away. “She’s not wrong, Echo. You’re pretty easy to read.”

Echo could only groan in response, his face as red as the setting sun.

A/N

I kinda hate this tbh, but I had an idea but then I had like a million other ideas while writing this and I feel like it’s kinda mix matched.

Material Lists 🩵

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

Star Wars

The Clone Wars

501st Material List🩵💙

212th Material List🧡

104th Material List🐺

Clone Force 99/The Bad Batch Material List❤️🖤

Delta Squad Material List 🧡💛💚❤️

Corrie Guard Material List ❤️

Other Clones/Characters

OC Works

“Crimson Huntress”

I accept request🩵🤍

Disclaimer!!!!!

I personally prefer not to write smut, however if requested I am happy to do so. depending on what you have requested.

hello beloveds ☺️

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

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

Foxy again 😀 Click for higher quality >.> I'm unsure why it looks blurry on my tablet..

Hi! I was so happy to see you take requests!! I was wondering if you could do a Hunter X reader where she takes care of his hair? Plays with it and brushes it maybe then he confesses his love for her?

You write so beautifully and I would love to see any of your added flare! 💖

“Flower Tactics”

Hunter x Reader

You’d never admit it out loud, but you were obsessed with Hunter’s hair.

Not just in a “wow, that man is rugged and beautiful” kind of way—which he was, obviously—but in a “let me run my fingers through it and brush it until it shines like war-hardened silk” kind of way. It was therapeutic. Meditative. And, much to your delight, he let you do it.

Today, he sat cross-legged on a crate while you perched behind him on a bench, methodically brushing through his dark locks. His bandana was off, laying beside him, and he looked entirely too relaxed for a trained soldier.

“Y’know,” you mused as you carefully untangled a knot, “if you were any more relaxed, I’d think you were napping.”

“I might be,” Hunter replied, voice low and content. “Your fingers are dangerous. You could put a rancor to sleep with that touch.”

“Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Both.”

You laughed and leaned forward slightly, tugging the brush down again. “So… you’re telling me I have tactical hair magic?”

“I’m saying if you ever turn on us, brushing me into unconsciousness would be an effective ambush.”

A beat passed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said sweetly, and Hunter let out a low, amused chuckle.

“I like her,” Wrecker announced from across the Marauder’s hull. He was munching on something that definitely wasn’t a vegetable. “She’s got a whole plan to take you down, and you’re just sittin’ there like a sleepy tooka.”

“Only because you’re jealous I’ve got hair to brush,” Hunter quipped back.

Wrecker puffed out his chest dramatically. “You think if I glue some on, she’ll brush mine too?”

“No,” you replied immediately. “But I’ll draw flowers on your scalp.”

Tech sighed. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“Oh, I’m not encouraging,” you grinned. “I’m enabling. Very different.”

You reached into the little pouch at your side and pulled out a tiny cluster of wildflowers—yellow, blue, soft white. Carefully, you started weaving them into Hunter’s braid.

He noticed.

“…Are you putting flowers in my hair?” His voice held that dangerous edge, but you could hear the smile buried underneath.

“Absolutely.”

“I’m a soldier.”

“Even soldiers deserve to look cute.”

“Cute?” he asked, amused.

“Devastatingly cute,” you corrected, giving the braid a final tug. “There. Now you’re battle-ready and bouquet-chic.”

From the back, Echo groaned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”

“You’re just mad no one wants to flower-bomb your hair,” you teased.

“He doesn’t have any,” Omega piped up helpfully, skipping into the room. She stopped in front of Hunter and beamed. “You look so pretty!”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Pretty, huh?”

“You should let her do your hair every day,” Omega added slyly. “You smile more when she’s touching it.”

Hunter froze. So did you.

Wrecker burst into laughter so loud it shook the crate.

“Oof! She got you good!” he said, pointing at Hunter like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm. “Smart kid.”

“She’s not wrong,” Hunter muttered.

You blinked. “…What?”

Hunter turned, slowly, looking up at you with that intense expression that made your brain short-circuit. “I do smile more when you touch me.”

It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a joke.

He meant it.

Your breath caught in your throat. “That’s… dangerous information.”

“I trust you with it.” His gaze softened. “And maybe a little more than that.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I love it when you brush my hair. I love it when you laugh. I love it when you drive the others crazy, and when you sneak me extra caf rations, and when you make even this ship feel like home.”

Wrecker snorted. “Finally.”

Echo made a gagging noise. Tech muttered, “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time.”

Omega clapped her hands and declared, “About time!”

Hunter smiled up at you through his flower-crowned braid. “So? What do you say?”

You bent down and kissed his forehead, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “I say… I’m going to need a lot more flowers.”

⸻

The ship had gone still.

No snark from Echo. No clanking from Wrecker. No light tinkering from Tech. Even Omega was tucked into her bunk, curled up with Lula like the galaxy couldn’t touch her.

And in the silence of that rare peace, Hunter sat on the edge of your bed with his back to you, braid still woven down his back, the tiny wildflowers now a little wilted from the heat of the day.

You stepped behind him quietly, holding the soft brush he always let you use. Always yours to borrow.

“Can I?” you asked gently, even though you both already knew the answer.

Hunter nodded once. “Please.”

So you started at the bottom—slowly, carefully loosening the braid, your fingers delicate. The petals came free one by one, falling onto the blanket like pieces of some strange memory.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

And you didn’t push him.

Instead, you moved gently through his hair, unwinding the tightness of the day. With each pass of your hands, his shoulders lowered, his breath slowed.

You didn’t need the words.

But you wanted them.

You loved him. You’d known it for a while now. And maybe you were scared that if you said it, it would break the fragile, perfect peace that this quiet moment gave you both.

But you didn’t have to say it first.

He did.

Softly. Barely above a whisper. Like it had been resting on his tongue all day, just waiting to be safe enough to speak.

“I love you.”

You froze—just for a breath. Then smiled so softly it ached in your chest.

“I know,” you whispered back, fingers brushing behind his ear. “I’ve known.”

He turned to look at you. Hair loose, shadowed eyes soft, vulnerability written in every line of his face.

“Then why haven’t you said it?”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Because I wanted you to say it first.”

Hunter huffed out a tiny laugh. “Tactical move.”

“Always,” you smiled.

He reached up and cupped your jaw gently, his touch feather-light. “I love you,” he repeated, more sure now. “Not just when you’re brushing my hair. Not just when you’re teasing the others. Always.”

You kissed him this time—slow and lingering, hands tangled in his now-loose hair, wild and soft between your fingers.

“I love you too,” you whispered into the space between your lips.

The flowers were gone. The braid undone.

But somehow, this moment felt even more whole.