“War On Two Fronts” Pt.1
“War On Two Fronts” pt.1
Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara
(A/N, this fic is purely for my own amusement, enjoy it if you must. I simply wanted to create the most random, somewhat unhinged, love triangle I could think of)
The Jedi Temple stood still that morning.
Even with the war breathing down the galaxy’s neck, even with whispers of clones and Kamino and Separatist strongholds, the Temple had not forgotten how to hold its silence.
A rare breeze swept through the Pillars of the hall, rustling the gold-edged tapestries that hung like memories between the columns. The high, vaulted ceiling glowed dimly from the skylights overhead—no harsh illumination today. Just solemn sun and shadow.
You knelt at the center of it all, the marble cool beneath your knees, the hem of your robes curled slightly from movement. Your hands, for once, were still.
Before you stood Master Windu.
And as always, he was a wall.
A composed, unmoving force of principle and power—yet even now, in his rigid stance and unreadable expression, you could feel it. That slight shift in his presence. That guarded warmth he never allowed the others to see. His version of pride was like his version of affection: precise. Controlled. But real.
“You’ve grown into a warrior the Council did not expect,” he said quietly. His voice echoed through the chamber, flat but grounded. “That is both your strength… and your warning.”
A wry smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “That sounds like you, Master.”
“Former Master,” Mace corrected, though the corner of his mouth almost twitched. “As of today.”
You glanced sideways, just enough to catch a glimpse of Master Yoda seated beside the ceremonial flame, nodding with quiet approval. A few other Masters flanked the hall—Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, Obi-Wan. Anakin was here too, arms crossed, a smirk barely hidden. Of course he would be. He’d want to see someone else screw with the rules for once.
Mace raised his amethyst saber.
The room fell into breathless quiet, save for the snap-hiss of energy igniting.
“For your skill in battle,” he said. “For your persistence in training. For your commitment to the Force—despite your unorthodox methods.”
You heard the faintest beat of amusement in his voice, even as the blade hovered above your right shoulder.
“I name you Jedi Knight.”
The saber passed over your left shoulder, then extinguished in a smooth hiss. The light faded.
So did the weight.
You rose to your feet, your chest oddly tight.
You’d imagined this moment a thousand times. You thought you’d grin. You thought you’d make a joke. Maybe wink at Anakin, toss your braid in celebration.
But instead, you looked at Mace.
And for the first time since you’d been a reckless thirteen-year-old hurling training sabers at his back in the practice ring… you saw the crack in his armor.
Pride.
Not spoken. Never spoken.
But it was there.
He stepped forward and quietly handed you your old braid, cut clean through and wrapped carefully in cloth. His gloved hand lingered a second too long as you took it.
“You’ll never be like me,” he said, low enough for only you to hear.
You looked up at him, caught off-guard.
“And that is the greatest relief I’ve known in some time.”
Your throat tightened, emotion flashing hot behind your eyes, but you swallowed it.
“I learned from the best,” you managed, voice rough.
He didn’t smile. But he gave you a look that you would remember when the sky fell—when the war bled through every part of your soul. A look that said: I see who you are. I will always see it.
And then the moment passed.
Yoda called the next words.
The crowd shifted. Masters murmured. A few clones, newly commissioned, stood near the archway in pristine armor. The air already smelled like smoke. War was coming, and peace was being written into the margins of your life.
You were a Jedi Knight now.
And you were already being sent to assist the Galactic Marines on Mygeeto.
⸻
The Venator-class cruiser was silent in the way warships always were before deployment—tense, mechanical, full of breath held in systems and lungs alike.
You stepped onto the hangar deck with your boots echoing, the hem of your new robes catching the gust from a passing LAAT. The smell of oil and ozone hit like a punch. The air was cooler than the Temple. Less forgiving.
The Galactic Marines didn’t look your way when you passed.
They didn’t need to.
Their reputation had preceded them—shock troopers bred for winter warfare and brutal sieges, trained under a commander who was as known for his silence as he was for his kill count.
Commander Bacara.
You spotted him almost immediately near the forward transport: broad frame, maroon-striped armor, helmet on. He didn’t salute. Didn’t approach. Just stood, arms crossed over his DC-15, as if sizing you up from thirty paces.
You let the moment hang before making your way to him, slow and purposeful.
“Commander Bacara,” you greeted, offering a nod. “I’m [Y/N], attached to this campaign per Council orders.”
Silence.
Not a word. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.
You arched a brow.
“Right. Strong, silent type. Got it.”
Still nothing. His visor remained locked on you, unreadable.
“Did the clones get assigned vocal cords or are you just allergic to Jedi in general?”
That got a reaction—a tilt of the helmet, ever so slight. Then, at last, a gravel-thick voice rumbled from the vocoder:
“Only the loud ones.”
Your mouth quirked into something halfway between irritation and amusement. “Guess it’s your lucky day.”
Before he could reply—or walk off, which you sensed he very much wanted to do—a voice cut in behind you.
“[Last Name].”
You turned, spine stiffening.
Ki-Adi-Mundi stood at the foot of the boarding ramp, flanked by two clone officers. His long fingers were clasped behind his back, face pinched in that constant mix of detachment and disdain.
You bowed, briefly.
“Master Mundi.”
“I’ve been reviewing the battle plan for Mygeeto,” he said, skipping any preamble. “We’ll be launching a three-pronged assault on the main Separatist refinery. Bacara will lead the frontal push with his battalion, supported by armor units and orbital fire.”
Your jaw clenched.
“With all due respect, Master, a frontal push against entrenched droid cannons is going to get a lot of men killed.”
Ki-Adi blinked at you, calmly. “That is war. They are soldiers. They understand the risks.”
“They understand orders. Not suicidal tactics.” Your voice rose just slightly, heat creeping in. “If we reroute half the armor for flanking and force the droids to split, we could avoid heavy losses and push them off the ridge before nightfall.”
“I did not ask for a tactical critique,” Mundi said, tone sharpening. “And I trust Commander Bacara’s ability to execute the current plan.”
You glanced at Bacara. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Just stared.
Of course he agreed with Mundi. They were cut from the same ice.
“I didn’t realize Jedi Master meant immune to input.”
Silence fell over the deck. The clones nearby tensed. Bacara’s helmet shifted an inch toward you.
Mundi stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You are newly knighted, [Last Name]. This war will demand obedience, not bravado.”
You took a slow breath.
Then offered the barest, tightest smile. “Then it’s a good thing I never had much of either.”
Mundi turned and strode up the ramp without another word.
You exhaled once he was gone, rolling your shoulders like you could shrug off the frustration. You could feel Bacara still watching.
“What?” you snapped without looking at him.
There was a beat of silence.
“You better be half as good as you think you are.”
You turned. “Or what?”
“I’ll be requesting a reassignment.”
Your laugh came out bitter. “Better men have tried.”
He paused. Then, with a tilt of his head, said lowly: “I’m not a better man. I’m a soldier.”
Then he turned and walked away.
You stood there a moment longer, heat buzzing under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was from anger—or something worse.
⸻
The descent onto Mygeeto was chaos.
Even through the LAAT’s thick hull, you could feel the storm—icy wind slicing across the city’s skeletal towers, artillery screaming through clouds of smoke and crystalline ash. The Separatists had fortified every corner of the industrial sector, their cannon fire lighting up the skyline like a cursed sunrise.
As the dropship pitched, the clones inside with you braced without a word. Focused. Ready. Not afraid—just used to dying.
Your hand gripped the support bar as the doors peeled open mid-hover, revealing a battlefield straight from a nightmare. Turbolaser fire scorched the skyline. Glimmering bridges of ice and shattered durasteel crumbled beneath the weight of battle tanks. Somewhere far below, you saw a battalion caught in a choke point—blaster bolts raining down from enemy artillery nested in a half-collapsed tower.
Your stomach turned.
“Is that Bacara’s forward unit?” you shouted over the roar.
“Yes, sir!” one of the clone gunners confirmed. “Pinned since the last push!”
You turned to the pilot. “Drop me there. Now.”
The pilot hesitated. “But orders—”
“Now.”
The gunship banked sharply, the icy wind slamming into you as you leapt onto the fractured platform below, lightsaber already blazing to life.
It took less than ten minutes.
Droids fell in pieces, turrets melted under redirected blaster bolts, and you pushed your way to the trapped Marines like a blade through frost. You helped them retreat behind makeshift cover, shielding them with the Force and your saber, yelling for them to move. Not all of them made it.
But more than would have.
When the smoke cleared, and the men were medevaced out, you stood amid the wreckage, panting, cut along one shoulder and streaked with soot.
And Bacara was waiting for you.
He stormed toward you from the north ridge, visor locked onto yours, stride like a thunderhead.
You straightened, chin high, refusing to flinch.
“You disobeyed direct chain-of-command,” he growled, voice deep and cold. “That was my operation.”
“Your men were dying,” you snapped. “I made a call.”
“It wasn’t your call to make. I had them.”
“They were pinned with zero cover, Bacara! If you had a plan, it was to bury them in ice!”
His helmet came off in one sharp motion.
You hadn’t seen his face until now.
Shaved head. Sharp scar across the side of his cheekbone. And a scowl that looked carved from stone.
“Don’t pretend you know my men better than I do, Jedi.”
You stepped forward. “And don’t pretend that your silence is strategy. You may be good at war, but you’re not the only one fighting it.”
Before he could reply, another voice cut through the comms.
“Commander Bacara. Young [Last Name]. Report to the north command post immediately.”
It was Mundi.
The command post was a hollowed-out transport, half-frozen and lit by dim tactical screens. Ki-Adi-Mundi stood in the center, flanked by officers.
He didn’t look at you when he spoke.
“You endangered the mission with your reckless disobedience.”
“I saved your troopers.”
“You undermined your commander. You undermined me.”
You stared at him, jaw locked.
Mundi finally turned, his tone colder than the planet itself. “You may carry a lightsaber, but you are not exempt from consequence. Effective immediately, you are being reassigned.”
“What?” you breathed. “You can’t be serious.”
“You will report to General Skywalker and the 501st at once. They’ve requested Jedi support. You’re clearly more suited to their methods.”
You laughed once, bitter. “You mean chaos? No rules? You’d get rid of me in an instant?”
“If it will keep you from sabotaging another campaign, then yes.”
You looked to Bacara.
He said nothing. Didn’t even look at you.
It stung more than it should have.
Mundi turned away, already dismissing you. “Dismissed.”
You stood there a moment longer, anger a low drum in your ribs.
Then you turned sharply and left—your boots loud, your breath hot, and the ice of Mygeeto clinging to your back like regret.
⸻
The drop onto Christophis was smoother than Mygeeto.
No bitter wind. No ice underfoot. Just the blue-tinged glass of a besieged city glowing beneath your boots, and the hum of LAAT engines fading into the dusk.
You exhaled slowly.
For once, it didn’t fog the air.
The 501st was already dug in—half-built barricades, mounted cannons, troopers weaving through lines of duracrete rubble and smoldering droid parts. The camp smelled like burned plastoid and caf. And somehow… it didn’t feel like death.
Not yet.
You adjusted your gear and crossed into the center of the forward line, where a knot of officers stood around a portable holo table. A tall familiar figure turned toward you before you could announce yourself.
“General [Last Name], I presume?” the man asked with a bright smirk and a heavy Core accent. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s still warm—if you like ration bricks and bad company.”
General Anakin Skywalker. He grinned at you like an old friend.
You blinked. “I… wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.”
“You’re not coming from the High Council,” Anakin replied, clearly picking up on your edge. “You’re here to fight. That’s more than enough for us.”
A few troopers nearby chuckled. One even offered a small wave before returning to repairs on a nearby speeder. You weren’t used to clones acting so… relaxed.
Anakin slung an arm across the shoulders of the nearest officer, a clone with a blond buzz cut, blue markings on his pauldron, and eyes sharp with experience.
“This is Captain Rex,” Anakin said. “He keeps me alive and makes sure I don’t get court-martialed.”
Rex offered his hand. “It’s good to have another General on the line. The men could use someone steady. Master Skywalker tends to… improvise.”
“I prefer the term creative solutionist.”
You shook Rex’s hand firmly. “I’ve been assigned to assist for the duration of this campaign. Support, field command, and lightsaber damage control, apparently.”
“Don’t let the last bit worry you,” Rex said, voice warm but measured. “Most of us like having a Jedi around. Just don’t get yourself shot trying to do everything alone.”
You hesitated. That’s the only way I’ve ever done it.
But instead, you said, “Copy that, Captain.”
Anakin returned with two ration packs and tossed one at you.
“Come on,” he said. “Briefing starts in ten. Might as well eat something before the next artillery barrage.”
You caught the ration and followed him into the makeshift war room. The 501st felt… alive. Not like a machine, or a tool. Like people. Clones joked with each other between shifts. Someone was fixing a vibro-guitar in a corner. Laughter drifted through the halls of war like smoke.
He studied you for a moment while chewing a bite of compressed stew.
“So,” he said, grinning. “You’re Windu’s kid.”
You blinked. “I’m not his kid.”
“Please,” Anakin scoffed. “You practically are. He used to lecture me about setting a better example because you were watching.”
You smirked despite yourself. “He does that with everyone. It’s how he shows affection. Judgement equals love.”
“I don’t think he’s capable of affection,” Anakin said, half-muttering into his rations. “But you? You’re the exception.”
You leaned back against the wall, tone softening. “He trained me to be better. Sharper. Not just strong with a saber, but… clear. Even when I didn’t want to be.”
Anakin tilted his head. “He proud of you?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Not that he says it, but… yeah. I think so.”
He grinned. “Bet he didn’t love you getting assigned to me.”
You laughed under your breath. “Not exactly. He said, ‘Skywalker needs someone with both instinct and control. Be that someone.’ Then he stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.”
Anakin chuckled. “Yep. That sounds like Mace.”
You took another bite of your ration and glanced around the lively camp—clones talking, techs laughing, life humming even in the lull before battle.
“Feels different here,” you said.
Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Good different?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It feels like… they’re not just soldiers.”
He offered a quiet smile. “They’re not. You’ll see.”
And you would.
But not before the war reached its cold fingers toward you once again.
You ate in silence while Skywalker outlined the next assault—tight push through Separatist-occupied towers, with limited casualties expected. He spoke quickly, clearly, and didn’t interrupt you when you pointed out structural weak points or alternate flanking positions. In fact, he nodded along, visibly impressed.
Anakin raised a brow. “Did you and Mace ever clash?”
You hesitated. “He sees obedience as strength. I’ve always… leaned more toward instinct.”
Skywalker grinned. “Good. You’ll fit in just fine here.”
And for the first time in weeks—since the icy silence of Bacara’s helmet and Mundi’s cold dismissal—you felt the tension in your chest loosen. Just a little.
⸻
The Separatists had fortified the western spires overnight, turning crystalline towers into sniper nests and droid chokepoints. A slow siege was no longer an option. The 501st was going in—fast, loud, and all in.
“Your unit’s with me,” Rex said, voice clipped as he secured his helmet. “Skywalker and Torrent Squad are flanking left. We punch through the center, collapse the staging platform, and pull back before reinforcements converge.”
You adjusted the grip on your lightsaber hilt, watching the blue blade snap to life with a hum. “You lead. I follow.”
Rex gave a short nod, visor glinting in the low light. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. He moved with the weight of trust already earned—his men mirrored his focus, his readiness.
You hadn’t seen command like this on Mygeeto. Not from Ki-Adi-Mundi. And definitely not from Bacara.
The gunships roared over the skyline.
“Drop in ten!” a trooper shouted, clinging to the side rail of the LAAT. You stood beside Rex as the bay doors opened, revealing the shimmering battlefield below—glass and stone, fire and blue lightning crashing from tower to tower.
The LAAT banked hard and you leapt, landing in the center of a collapsing avenue as blaster fire rained down from the towers above. Rex hit the ground a second later, blasters up, already shouting to his men.
“Push forward! Second squad—cover the left lane!”
You spun your saber, deflecting bolts as the first wave of droids charged. The 501st advanced in perfect coordination—like flowing water, shifting and reforming around obstacles as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.
You slipped into the rhythm with them, striking hard through advancing B1s, clearing the rooftops with mid-air leaps, redirecting sniper fire with narrow, deliberate swings. The clones covered you, trusted you, fell into sync with you like you’d been fighting beside them for years.
No hesitation. No resistance.
Just trust.
You didn’t know what that felt like until now.
At the front of the charge, Rex cleared the last of the droid forces on the platform with brutal efficiency. You landed beside him, both of you breathing hard but steady, the wind howling through broken towers.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
“Good work,” he said, like it was fact, not flattery.
“You too,” you replied, meeting his gaze.
A pause stretched between you. Not silence, not in the middle of war—but something else. A mutual understanding. The beginning of something… not yet defined.
The comm crackled.
“501st—fall back to Rally Point Aurek. Enemy movement on the east ridge.”
“Copy,” Rex said, turning away. “Let’s move.”
You followed without hesitation, eyes scanning the horizon.
War didn’t allow time for reflection. But as you fell into step with Rex—side by side—you couldn’t help but think:
This felt different.
⸻
The sky over Christophis had finally quieted.
The battle was won—for now. The towers no longer pulsed with enemy fire, the droids had retreated deeper into the city’s core, and the crystals that jutted from the landscape reflected nothing but the dull orange haze of a weary sunrise.
You walked side-by-side with Rex, the only sound between you the soft crunch of shattered glass beneath boots and armor. This was your fourth perimeter sweep since the offensive. He didn’t talk much. You didn’t either.
Still, it wasn’t silence. It was… companionable.
“I thought Jedi preferred peace,” Rex said after a while, his voice muffled through his helmet.
“I do,” you replied, stepping over a cracked durasteel beam. “But I’m good at war.”
Rex turned slightly to look at you. “You don’t sound proud of that.”
You shrugged. “I’m not.”
Another beat passed. You slowed your pace, scanning an alley where the shadows felt too thick. Just scavengers. Nothing moved.
“You were better in battle than I expected,” Rex added. “The way you covered the west flank—that was clean. Calculated.”
You snorted. “I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to be calculating.”
He paused at the edge of a shattered courtyard. “You’re not like the others I’ve seen.”
You tilted your head. “That a compliment?”
Rex didn’t answer right away. He just looked out over the city, where blue light still shimmered in the air like a war that refused to die completely.
“I don’t think you care whether it is or not,” he said eventually.
That earned a quiet laugh from you. “Now that sounds like a compliment.”
The moment stretched a little longer this time. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just a thread of something starting to pull taut between you, quiet and unspoken.
Then the comms chirped.
:: This is General Kenobi. 212th battalion has entered the theater. Coordinates sent. ::
Rex exhaled through his nose. “Great. The cavalry.”
You smirked. “Not a fan of the beard?”
“He’s fine. His men are loud.”
From the high ridge, you could already see them—yellow-marked troops of the 212th fanning out like wildfire, Obi-Wan walking ahead with the patient authority of someone used to saving the galaxy before breakfast.
“General Kenobi,” you called as you approached. “You’re late.”
Kenobi raised a brow. “Fashionably. You’re holding up well, Padawan.”
“Knight, actually,” you said, quirking a brow. “But thanks for the demotion.”
Rex nodded politely as Cody jogged up beside him. The two commanders exchanged a quick, wordless handshake—the kind only shared between soldiers who’d bled on similar soil.
“Looks like things just got louder,” you murmured.
Rex glanced sideways at you. “You sure that’s a bad thing?”
You didn’t answer.
⸻
Next Chapter
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
Hiya! I absolutely love your writing and always look forward to your posts
I saw that request about the commanders catching you with their helmets on and I was wondering if you could do that but with the bad batch?
Again, love your writing. I hope you have a great day/night!
Hey! Thank you so much—that means a lot to me! 💖
I actually was planning to include the Bad Batch too but wanted to start with just the commanders first.
⸻
HUNTER
You weren’t expecting to get caught.
You were standing in the cockpit, wearing Hunter’s helmet—not for mischief, really, but because you were genuinely curious how he functioned with his enhanced senses dulled. You wanted to know what it was like to see through his eyes. To feel what he felt.
The helmet was heavy. Too heavy.
He walked in mid-thought, and you froze.
Hunter didn’t speak. He just stood there, half in shadow, his brow furrowing slowly like he was processing an entirely new battlefield situation.
You didn’t say anything either. You just… stood there. Helmet on. Stiff-backed. Guilty.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“…That’s mine.”
You took it off and held it out sheepishly. “I wanted to see what you see. It’s filtered. Muffled. How do you live like this?”
Hunter took the helmet from your hands and gave you a long, unreadable look.
“I don’t. I adapt.”
Then he brushed past you—close, deliberate—and you swore his fingers grazed yours just a little longer than necessary.
⸻
WRECKER
“Whoa!”
You heard the booming voice before you could even turn.
You were in the loading bay, helmet pulled low over your face as you tried to figure out how the heck Wrecker even saw through it with one eye. It was like wearing a bucket with a tunnel vision problem.
He charged over with the biggest grin you’d ever seen.
“Look at you! You’re me!”
You pulled the helmet off, grinning. “I don’t know how you walk around with this thing. It’s like being inside a durasteel trash can.”
“I know, right? But it looks great on you!”
He took the helmet back, turning it in his hands, then gave you a wide-eyed look.
“You wanna try my pauldron next?! Or lift something heavy?!”
You laughed. “Maybe next time, big guy.”
Wrecker beamed. “You’re so getting the full Wrecker experience.”
You weren’t sure what that meant, but you were both strangely okay with it.
⸻
TECH
You had only meant to try it on for a second.
But you made the mistake of reading one of his datapads while wearing it. And once the internal HUD booted up? Well, curiosity took over.
Tech returned from the cockpit to find you hunched over in the corner, still wearing his helmet and scanning system diagnostics.
His voice was clipped. “You’re tampering with active interface systems.”
“I’m learning,” you shot back, not looking up.
He blinked, then stepped closer, fingers twitching in that nervous way he did when he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified.
“You activated my visual overlay filters.”
“I figured out the encryption pattern.”
Now that caught his attention.
He slowly knelt beside you. “How long have you had it on?”
“…Twenty-three minutes?”
He swallowed. “And you’re not… disoriented?”
“Nope. Just slightly overstimulated.”
There was a pause.
Then, quietly: “You may keep it on. Temporarily.”
You turned. “You trust me with your helmet?”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t make it a habit.”
But he was already adjusting the fit at the sides of your head.
⸻
ECHO
Echo did not find it cute.
He found it concerning.
The helmet wasn’t just gear. It was part of his reconstructed identity—a thing he wore not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
So when he saw you on the edge of his bunk, wearing it—your legs swinging slightly, gaze distant—his chest tightened.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
You looked up, startled. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just… wondering what it’s like. Living with this.”
He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to your eye level. “It’s not something I’d want you to understand.”
You pulled the helmet off, placed it in his hands. “I didn’t think about that.”
He let out a quiet breath, then shook his head. “No. You did. That’s why you’re here thinking about it.”
You gave a soft smile. “I wanted to know you better.”
He swallowed hard. “You already do.”
⸻
CROSSHAIR
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And that was the problem.
You sat in the sniper’s perch in the Marauder, elbow on one knee, head tilted just slightly as you stared down at the deck below—wearing his helmet.
You heard the footstep. The sigh.
“Really?” His voice was lazy, drawled out like he wasn’t fazed, but there was a subtle tension underneath.
You didn’t look at him. “I wanted to see what it was like. Looking down on the rest of the world.”
He chuckled once, dry and sharp. “And? Is it satisfying?”
“No. It’s lonely.”
Crosshair was quiet for a long moment. Then he climbed the ladder halfway, leaned against the edge of the platform.
“Don’t get comfortable in it.”
You turned your head, voice just a little softer. “Why not?”
“Because if you wear it any longer, I might start to like it.”
You handed it back.
But you were both thinking about that line for the rest of the day.
I might just move to making canon characters now.
Prev | Next
Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2
There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."
You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.
"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."
You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."
Snickers echoed through the hall.
Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."
That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"
She shrugged. "Or hoping."
You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."
---
Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.
He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.
"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"
"You disappeared. Again."
You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."
He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."
Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.
"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."
He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.
"You weren't hurt?" he asked.
You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."
He nodded once and walked away.
*He cared.*
He'd never say it. But it was there.
---
Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.
Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."
You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."
"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."
You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."
---
That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.
And just like always... he was there.
Helmet off. Silent in the corner.
You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.
"Wait."
You turned. "Following me again?"
He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.
"I thought something happened," he said quietly.
You swallowed. "Fox—"
"Next time, just tell someone."
You blinked. "Why?"
A long pause.
"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."
And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.
You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.
Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.
Fox... made you feel seen.
And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.
Waiting.
---
The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.
Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.
"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"
Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."
"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."
And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.
Kess.
She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."
Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."
Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."
You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."
"She was joking," Kess said quickly.
"I was not," Trina snapped.
"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.
Kess audibly choked on her tea.
---
Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.
The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.
"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."
"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."
Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."
"I'll talk to her."
You blinked. "You will?"
"She's not your superior."
A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."
He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."
---
That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.
You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.
You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.
"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."
Aurra Sing.
Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."
You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."
"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."
"I'm not a bounty hunter."
She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."
Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.
"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."
She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.
You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.
You weren't scared.
But you were very, very awake.
---
The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"
Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.
You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"
Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.
You gave him a half-smile.
He didn't return it.
But his hand twitched near his blaster.
He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.
You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.
---
You are SO TALENTED!!!! I love reading your fics so much. There is something so comforting and perfect about how you write. I can’t put my finger on how to explain what I mean other than I really love your style and how you describe things and write the characters. You always start the fics off in a unique way and I love how to interpret people’s ideas into your style!! Would it be okay if I make a tech request please? I was thinking about something kind of idiots to lovers where they are both obviously interested in each other but haven’t made that step yet and everyone is relaxing on the beach (because they deserve it) and reader can’t stop staring at tech and is super obvious and helpless about it. Maybe he gets all flustered and shy about it and the others are teasing them and pushing them together? If you want of course only if you feel inspired! Thank you 💗💗💗 so much love for you and your fics!
That means so much—thank you! Seriously, I’m really honored by your words, truly means a lot 🤍
“Heat Index”
Tech x Reader
The beach wasn’t part of the mission.
It was just…there. Unoccupied. Warm. Irresistible.
Clone Force 99 had been rerouted after a failed rendezvous with Cid’s contact, and with no immediate threats or intel to chase down, Hunter declared something miraculous:
“Stand down for the day. You’ve earned it.”
And that’s how you found yourself on a quiet, sun-drenched coast with the sound of waves in your ears, sand between your toes, and a distinct inability to stop staring at Tech.
You told yourself you were being subtle. Sitting beside him while he recalibrated his datapad, watching him tap at the screen with focused precision, eyes half-hidden behind his signature goggles. You probably looked like you were zoning out—beachy daydreaming, normal and relaxed.
But inside? Inside you were on fire.
It was embarrassing, really, the way your stomach flipped every time he pushed his glasses up or muttered to himself. The man could be describing planetary topography and you’d nod along like he was whispering sweet nothings.
And you weren’t slick. Not even a little.
“Y/N, you’re staring again,” Echo said, not even trying to be discreet as he passed by with a makeshift towel slung around his neck. His prosthetic hand glinted in the sun as he pointed an accusatory thumb your way.
“I’m not,” you mumbled, heat rushing to your face.
“You are,” Wrecker chimed in from where he was wrestling with Omega in the shallows. “Even I noticed. And I was busy winning.”
“You were not!” Omega shouted, shoving at Wrecker’s broad chest as he laughed and face-planted into the surf.
You groaned and covered your face. This was fine. Totally fine. They were just teasing. They always teased.
But Tech?
Oblivious.
He didn’t even look up, still scrolling through data with maddening focus, the sunlight glinting off his goggles. You watched as he adjusted his posture on the towel beneath him, arms flexing under the light linen of his casual shirt—of course he rolled his sleeves. Of course.
“You know,” Crosshair drawled from behind you, “he’s been stealing glances at you all day.”
You jumped.
“What?”
“Mm.” Crosshair didn’t elaborate. He just took a slow sip from the coconut drink Wrecker had found earlier and tilted his head, smirking. “Took you long enough to notice.”
You turned back to Tech quickly, trying not to look like you were checking—but yes. His head was angled just a bit too stiffly toward his datapad, like he’d jerked his gaze away the moment you turned. His fingers weren’t moving. He was paused.
Flustered?
That couldn’t be right. This was Tech. The man had calculated the thermal resistance of Wrecker’s cooking experiments and quoted entire military texts without blinking. Emotion wasn’t his operating system.
…But his ears were a bit pink.
You squinted. No way.
“Hunter,” you hissed toward the Batch’s defacto leader, hoping for confirmation.
He looked up from where he was lounging with a smug expression that had definitely been inherited from Crosshair at some point.
“He likes you. Don’t ask me to interpret how—but yeah. You’re just as obvious as he is.”
You buried your face in your hands again.
This was a mess. A ridiculous, tangled, sun-soaked mess.
And yet—
“Y/N?” Tech’s voice was right beside you. Quiet. Tentative. You startled a little—when had he moved closer?
“I—I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard. “But I noticed a discrepancy in your hydration levels. You haven’t had water in two hours and thirty-seven minutes.”
You blinked. “You’re…tracking my water intake?”
“Well, I’ve been tracking everyone’s. But yours in particular was… below optimal parameters.”
You stared.
He cleared his throat.
“I made this for you,” he added, holding out a homemade drink container fashioned from a modified canteen and what looked like part of a fruit rind. “It’s rehydration-optimized. With, um… taste. I believe that matters to you?”
Your heart did a completely traitorous little leap. “You made me a beach drink?”
His ears turned very pink. “Yes.”
Crosshair made a gagging sound from somewhere behind you.
You took the drink, fingers brushing Tech’s. He didn’t pull away.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That’s… really sweet.”
He stared at you for a second, expression flickering behind his goggles.
“Would you—” he blurted, then stopped himself. “Would you… be interested in accompanying me on a walk along the beach? For scientific reasons.”
“Scientific reasons?”
“Yes. I’d like to examine the tidal patterns. But also… I’d like to spend time with you.”
You almost laughed in relief, and it was so him, so endearing and awkward and precise, that you couldn’t say no.
“Yeah,” you said, and smiled. “I’d like that.”
The walk started slow.
He kept his hands behind his back at first, clearly trying to keep things casual, but he couldn’t help rattling off bits of data about the tides and the weather patterns. You nodded, asked just enough to keep him talking—but you were watching him more than anything else.
His brow furrowed when he talked, like every thought had to be carefully handled and shaped before it left his mouth. But he got passionate. Excited. Animated.
He gestured toward a tide pool and nearly tripped over a rock, catching himself with a flustered noise that made you giggle. His cheeks turned pink again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered suddenly.
“What is?”
He turned to you, still awkward, but determined. “I’ve run the probabilities. Of outcomes. Of this… situation.”
“This situation being…?”
“You and me,” he said, like it was a confession he’d been holding in for weeks. “Statistically, the indicators are positive. Even when accounting for external variables and potential mission constraints.”
You bit your lip. “Tech—are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
He hesitated. Then: “I like you. Very much. In a not entirely logical way.”
Your breath caught.
“You do?”
“I have for some time,” he admitted. “I didn’t say anything because I assumed the feelings were not… mutual. And I didn’t want to make things awkward among the squad.”
“Oh,” you said, voice breathy. “You absolute idiot.”
He blinked.
“I like you too,” you said, taking a step closer. “In a totally not-logical-at-all way. Everyone else figured it out ages ago.”
Tech looked stunned.
You took his hand—he startled, but didn’t pull away.
“I wanted to tell you,” you said. “But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I am, in fact,” he said slowly, “very comfortable at the moment.”
The silence stretched between you, warm and fizzing with promise.
And then—
“Finally!”
You both turned. Wrecker and Echo were standing waist-deep in the surf, cheering.
“I owe you five credits,” Crosshair muttered to Hunter.
You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling.
“Let them gloat,” Tech said softly, fingers brushing yours again. “We have better things to do.”
“Like?”
“Another kilometer of beach to explore. And perhaps later… dinner. Just the two of us.”
Your stomach fluttered.
“Sounds perfect.”
⸻
Dinner arrived in pieces.
Wrecker had scavenged half the ingredients from the nearby forest—safe and edible, confirmed by Hunter—and Omega, ever the creative one, had helped wrap them in broad leaves and skewer them over a makeshift spit. Echo insisted on seasoning, mumbling something about dignity, and Crosshair contributed by not poisoning the mood with snark.
But you and Tech?
You barely noticed.
You’d spent the entire afternoon orbiting one another, caught in the gravitational pull of what had finally been said and shared. And when Tech suggested you take your food to the far end of the beach—just the two of you—there was no hesitation.
You walked in silence at first, the smell of salt and roasted fruit mingling with the low roar of the tide. The sand cooled beneath your feet as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long and purple-blue across the coast. When you reached a quiet, rocky cove framed by tidepools and a sloping dune, Tech paused.
“This will do,” he said.
You laid out the blanket Omega had packed, and he helped you unpack the food with the same precision he brought to every mission. Only this time, you noticed the small things—the way his fingers brushed yours when handing you a wrapped meal, the quiet way he lingered near your side as if anchoring himself.
You sat cross-legged beside him on the blanket. He adjusted his goggles. Again.
“You can take those off, you know,” you said gently.
“I—well, yes, I could, but…”
“But?”
“I prefer to see you clearly.”
Your breath caught. He wasn’t even trying to be smooth. That was the worst part—it was just honesty, simple and unaffected, and it made your chest feel like it had been sun-warmed from the inside out.
He must’ve noticed your reaction because he fumbled with his fork.
“I apologize. Was that too forward?”
“No,” you said quickly. “Just… unexpected.”
A small smile touched his lips. He nudged his glasses up slightly anyway, so you could see more of his eyes.
“Then I shall try to surprise you more often.”
The meal was delicious—maybe not restaurant quality, but easily one of the best things you’d tasted in weeks. The food was secondary, though. The real warmth came from being beside Tech, talking about nothing and everything. His shoulders relaxed the longer you chatted, especially when you teased him lightly about how long it had taken for him to make a move.
“I calculated risk scenarios,” he said indignantly, mouth twitching at the corners.
“Uh-huh. And how’d that go?”
“Well, clearly, I underestimated you.”
You laughed. “You really did.”
After dinner, the sky deepened into indigo, and stars began to prick through the darkness.
You lay back on the blanket with a contented sigh, staring up at the galaxy above. Beside you, Tech adjusted his posture, lying just close enough for your arms to brush.
“The constellations are different from Kamino’s sector,” he murmured. “See that cluster? That’s the Aurigae Trine. It’s only visible from this hemisphere.”
You turned your head to look at him.
“And the one over there?” you asked, pointing.
He followed your gaze, expression thoughtful. “That’s informal. Not officially charted. But some smugglers call it The Serpent’s Tongue.”
“Romantic,” you teased.
“Perhaps not. But…”
He hesitated, then shifted slightly, turning onto his side to face you fully.
“I once thought romance was a variable I would never encounter with clarity,” he said. “It seemed inefficient. Distracting.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
“Now I find it… illuminating. Like gravitational lensing. Everything bends, but you can see further.”
Your chest tightened with something sweet and aching.
“You always talk like that?” you asked quietly.
He tilted his head. “Do you prefer I don’t?”
“No,” you whispered. “I love it. I love how you see things.”
His gaze softened, and this time, it was his hand that reached for yours.
“I may not always say the right words,” he murmured. “But I will always mean them.”
You laced your fingers with his.
“I know.”
The sky stretched endless above you, starlight threading between the waves and wind. And for once, there was no war. No danger. Just you, and him, and a night that felt like it had waited for years to happen.
Hi! Your writing is superb and I love your fic with the reader and Crosshair bantering. Do you think you could do a Crosshair x Fem!reader where she finally gets him flustered and blushing? Maybe a bit of spice at the end if that’s ok? Xx
“Right on Target”
Crosshair x Fem!Reader
Warnings: No explicit smut, but it’s definitely mature
⸻
Crosshair was used to being in control—of his aim, of his surroundings, of people. He liked it that way.
What he didn’t like was how you always had a retort ready for him, sharp as the toothpick between his teeth.
“Your stalking’s getting obvious, sharpshooter,” you drawled, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Didn’t know you liked watching me walk that much.”
“I wasn’t watching you walk,” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching my ass. Got it.”
He glanced away, jaw tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Score one.
“You’re lucky I’m into grumpy, brooding types who pretend they don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhm,” you said, voice thick with amusement. “That why you always hover when I’m patching up, or growl when I flirt with other clones?”
He stopped walking. You didn’t. Not until he grabbed your wrist, tugging you back with just enough force to make it known he was done playing.
“I don’t growl.”
“Oh, honey,” you smirked, stepping in close. “You practically purr when you’re jealous.”
His eyes narrowed, but his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t meant to touch his chest—but your hand was there now, and he wasn’t moving.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low.
You tilted your head. “Why? You gonna shoot me?”
“No. But I might do something you’ll like.”
You gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That’s the idea.”
And that’s when it happened—the blush. Subtle at first, just a dusting of pink across those high cheekbones. But you saw it. He knew you saw it.
“You’re blushing,” you whispered, grinning like you’d just landed a perfect headshot.
He scoffed. “It’s hot in here.”
“We’re on Hoth.”
Silence. You let it stretch. Delicious, victorious silence.
“…You gonna keep staring, or—”
You silenced him with a kiss—soft, heated, and just enough tongue to make his breath hitch. His hand gripped your waist in reflex, grounding, needing.
“You gonna let me keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, “or are you finally gonna shut me up properly?”
He backed you into the nearest wall faster than you could blink, lips crashing against yours harder this time, heat surging between you both like a live wire. When he pulled back, his voice was husky, feral.
“Be careful what you ask for.”
You smirked, heart hammering. “Right on target.”
The wall was cold at your back, but Crosshair was not.
His body pressed flush to yours, lean and strong, caging you in with one hand braced above your head and the other gripping your hip like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor you.
“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he muttered, voice dark and ragged.
“I know,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his blacks. “You like it.”
He growled—a low, almost feral sound—then tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers and kissed you again. This time, there was no holding back. Teeth, tongue, heat. He kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a dangerous edge that said he might snap.
You wanted him to snap.
Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging along the sharp dip of his waist. His abs flexed beneath your touch, and his breath caught.
“What’s wrong, Cross?” you purred, nipping at his jaw. “You usually have so much to say.”
“I’m busy shutting you up,” he rasped.
And oh—he did.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging you closer. You rolled your hips against his and felt just how not unaffected he was. The air between you grew hot, heavy, thick with need.
“You wanna keep teasing,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your skin, “I’ll make good on every threat I’ve ever made.”
Your eyes fluttered shut at the promise laced in his tone. He sounded dangerous. And you? You’d never wanted anything more.
“I dare you.”
He chuckled, low and rough, and it did something to you.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Oh, I do,” you said, curling your fingers in his shirt and pulling him closer. “And I want all of it.”
He kissed you again, slower this time—possessive, claiming, his. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he pulled away, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.
“Later,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over yours. “When we’re not seconds from being interrupted by someone like Wrecker.”
You groaned. “He would walk in right now.”
“Which is why,” he said, voice sharp and wicked, “you’re going to think about this all day until I do something about it.”
He stepped back, leaving you breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked.
And the smirk he shot you?
It said he knew exactly what he’d done.
“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
“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.1
Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn
Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.
If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.
You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.
Politics were war without blasters.
And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.
Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.
Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.
The Senate was a performance.
A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.
You hated it.
And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.
Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.
“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”
You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.
Fox came first.
Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.
He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.
But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.
His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.
But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.
Thorn followed.
Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.
His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.
Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.
You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.
You liked them already.
Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.
But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.
No, they were disciplined. Detached.
And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.
⸻
Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.
Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.
Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.
You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.
But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.
And would never be able to vote your way out of.
⸻
The reception was loud.
Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.
You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.
You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.
“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”
“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.
Padmé snorted into her glass.
You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.
And there they were. Again.
Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.
Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.
You could’ve ignored them.
You should’ve.
But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.
You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.
Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.
He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.
“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”
You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”
He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.
Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”
“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”
At that, something shifted. Barely.
His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.
“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”
You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:
“You’ve heard it now.”
And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.
You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.
Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.
Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.
Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.
And he’d just decided not to intervene.
Not yet.
⸻
You hated how the armor caught the light.
Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.
He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.
But not unkind.
You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.
And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.
He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.
“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.
“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”
“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”
“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.
“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”
“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”
You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”
He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.
Interesting.
“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.
“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.
“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.
“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.
Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.
“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.
“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”
You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.
You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.
He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.
“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”
You smirked.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”
⸻
“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”
Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”
“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”
You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”
“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”
You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”
The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.
“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”
Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”
You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.
A polite knock cut the quiet.
You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.
“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.
Commander Fox stepped in.
Of course.
His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.
“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”
“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”
You and Mon exchanged a look.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”
“He was reassigned.”
“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.
Fox didn’t blink.
You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”
To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.
“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”
“I am.”
That surprised you. Just a little.
“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”
Your arms dropped to your sides.
For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.
Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”
You turned slightly. “And what are you?”
He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.
“Trained,” he said.
Then he stepped back toward the door.
“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.
Too good to show interest.
But stars, did he listen.
⸻
Next Chapter
Happy May the 4th Be With You!
Apparently drawing Codywan for Star Wars day is my new tradition 🥰
“Brothers in the Making” pt.3
Command Squad x Reader
The fortress was carved straight into the mountainside — dark metal and cold stone, its towers punching through the mist like jagged teeth. Separatist banners snapped in the wind, and scout droids buzzed along the perimeter like angry insects.
You crouched with Obi-Wan behind a ridge just above the valley floor. The cadets were lined up beside you, low and quiet, eyes locked on the compound.
Anakin was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.
“Alright,” you whispered, tapping your datapad. “I count four main patrol paths. One blind spot. Minimal aerial surveillance.”
Kenobi nodded. “We can use the cliffside tunnel. I’ve seen this kind of layout before — there’s usually an access vent leading into the communications wing.”
You turned to your boys. “No heroics. Stay behind cover, stick to the plan, and no loud noises. Got it?”
They all nodded.
Except for Bacara, who raised a hand like he had a question.
You narrowed your eyes. “If this is about blowing something up—”
“I wasn’t gonna say that.”
“No loud noises.”
“Fine.”
Just as you leaned in to start your descent, a distant buzz and then a crash echoed from the other side of the fortress wall.
Everyone froze.
Obi-Wan sighed deeply. “That wasn’t us, was it?”
You didn’t answer — because right then, Anakin skidded down the slope, cloak half-burnt, covered in dust and grinning like an idiot.
“Hey!” he called, too loud. “Good news! I found a side entrance—”
A siren wailed.
Turrets rotated.
Searchlights snapped to life and started scanning the cliffs.
You turned, face blank. “Did you trigger an alarm?”
Anakin pointed behind him. “Technically? The droid did.”
Rex, next to you, groaned into his gloves. “We’re all gonna die.”
Kenobi was already getting up, lightsaber in hand, perfectly composed as chaos exploded below.
“Plans change,” he muttered. “We improvise.”
“Oh yes,” you said flatly, drawing your blaster. “Let’s all just improvise our way into a heavily armed Separatist base. That’s definitely how I planned to spend my day.”
He gave you a look as you both started moving down the slope.
“You know,” Obi-Wan said over the rising noise, “I never thought I’d see the day you would be the voice of reason.”
You ducked behind a boulder, covering the cadets as they followed in. “Yeah, well, someone has to be the adult while your Padawan’s off starting a land war with a power converter.”
He chuckled under his breath. “You could always take him. Add him to your little army of foundlings.”
You gave him a flat look. “I already have five too many.”
Behind you, Fox tripped over his own boots and nearly bowled into Cody.
Kenobi raised an eyebrow.
You added: “And they bite.”
————
Inside the base, it was colder than the mountain winds outside — all durasteel corridors and flickering lights, the buzz of power conduits echoing through the walls like a warning.
You crouched behind a support pillar as another pair of droid sentries clanked past. The group had slipped in through the broken emergency access hatch Anakin had accidentally discovered — half of it still smoldering from whatever he'd done to override the lock.
You turned to Obi-Wan in a sharp whisper. “Splitting up is a terrible idea.”
“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your foundlings run a perimeter diversion.”
“They’re kids.”
“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your cadets run a perimeter diversion.”
“They’re kids.”
“Your kids,” he said smoothly. “And as you’ve reminded me — foundlings are expected to fight.”
You clenched your jaw. “They’re not ready for this.”
He met your eyes. “Neither were we, once.”
That stopped you cold.
He lowered his voice, just a touch. “They need the experience. He needs the responsibility.”
You looked across the corridor — to where Anakin was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to give the cadets some kind of whispered briefing. Bacara was clearly ignoring him. Wolffe already had a stun grenade in hand.
You exhaled through your nose. “If they die—”
“They won’t.”
You gave him one last glare, then looked back at the boys. “If anything goes wrong, scream.”
Fox raised a hand. “Like—?”
“I will hear you. I will end whoever hurt you. Just scream.”
The cadets nodded, suddenly a lot more serious.
Anakin gave a quick salute. “We’ll meet you back at the east exit.”
Obi-Wan glanced at you. “Shall we?”
You rolled your eyes and moved out, both of you slipping into the shadowed hallway like water down a blade.
———
Your part of the mission was quick and clean. Every step was coordinated — you swept forward through dark halls while Obi-Wan silently disabled security systems, his movements graceful and lethal.
You’d never worked with a Jedi like this before — and you had to admit, it was… oddly satisfying.
No words were wasted. He moved, you moved. You dropped a droid with a blaster shot, he caught its partner’s blaster arm mid-swing and twisted it clean off. The two of you cleared the detention block in under four minutes.
“Cell 14,” Obi-Wan said, checking the datapad he pulled from a guard’s belt.
You were already unlocking the panel.
Inside, the senator’s daughter was scared but unharmed — pale, dressed in rich fabric, bound at the wrists.
“I’ve got her,” you said, pulling her close and cutting the ties.
She stared up at you. “Who are you?”
You gave her a faint smile. “Someone your mother owes a drink.”
———
Elsewhere, it was less smooth.
Anakin’s plan — and you used the word plan very loosely — had apparently included sneaking into the droid depot and causing a “small, contained distraction.”
That turned into blowing up a weapons rack, stealing a tank, and getting stuck in a three-way chase down the hallway with spider droids, sirens, and Wolffe yelling, “I SAID I WASN’T GONNA BLOW ANYTHING UP, BUT THEN HE HANDED ME A DETONATOR—”
“I thought it was a flashlight!” Anakin shouted back.
Rex was clutching the controls of the tank like his life depended on it. Bacara was on top of the thing firing wildly and screaming gleefully. Cody and Fox were halfway hanging out of the hatch, shouting directions and laughing hysterically.
“THIS IS NOT STEALTH!” Fox screamed.
“I’M DISTRACTING THEM!” Bacara grinned. “DISTRACTION MISSION SUCCESSFUL!”
“DEFINITELY not ready,” you muttered, back with Obi-Wan as you made your way to the rendezvous.
You could hear the tank before you even saw them.
Obi-Wan glanced sideways at you with a completely straight face. “Would now be a bad time to say you were right?”
You stared at the smoke trail in the distance. “I hate you.”
———
The escape was… a mess.
They made it out, of course. Somehow.
With a half-destroyed tank rolling in front of the group as cover, explosions at their backs, and Anakin cheering like they’d just won a podrace, the cadets had sprinted across the canyon with blaster bolts chasing their heels.
You’d covered the senator’s daughter with your own body the whole way.
Kenobi had deflected shot after shot, graceful and impassive, the calm center of a storm.
Once they’d finally cleared the base and reconnected with the ship, you spent the first ten minutes pacing the ramp with your helmet tucked under your arm, muttering curses in three different languages.
Then, after a full headcount and emergency takeoff, you finally collapsed into a seat in the main hold.
Everyone was quiet.
Even Anakin.
The cadets sat in a circle, scratched and bruised, letting adrenaline drain from their systems. You watched them from your spot, arms crossed, boots heavy on the floor.
Cody was staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.
Fox hadn’t said a word.
Bacara was still grinning, but it was thinner now.
You leaned forward, voice low. “You all did good.”
Five pairs of eyes turned to you.
“Not perfect. Not clean. But good,” you said, and your voice softened, just a touch. “You followed orders. You adapted. You survived.”
Wolffe swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor.
You stood, stepping forward, and placed a hand on the back of Cody’s neck — warm and grounding.
“You saw war today. The real thing. Not just drills. Not just training. And you all made it out.”
There was silence again.
Then Bacara mumbled, “Even if Skywalker tried to kill us all.”
“I heard that,” Anakin called from the cockpit.
“Good.”
You turned toward the boys again. “Rest up. You earned it.”
As they started to settle into sleep wherever they could — curled in corners of the hold, some using their packs as pillows — you moved quietly to the front of the ship.
Kenobi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the stars pass through the viewports.
“You think they’re alright?” you asked, keeping your voice low.
He glanced at you. “They will be.”
You tilted your head. “So. What happened to your ship, exactly?”
He didn’t blink. “Mysterious failure.”
“Uh huh.”
“Sabotage, maybe.”
“Right.”
“Couldn’t possibly have been someone crash landing our ship.”
You sighed. “You Jedi are the worst.”
“I get that a lot.”
———
You hated the smell of Coruscant. Too clean. Too bright. Like chrome and false smiles.
But the senator’s estate was quiet, at least. High above the clouds, the landing platform was bordered by hanging gardens and silent droids, the building towering like a temple to wealth and secrecy.
You disembarked with the senator’s daughter at your side — safe, whole, and grateful.
The senator met you personally, eyes shining with relief. They pulled you into a tight embrace and whispered, “I owe you everything.”
Then they looked at your five cadets, lined up neatly and looking everywhere but directly at the senator.
“These boys…” the senator said slowly. “Are they—?”
You cut in smoothly. “Foundlings. Mine.”
A pause.
The senator raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. They’re… sharp. Disciplined.”
“Lucky genes,” you said, smiling coolly.
Behind you, Fox was mouthing don’t say anything at Wolffe, who was visibly biting his tongue.
The senator looked thoughtful. “You know… there may be a place for them in security, when the time is right. We could find funding. Official channels.”
Your blood went cold.
But you smiled anyway.
“I’ll think about it.”
The senator nodded, clearly meaning well — but clearly dangerous.
You filed it away. Another warning.
They were not ready to be seen.
Not yet.
That night, back on the ship, the boys sat on the floor around you again, waiting for your orders.
But you just looked at them — really looked at them.
Wolffe’s bruise under his eye. Rex’s busted knuckles. Bacara’s scraped cheek. Cody’s silence. Fox’s slumped shoulders.
You said nothing at first.
Then, softly: “You did good.”
Five sets of eyes flicked up.
You gave them a small nod. “Get some rest. More training tomorrow.”
“Yes, buir,” they all said at once.
And you didn’t correct them.
Not this time.
————
Kamino had never felt this quiet.
Rain still lashed against the glass corridors. The white lights still hummed. Clones still trained, marched, sparred. But the air carried a tension now — tight and sterile, like the Kaminoans were watching every step.
Because they were.
The cadets noticed it first.
Extra cameras in the mess hall.
Silent observers hovering near the training chambers.
One of the newer units mentioned being taken aside and scanned after sparring.
And then, there was the way the five field cadets were treated.
Rex, Cody, Bacara, Fox, and Wolffe.
They were whispered about now — envied, doubted, even resented.
Rex heard a pair of cadets muttering behind his back in the armory.
“Think they’re better than us.”
“Just ‘cause they left Kamino.”
Bacara caught a shove in the hallway.
Fox started training harder, angrier.
You noticed it — how they stuck close together now. A small, tight unit. Good for war. Bad for brothers.
You were in the middle of correcting Bacara’s form during a sparring drill when you saw Jango watching from the overlook.
He didn’t call out to you. Just tilted his head, a silent signal.
You followed.
He was leaning against the wall in a private corridor, arms crossed.
“They’re pissed,” he said, voice low and steady.
You didn’t need to ask who.
“The Kaminoans?”
He nodded once. “Didn’t like you taking your cadets off-world. Especially not without their approval. You rattled their control.”
You leaned your back against the wall, arms folded. “That was your idea.”
He huffed a short breath of amusement. “They’re already talking about locking down field excursions. Increased isolation protocols.”
Your jaw tensed. “They’re kids. Not droids.”
“They’re property,” he said bitterly. “According to Kamino.”
You looked down at the floor, teeth clenched.
“They’re more than that,” you muttered.
He gave you a look. “Then you better teach them to act like it. Before this place eats them alive.”
————
Later that day, it happened.
Two cadets shoved Fox after a sparring match. Said he thought he was too good for the rest of them now.
Fox didn’t fight back.
But Wolffe did.
Cody pulled him off before it escalated, but not before everyone saw.
The whole training floor went dead silent.
You walked into the middle of it.
And no one said a word.
You turned, looking around at all of them — rows of half-grown clones, armor scuffed, breath caught.
“Line up.”
They did.
All of them. Even the ones still panting from the fight.
You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under your arm, rain streaking down the windows behind you.
“I’ve been too soft on you.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
You raised your voice.
“I wanted you to feel like brothers. I wanted you to find your names. To find yourselves. But that doesn’t mean forgetting what you are.”
You started to pace, slow and sharp.
“You are soldiers. You are Mandalorian-trained. You are disciplined. And above all — you are loyal.”
A pause.
“Not to me. To each other.”
They watched you like they were trying to breathe your words in.
“This?” You pointed at the dried blood on Wolffe’s lip. “This jealousy? This division? It’s not strength. It’s weakness. And weakness gets you killed.”
You stopped walking, facing them head-on.
“I don’t care who went off-world. I don’t care who hasn’t earned a name yet. You are brothers. And from today on, the training gets harder. The drills get longer. The expectations rise.”
A long, steady beat.
“Earn your place. Earn your name. Earn each other.”
No one moved.
No one dared.
You dropped your voice just enough.
“This is your warning. Tomorrow — the real training begins.”
You turned on your heel and walked out.
Behind you, they stood taller.
Silent.
Together.
————
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