They’re Clones

Hiya! I just wanted to know if you song requests for fics before I asked!

-🤍

Heya! I certainly do x

Salve! I was wondering if you could do a 501st x Fem!Reader where she can comfort the boys after they have nightmares. Cuddly and fluffy fic? Love your work! 💙🇳🇴

“The Warmth Between Wars”

501st x Fem!Reader

⸻

The war was quiet tonight, at least on this side of the stars.

Your bunk was tucked into the corner of the 501st’s temporary barracks, a little pocket of calm in a galaxy always set to burn. The lights were dim, the hum of the base a low lull, and most of the troopers were supposed to be asleep.

But you’d learned that sleep didn’t come easy to men who’d seen too much.

That’s why you stayed awake—your blankets soft and open, arms ready, heart steady.

The first to appear was Hardcase—because of course it was. Loud in everything he did except when he was hurting. You heard his footsteps even before you saw him.

“Hey,” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Couldn’t shut my brain off. Kept hearing the gunfire… y’know. Just noise. Dumb.”

You patted the spot beside you. “It’s not dumb.”

Hardcase flopped down like a kicked puppy, curling into your side with his head pressed against your chest. “You smell better than blaster fire,” he mumbled.

You chuckled, brushing a hand through his wild hair. “High praise.”

A few minutes later, Echo slipped in like a ghost, eyes hollow.

“Wasn’t even my nightmare,” he whispered. “It was Fives’. I heard him in his sleep.”

“Then bring him too.”

Echo looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fives emerged from the shadows, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re like a kriffing magnet,” Fives grumbled, but he smiled when he saw you and Hardcase.

“Only for broken things,” you teased softly.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fives replied, nestling in beside Echo, his back brushing yours. You reached back and grabbed his hand, grounding him.

The bunk was growing crowded—but there was always room.

Kix came next, grumbling about how it wasn’t “medically advisable” for this many people to share a bunk, but you knew better.

“You’re not here for medical advice, are you?” you asked.

“…No,” he muttered, surrendering as he slid under the blanket at your feet, resting his head near your knees.

Then Appo arrived, quiet and unsure, his helmet still on.

“You can take it off,” you said gently. “You don’t have to wear the war in here.”

He hesitated… then removed it.

The look in his eyes told you everything: too many losses. Too much weight.

You pulled him down beside you. “Just for tonight, let it go.”

Jesse and Dogma came together—one cracked jokes, the other said nothing. But both of them settled close, drawn by the comfort you offered without needing to ask.

Eventually, even Rex came.

He stood at the edge of the pile like a soldier standing watch. Not ready to be vulnerable. Not yet.

“Captain?” you said softly.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You didn’t pressure him. Just opened your arm, just a little, just enough.

Rex hesitated… then stepped forward and sank to the floor beside your bunk, resting his head against your thigh. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and steady.

No one spoke for a while. The room was warm with breath and body heat, filled with the soft sound of steady inhales.

For just a few hours, there was no war. No armor. No titles. Just tired men wrapped around someone who loved them.

You pressed your lips to the crown of Fives’ head, gave Jesse’s hand a squeeze, and reached down to cup Rex’s cheek.

“You’re safe,” you whispered. “All of you. Tonight, you’re safe.”

And the nightmares stayed away.

What Remains

Captain Rex x Reader

Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.

⸻

You’d found the distress signal by accident.

A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

But you weren’t most people.

And the frequency?

It was clone code.

You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.

Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.

And then you heard him.

At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.

“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”

Static.

“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”

More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.

“I don’t wanna die like this…”

Your heart stopped.

You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.

“Rex!”

Then you heard it.

Closer now.

“Please…somebody…I—”

His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.

And finally—you found him.

Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.

His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.

“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”

Your heart shattered.

You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”

You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”

Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.

“Hurts…”

“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”

You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.

He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.

But now?

Now he was just a man.

Bleeding. Scared. Alone.

You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.

“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”

You closed your eyes.

“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”

⸻

He woke up in pieces.

A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.

And your voice.

He could hear you before he could turn his head.

“I know you’re awake, Rex.”

He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.

“How long?”

“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”

He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”

You closed your book. “Of course I did.”

He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”

There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.

You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.

But he wasn’t now.

He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.

“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.

You said nothing. Let him go on.

“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”

You reached for his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”

“You’re not.”

He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”

He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”

You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”

You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.

“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.

His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”

You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.

He was shaking.

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

You wrapped your arm around him.

He didn’t say anything after that.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:

“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”

And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.

“In all honesty darling, they only started calling me the Negotiator because the slut was considered too unprofessional.” - Obi-Wan Kenobi to Cody at some point in the war

Someone, Evermore (Sunshine, Evermore.) by songofsewerrats on ao3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754613

@songofsewerrats

Edit: since this post is being seen by a lot of people, im letting you guys know that this fic is the best Codywan fic I’ve ever read and I strongly recommend you to check it out!

212th material List🧡🍑🍊🔶🏵️

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

Commander Cody

- x Twi’lek Reader❤️

- x Queen Reader❤️

- x Jedi reader “meet me in the woods”❤️

- x Jedi Reader “Cold Wind”❤️

- x Bounty Hunter Reader “Crossfire” multiple chapter❤️

- x GN Mandalorian Reader “One Too Many” ❤️

- “Diplomacy & Detonations” ❤️

- “I Think They Call This Love”

Waxer

- x Twi’lek Reader “painted in dust”❤️

Overall Material List

peep boost and sinker from the background of what i'm working on because i need motivation to get through rendering it all 😭

“Painted in Dust”

Waxer x Twi’lek!Reader (Numa’s older sister)

Warnings: death, mentions of death

⸻

You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.

Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.

The battle was over.

But it didn’t feel over.

You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.

“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.

You turned—and froze.

It was him.

Waxer.

Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.

But you didn’t look at Boil.

Your eyes went to Waxer.

And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.

“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”

“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.

Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”

You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.

Tears burned your eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.

“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”

Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”

Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.

“I was brave,” she said proudly.

You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”

Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”

“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”

You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.

“She drew me?” you asked softly.

Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”

Your heart cracked in half.

“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”

⸻

They stayed.

Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.

Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.

“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”

You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.

He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”

“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”

He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”

You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.

“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”

Waxer swallowed.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t answer.

You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”

His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”

You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.

Waxer sat very, very still.

Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”

“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

⸻

The next morning, they were set to leave.

Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.

Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:

“I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”

You reached up, cupped his cheek.

“Promise me something,” you said.

He nodded.

“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”

His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”

You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”

He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.

You let him go.

But your heart didn’t

⸻

The war kept him away—but never silent.

Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.

He always reached out.

“Hey, starshine.”

It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.

You saved every one of his transmissions.

He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.

Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:

“I miss you.”

You always whispered it back.

⸻

Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.

He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.

“Got something to show you,” he said.

He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.

It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.

“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”

“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”

“Boil let you do this?”

“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”

You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”

“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”

“Soon.”

⸻

But soon never came.

⸻

Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.

He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.

You stood there. Frozen. Staring.

Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.

“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”

Boil shook his head.

“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”

“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”

He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.

You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.

Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.

“Did he forget?” she whispered.

You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”

Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”

You didn’t respond.

The helmet said enough.

⸻

You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.

Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:

“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”

But the silence said it all.

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

“The Sound of Your Voice”

Wrecker x Togruta Reader

The sunset painted Pabu’s sky in thick, golden brushstrokes, casting long shadows over the peaceful island. Waves lapped lazily against the cliffs below, and somewhere distant, children’s laughter drifted on the breeze.

Wrecker walked carefully behind you, boots thudding heavily against the worn footpath. In contrast, you moved with a graceful lightness, bare feet brushing over the earth as if you were part of it. He wasn’t paying much attention to where he was, though.

Not when you were walking beside him, your vibrant montrals catching the light, your voice weaving a story he barely understood but couldn’t get enough of.

You stopped near a bluff overlooking the water, turning back to him with a smile.

“You can sit, if you like,” you said softly.

Wrecker flopped down without hesitation, arms resting on his knees. He watched curiously as you remained standing, closing your eyes and spreading your toes against the soil. You tilted your face up toward the stars, breathing deep, like you were drinking in the very air.

After a long, peaceful moment, you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

“Togruta believe the land is part of us,” you began, voice like a gentle tide, steady and warm. “The soil carries the memory of life. Every step we take barefoot, we are sharing in that memory. Feeling the heartbeat of the world.”

Wrecker blinked up at you, utterly enchanted but thoroughly confused. “The dirt’s got a heartbeat?” he asked, scratching the side of his head.

You laughed, soft and melodious, not mocking him — just delighted by his earnestness.

“In a way. It’s not something you hear with your ears. You feel it here.” You placed your palm over your chest, just above your heart.

Wrecker copied the gesture clumsily, his big hand thudding against his chest plate with a solid thunk. He winced. “Maybe I oughta take this armor off first, huh?”

You smiled and knelt beside him, resting lightly on your heels. Your robes pooled around your legs, and your toes stayed firmly rooted in the soil.

“You don’t have to be Togruta to feel the connection. Just… still your mind. Listen.”

Wrecker frowned a little in concentration, shutting his eyes tight, shoulders tensing like he was preparing for battle.

You bit back a laugh. “Not so hard. Relax.”

He cracked an eye open at you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “I ain’t too good at this kinda thing,” he admitted. “S’pose I don’t really hear nothin’ except you talkin’.”

You tilted your head slightly, your montrals twitching at the gentle evening breeze.

“That’s alright,” you said, reaching out and gently taking his gloved hand in yours. His hand swallowed yours easily. “Maybe you don’t need to hear the earth tonight. Maybe… it’s enough just to listen to me.”

Wrecker’s cheeks flushed warm, and he gave a low, bashful chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I like listenin’ to ya. Your voice makes everythin’ seem… calmer. Better.”

The two of you sat there, hand in hand, the ocean’s lullaby wrapping around you. Above, the stars wheeled lazily across the night sky, ancient and eternal — just like the bond between living beings and the worlds that cradled them.

And Wrecker, big and loud and rough around the edges, had never felt so peaceful just sitting still.

Just listening to you.

Just feeling — maybe, just a little — the heartbeat of the land beneath him.

Wrecker shifted, glancing down at your bare feet pressed into the soil, then at his own heavy boots. He frowned, thoughtful.

“Do ya think… it’d help if I took these off?” he asked, voice low, almost shy.

You smiled warmly, tilting your head. “Maybe. It might help you feel what I feel.”

He grunted, leaning back to unbuckle his boots. It took him a moment — the armor clasps were stubborn — but finally, with a huff, he yanked them off and peeled away his thick socks too.

The second his bare feet touched the earth, he froze.

“Maker, that’s weird,” he blurted. “It’s all… squishy!”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your amusement. Wrecker wiggled his toes uncertainly, then gave a surprised grin.

“Feels kinda nice, though.”

You nodded, the moonlight catching the gentle curve of your smile. “Togruta believe that the land is not just something we live on — it’s something we live with. Every creature, every plant, every stone is part of a greater whole. We’re taught to listen, to feel… to never see ourselves as separate.”

Wrecker watched you with wide, focused eyes, the way he did when he was on a mission, except softer now, like the whole world had narrowed down to just you and your words.

You continued, your voice smooth and full of quiet passion. “When we walk barefoot, we are honoring the connection. Letting the world know we are its children, not its masters.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the murmur of the ocean below.

Wrecker let out a slow breath, his toes curling into the soil. He looked at you for a long moment, then said, with a sincerity that made your heart flutter:

“You got such a beautiful voice.”

You felt your cheeks warm, your montrals picking up the slight tremble of emotion in his words.

“I don’t really get all of it,” Wrecker added with a crooked grin, “but when you talk, it’s like… like everything’s alright. Even if I don’t understand it all, I wanna keep listenin’.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, and shifted closer, the two of you sitting barefoot in the cool dirt, connected not just to the land, but to something deeper.

And under the endless Pabu sky, with your voice weaving through the night air, Wrecker decided he didn’t need to understand everything.

He just needed you.