Rain Season

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.4

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.

Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.

You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.

Another shipment hijacked.

Another uprising quelled—barely.

Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.

When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”

You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”

“But I might,” she admitted.

You remained still, letting the quiet settle.

“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”

Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”

“You sound like my enemies.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”

Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”

“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”

For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.

“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”

“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”

A long silence. Then, in a whisper:

“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”

You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”

She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.

You left her there.

⸻

The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.

You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.

They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.

It was happening again.

Only this time, you stood beside the throne.

⸻

Sundari had never been louder.

Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.

You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.

Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.

“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”

Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”

“You’re smart enough to know better.”

She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”

Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.

“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”

You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”

“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”

“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”

That was the final push.

Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.

“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.

You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.

“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.

He faltered.

And then—they stepped out of the shadows.

Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.

When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.

Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.

You turned away.

But it wasn’t over.

Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.

Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.

He walked past you.

“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.

Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”

Maul ignited his saber.

He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.

You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.

The Death Watch leader crumpled.

The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Some kneeled. Others hesitated.

Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.

“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”

Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.

You remained.

You didn’t run.

Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.

He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.

“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”

He tilted his head.

“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”

Or…

“Will you die with your honor?”

“Kill me”

Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.

The cell was dark.

Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.

Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.

“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

You looked over, slowly.

“For now.”

There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.

“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.

You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”

Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”

You smiled too. “Especially after those.”

She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

You looked her in the eye.

“Not if I can stop it.”

⸻

They dragged you both from your cell.

Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.

And then he arrived.

Kenobi.

Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.

You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.

The confrontation played out as in the holos.

Maul relished every second.

Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.

And then—like a blade through your own chest—

Maul killed her.

Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.

You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.

“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”

He escaped—barely.

And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.

⸻

The city was choking under red skies.

Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.

A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.

Darth Sidious.

His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.

“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”

Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.

“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”

“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”

There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.

“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”

⸻

Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.

Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.

Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.

Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”

Sidious said nothing.

Then he struck.

The throne room erupted in chaos.

Lightsabers screamed.

Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.

You remembered your old training.

You remembered the cadets.

You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.

You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.

He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.

⸻

Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.

You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.

“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”

Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.

“No.”

You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”

“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”

You trembled, fists clenched.

“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”

You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.

And you stepped back.

“I did this for Mandalore.”

He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”

⸻

Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.

You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.

For your cadets.

For Satine.

For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.

You had survived again.

But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.

She was vengeance.

And she had only just begun.

⸻

You tried to vanish.

From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

⸻

The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.

Sidious.

“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”

You said nothing.

“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”

You turned off the holoprojector.

Another message followed. And another. Then…

A warning.

“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”

That was it. The breaking point.

⸻

The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.

No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.

Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.

In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.

Not after he threatened them.

He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.

“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”

“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”

You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.

Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.

You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.

Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.

You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.

Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.

You wouldn’t get another shot.

The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.

You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—

A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.

Fox.

You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…

But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.

You pressed on.

You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.

The Chancellor was already there.

He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.

He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”

Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”

He smiled.

“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

But then—

Ignited sabers.

The Jedi were already there. Three of them.

Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.

They had sensed your intent.

You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.

But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.

Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.

As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.

He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”

⸻

Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.

Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.

Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.

He stared at you a long time.

“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”

You didn’t speak.

He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.

“…Why?”

You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.

“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”

“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”

Fox looked down.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then quietly, almost brokenly:

“…You shouldn’t have come here.”

You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“It’s On Again”

Commander Bly x Jedi!Reader

⸻

There were moments—even in war—that felt still.

In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.

You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.

You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.

And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.

But never just… you.

⸻

“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.

“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.

“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”

You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”

“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.

You didn’t answer.

She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”

That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”

Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”

⸻

Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.

He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.

He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.

It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.

You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.

But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.

⸻

The ambush came fast.

You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.

The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.

You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.

Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.

“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.

“I’m not done,” you rasped.

“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”

But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.

⸻

Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.

Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.

“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”

You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”

“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”

You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.

“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”

“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.

But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”

⸻

The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.

But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.

And for once, you didn’t stand alone.

“I wanna wreck our friendship”

Wrecker x GN!Reader

⸻

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

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

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

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

“Gee, thanks.”

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

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

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

But… you didn’t know what he wanted.

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

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

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

You laughed. “That’s a fair worry.”

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

Your heart stuttered. “Shoot.”

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

You stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed, heart fluttering. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

You touched his cheek, grinning. “Wrecker?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re mine too.”

⸻

“War on Two Fronts” pt.7

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

War had a way of compressing time—days blurred into nights, missions into months. And somewhere in the quiet pockets between battles, between orders and hyperspace jumps, something had bloomed between the you and Bacara.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy.

But it was real.

They didn’t speak of love. Not openly. That would be too dangerous. Too foolish. But in the stolen moments—fingers brushing during debriefings, wordless glances across a war room, a hand on the small of her back as they passed each other in narrow corridors—it was undeniable.

He wasn’t good with words, not like Rex had been. Bacara showed his affection in action: the way he checked her gear before missions without asking, or how he always stood between her and enemy fire, whether she needed it or not. He never said “I love you.” But when she bled, he bled too.

She caught herself smiling as she boarded the cruiser for Mygeeto. Her datapad buzzed with her new orders—assist Master Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Bacara for the Fourth Siege. The final push.

She hadn’t seen Bacara in weeks. The campaign on Aleen had separated them again, followed by a skirmish in the mid-rim, but her heart pulled northward like a magnet toward Mygeeto. Her fingers tightened around her travel case as she stepped aboard the assault cruiser, heart quickening.

When she entered the command deck, Bacara stood over a strategic map display, armored and severe as ever. Mundi stood beside him, still every bit the stoic Master she remembered, though his greeting was warmer this time.

“General,” Mundi said with a nod. “Good to have you back.”

Bacara said nothing at first, just glanced up—his expression unreadable. But then, a flicker. The tiniest softening in his eyes that only she would notice.

“General,” he echoed in his clipped tone, nodding once.

Later, when the debrief was done and the hallways had quieted for the night, she found him waiting near the barracks. They stood in silence at first, just listening to the hum of the ship, the distant thrum of hyperdrive.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He gave the barest of shrugs, then looked at her. Really looked.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His jaw flexed. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat from his armor. “But I needed to see you before everything starts again.”

There, in the half-shadowed corridor, his hand brushed hers. A silent agreement.

That night, she didn’t return to her quarters.

They didn’t speak of the war. They didn’t speak of what might happen next. They existed only in that moment, a breath of peace before the storm.

In the dim lighting of the officer’s quarters, he kissed her again—firmer this time, as if grounding himself in the only certainty the war hadn’t taken from him.

When she fell asleep curled into his side, Bacara stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

Because tomorrow, they dropped on Mygeeto.

And nothing would be the same after that.

⸻

Mygeeto was a graveyard.

Shards of glass and collapsed towers jutted from the ice like bones. The wind howled endlessly, scouring the broken streets with frozen dust. The Fourth Siege had begun days ago, and already the Republic’s grip was tightening.

The reader moved through the war-torn ruins beside Bacara, her boots crunching through frost, her senses prickling with unease she couldn’t name.

Even Bacara seemed quieter than usual.

Their squad had pushed deep into the southern district, routing droid forces and holding position near the abandoned Muun vaults. Mundi was coordinating an assault to breach the city’s primary data center. Every minute was another layer of pressure, another reason her gut twisted tighter.

And then, the transmission came through.

It was late. The squad had returned to their mobile command shelter to regroup and patch injuries. Bacara was at the long-range transmitter when the encrypted message chimed in. She approached just as he turned, helmet off, eyes dark.

“It’s confirmed,” he said.

“What is?”

“Kenobi.” A beat. “He killed General Grievous.”

The words didn’t register at first.

The breath in her chest caught. “So… it’s over?”

“Almost.”

She sat slowly, bracing her elbows on her knees. “We’ve been fighting this war for three years. And now it just… ends?”

Bacara didn’t sit. He stood near the entrance flap, staring out into the howling cold.

“I don’t think it ends. Not really.” His voice was low. “Something’s coming.”

She looked up at him. “You feel it too.”

He nodded.

The Force was thick, oppressive. The kind of quiet that comes before a scream.

“Have you heard from Mundi?” she asked.

“Briefly. He wants us to hold until his unit circles back to regroup. We deploy again in the morning.” He paused, then added, “He was… unsettled.”

That alone chilled her. If Mundi was unsettled, it meant something was very wrong.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Bacara outside the tent, cloaked against the wind, their shoulders brushing.

“Whatever’s coming,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No matter what?”

She didn’t flinch. “No matter what.”

And somewhere far away, across the stars, a coded transmission began its journey to clone commanders across the galaxy.

Execute Order 66.

But it hadn’t reached them yet.

Not yet.

⸻

The morning was bitter cold.

Frost crackled beneath their boots as they moved out in formation, the clouds above Mygeeto hanging low and grey, like a lid waiting to seal the planet shut. The reader walked just behind Master Mundi and beside Bacara, her cloak drawn tight against the wind.

Mundi was speaking, his voice cutting through the comms. “This push will be final. The Separatist defense grid is thinning—we press forward, clear the vault entrance, and signal the cruiser for extraction.”

The reader nodded slightly. Bacara said nothing, but she could feel the tension in him—coiled tighter than usual.

They advanced through the ruins in a steady column. Mundi led the charge across a narrow bridge, lined on both sides with jagged drops and half-fallen towers. The droids emerged first, as expected. The clones fanned out, taking cover and returning fire in sharp, well-practiced bursts.

It felt normal.

But something was wrong. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how—but the Force around her buzzed like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Then, it happened.

A static shiver through the comms. A code, sharp and cold.

“Execute Order 66.”

Her head snapped to Bacara. He was silent. His helmet was already on.

Mundi turned. “Come on! We must push—!”

The first bolt hit him in the back.

She froze.

The second bolt pierced Mundi’s chest, dropping him to his knees. He reached out, shocked. More fire rained from above, precise, emotionless, cutting him down mid-step.

The clones didn’t hesitate. Bacara didn’t hesitate.

Her breath caught in her throat, the world slowing to a nightmare crawl. “Bacara—?” she whispered.

He turned.

And opened fire.

She moved on instinct. A Force-shoved wall of ice rose between them as she leapt off the bridge’s edge, tucking and rolling onto a lower ledge as blasterfire trailed her path.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Her squad. Her men.

Him.

She fled, ducking through ruined alleys and broken vaults, chased by the echoes of boots and bolts and the question clawing at her chest:

Why?

Nothing made sense. No signal. No warning. Just sudden betrayal like a switch flipped in their minds. Like she’d never mattered. Like they’d never fought beside her.

She kept running until her legs burned and her heart broke.

Mygeeto burned around her.

The vault city trembled with explosions and echoing blasterfire. The sky had darkened with the smoke of betrayal, and her boots slipped on shattered crystal as she ran through what remained of the inner ruins.

She had no plan. No backup. No Jedi.

Only survival.

The Force screamed through her veins, adrenaline burning hotter than frostbite. Behind her, the clones advanced in perfect formation—ruthless, silent, efficient. Just as they’d been trained to be. Just as she’d trusted them to be.

Her saber ignited in a flash of defiance. She didn’t want to kill them—Force, she didn’t—but they gave her no choice.

Two troopers rounded the corner, rifles raised. With a spin and a sharp, choked breath, her blade cut through one blaster, then the clone behind it. The second she disarmed with a flick of the Force, sending him slamming into a pillar. He didn’t rise.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, but there was no time for grief.

She sprinted through the lower vault district, rubble crunching beneath her. Her starfighter wasn’t far—hidden in a hangar bay northeast of the city edge. She was almost there.

Almost.

Then he found her.

Bacara.

He dropped in from above like a specter of death, slamming her to the ground with brutal precision. Her saber clattered across the ice. His weight bore down on her, a knee to her chest, his DC-15 aimed square at her head.

His visor glinted in the frost-glow, his silence more terrifying than a scream.

She stared up at him, panting, hurt. “You were mine,” she rasped.

No answer.

His finger moved toward the trigger.

The Force pulsed.

She thrust her hand upward and a wave of raw power flung him off her, launching him into a support beam with a sound like breaking stone. He dropped, groaning, armor dented, stunned.

She didn’t stop to look. She grabbed her saber and ran.

Two more troopers blocked her path to the hangar. She deflected one bolt, then two—but the third she sent back into the chest of the clone who fired it. His body fell beside her as she charged the next, slashing his weapon before delivering a stunning kick that sent him flying.

The hangar doors groaned open.

She threw herself into the cockpit of her fighter, fingers flying over the controls, engines screaming to life.

Blasterfire pinged against the hull as more troopers swarmed the bay. She closed her eyes, guided by instinct, by pain, by loss—and took off into the cold, storm-choked skies.

Mygeeto shrank behind her.

And with it, the last pieces of everything she’d trusted.

⸻

The stars blurred past her cockpit like tears on transparisteel.

She didn’t know how long she’d been flying—minutes, hours. Her hands trembled against the yoke, white-knuckled, blood-slicked. The silence in the cockpit was deafening. No clones, no saber hum, no Bacara breathing just behind her. Just the thin rasp of her own breath and the stinging wound of betrayal burning behind her ribs.

Mygeeto was gone. Bacara was gone.

They were all gone.

She barely made it through hyperspace. Her navigation systems stuttered, and she’d been forced to fly blind, guided only by instinct and muscle memory.

The planet she chose wasn’t much—Polis Massa. An old medical station and mining outpost on the edge of the system. Remote. Quiet. Forgotten.

Safe.

Her ship touched down with a shudder, systems coughing and sparking. She slumped against the controls, body aching, mind fractured.

She stumbled out into the cold, sterile facility. No guards raised weapons at her, no sirens screamed Jedi. Just quiet personnel, startled by her bloodied robes and wild, hollow stare.

They gave her a room. She didn’t ask for one.

The medics patched the worst of her wounds. Someone gave her water. A blanket. A moment.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, everything hurt. Her skin, her bones, her heart. She sat upright on the small cot, still in half armor, saber clipped loosely at her hip. Her communicator blinked on the nearby table—flashing red.

Encrypted message.

She nearly dropped it trying to pick it up. The code was familiar. Old. Republic-grade clearance. She swallowed and activated it.

The holoprojector buzzed—and then there he was.

Kenobi.

His projection flickered in the dark, singed, exhausted, speaking quickly and low.

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen. With the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Her stomach clenched.

“…The clone troopers have turned against us. I’m afraid this message is a warning and a reminder: any surviving Jedi, do not return to the Temple. That time is over. Trust in the Force.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“We will each find our own path forward now. May the Force be with you.”

The message ended. Just a small flicker of blue light, fading into silence.

She stared at the projector long after it dimmed, her face unreadable. Then she whispered, as if the stars might still be listening:

“…What did we do to deserve this?”

⸻

Coruscant.

The city-world pulsed under a grey sky, its endless towers casting long shadows over the Senate District. Republic banners were being torn down and replaced with crimson. No one called it the Republic anymore. Not truly. Not after the declaration.

Bacara stood at attention in a high-security debriefing chamber, helmet under his arm, armor still caked in the dust and ice of Mygeeto. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes—something usually precise and locked in—seemed… dislodged.

His mission was complete. Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi was dead.

He had reported it cleanly, efficiently. Nothing of hesitation, nothing of how she escaped. Only that she turned traitor, resisted, killed his men. That she was lost in the chaos of the siege.

The brass accepted it. They always did. Too much war. Too many traitors.

He was dismissed with a curt nod from an officer in dark new uniform. The Empire moved quickly. No more Jedi. No more second guesses.

He exited the chamber with stiff precision, walking the stark halls of the former GAR command center—now flooded with black-clad officers, techs, and white-armored troopers with fresh paint jobs. A few bore markings he recognized, some didn’t. The old legions were being divided, repurposed. Branded anew.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two familiar faces in a side hallway.

“Commander Wolffe. Cody.”

Wolffe gave him a once-over, eye narrowed. “Bacara. You’re back from Mygeeto.”

“Confirmed. Mundi is dead. Target neutralized.”

Cody didn’t smile. He rarely did these days. “And the other Jedi?”

“Escaped,” Bacara said curtly. “Presumed dead. Ship went down in atmosphere. Unconfirmed.”

Wolffe raised a brow, but let it go.

The conversation would have ended there—cold and flat—but a datapad in Cody’s hand flashed. He frowned, tapped the screen, then muttered, “Damn…”

“What is it?” Bacara asked.

Cody handed him the pad.

“Captain CT-7567 — Status: KIA. Location: Classified. Time: Immediately post-Order 66.”

Bacara stared at the words, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

Wolffe crossed his arms, jaw tight. “It’s spreading fast. Some say Ashoka killed him. Some say it was Maul. No one knows. But there were no survivors.”

Cody shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone.”

Bacara looked away, jaw grinding. Rex was dead. That’s what the record said.

He should’ve felt… nothing. Relief, maybe. One less problem. One less thorn in his side.

But the silence between the three of them said otherwise.

“Shame,” Wolffe muttered. “He was one of the good ones.”

She loved him.

The thought hit Bacara like a gut punch, but he gave no sign.

He offered a stiff nod. “He did his duty.”

And walked away.

⸻

The Outer Rim.

No one looked twice at the battered Y-wing that landed half-crooked in the backlot of Ord Mantell’s grimiest district. The ship hadn’t flown since. She’d let the local rust take it. A relic no one asked about. One more ghost among the debris of a fallen Republic.

Three months.

That’s how long she’d been hiding on this dusty, low-grade world, tucked into the shadows of a run-down cantina operated by a sharp-tongued Trandoshan named Cid. Cid wasn’t friendly—but she wasn’t curious either. That alone made her safer here than anywhere near Coruscant.

The cantina was dim, the stench of stale ale thick in the air. Smoke curled from a broken vent in the ceiling. Old Clone War propaganda still clung to a wall like a molted skin. No one talked about the war anymore. They drank to forget it.

She moved quietly between tables, clearing empty mugs, wiping down grime, keeping her head down. Her once-pristine Jedi robes had been traded for utility pants, a threadbare top, and a scuffed jacket a size too big. Her lightsaber was hidden—disassembled and buried in a cloth bundle under the floorboards of her bunk behind the kitchen. Sometimes she reached for it at night, half-asleep, still expecting it to be on her belt.

Every day she woke up expecting to feel the warmth of the Force beside her.

And every day, she didn’t.

She missed them. All of them. Even him.

Bacara.

His face still haunted her. The betrayal. The way his blaster hadn’t even hesitated when he gunned down Mundi. The way he’d turned on her—stone-faced and unfeeling, as if their moments together had meant nothing. She hadn’t had time to ask why. Only to run. To survive.

And Rex… she didn’t even know if he was alive. The transmission from Kenobi hadn’t mentioned him. The Temple was gone. The Jedi were gone. She was gone.

No one had come looking. Not the clones. Not the Empire. Not Bacara.

Not Rex.

Not even Mace—though maybe she’d never expected him to.

At first, she’d been sure someone would come. That the galaxy couldn’t forget her so quickly. But three months had passed. No wanted posters. No troopers sweeping the streets. No shadows at her door.

Nothing.

She was no one here.

She wiped the same table twice before realizing she’d been staring through it, lost in memory. The war felt like another lifetime.

But even the Force had gone quiet. As if it, too, had moved on.

“Hey!” Cid’s sharp voice cracked through the cantina. “You forget how to carry a tray, or you just feel like decorating my floor with spilled ale again?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

Cid snorted. “You’re always sorry.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much of herself left to defend anymore.

The streets outside were quieter than usual. A dust storm had rolled in from the western flats, coating everything in a layer of filth. She stepped out back after her shift, sitting on a crate and staring up at a sky smothered by clouds.

It was strange how peaceful nothing could be.

No orders. No battles. No war.

No one looking for her. No one needing her. No one remembering her.

It should have felt like freedom.

But it didn’t.

⸻

The bell above the cantina door jingled.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But her breath hitched in her chest. She heard the unmistakable weight of clone trooper boots on the wooden floor—too heavy to be locals, too careful to be drunks.

She didn’t need to look. She knew those steps by heart. Years of war had taught her how clones moved—each one slightly different, and yet the same at the core. And somehow… somehow they were here.

In Cid’s.

In her nowhere.

She ducked behind the bar a little more, scrubbing the same patch of wood with trembling fingers, her face hidden beneath a cap and the dull glow of the overhead lights.

“Cid?” a calm, steady voice asked.

That one—Hunter.

Cid didn’t even look up from her datapad. “That depends on who’s asking.”

“We were told you could help us.”

“By who?” Cid’s tone was suspicious, as always.

“Echo,” Hunter said, motioning slightly.

She froze. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Echo.

She dared a glance over her shoulder.

There he was—taller now, armor more modified, with half of his head and legs taken by cybernetics. He looked different. Paler. Haunted. But it was him. And he was staring.

Right at her.

Her stomach dropped.

But he didn’t say anything. His expression barely changed, just narrowed eyes and a twitch of something she couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or disbelief.

Either way—he wasn’t saying her name. And she didn’t dare say his.

She ducked her head again and retreated to the back counter, trying to blend in.

The squad spread out, letting Cid do her usual banter. Tech scanned things. Wrecker picked something up and nearly broke it. Omega stood in wide-eyed awe of the dingy place.

And then, like a quiet ripple in the Force, she felt Omega’s presence behind her.

“Hi,” the girl said.

The reader turned just slightly, trying not to panic. “Hi.”

“You work for Cid?”

She nodded, hoping it was enough.

“I’m Omega.”

The girl was painfully sweet. The kind of pure the galaxy hadn’t seen in years.

“You got a name?”

“…Lena,” the reader lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the burn behind her eyes.

“That’s pretty,” Omega said, hopping up onto the stool across from her. “Are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” She kept her eyes down.

Omega tilted her head. “You feel sad.”

That startled her. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant—your eyes look sad,” Omega said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The reader forced a smile. “You didn’t.”

Echo walked by again. His gaze lingered on her for one long second. But again, he said nothing.

She didn’t know if he was sparing her or trying to figure her out. Maybe both.

She went back to cleaning.

And for the first time in months, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

⸻

Echo watched her from the corner of the cantina as she quietly wiped down a table in the far back, avoiding all eye contact, keeping her presence small.

Too small.

He leaned slightly toward Tech, lowering his voice so Cid and the others wouldn’t catch it. “Do you recognize her?”

Tech didn’t even glance up from his datapad. “The worker? No.”

“She looks familiar,” Echo said, arms crossing over his chest plate. “I’m not sure from where, but… I think she’s a Jedi. Or—was.”

That got Tech’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. “A Jedi?”

“She fought with the 501st a few times. A long time ago,” Echo said. “I was still… me.”

Tech considered that for a long moment, then looked over toward her discreetly. “You’re certain?”

“No. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t tell if she’s someone I actually remember or if it’s a glitch in my head from… everything.” He gestured vaguely to his augmentations.

Tech nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the datapad. “I’ll run a scan. Discreetly. If she is a former Jedi or officer, her face might still be buried in the Republic’s archived comm logs. Assuming the Empire hasn’t wiped everything yet.”

Echo nodded once, still watching her.

She never once looked back.

Tech sat back slightly, the datapad in his lap casting a faint glow on his face. The scan had taken time—far more than he liked. Most of the Jedi archives were either firewalled or fragmented. But a clever backdoor through an old 501st tactical log had revealed what he needed.

The image was slightly grainy, pulled from a recording during a battle on Christophis. A Jedi—young, lightsaber ignited, issuing commands beside Captain Rex.

Her.

Tech adjusted his goggles, double-checking the facial markers. Ninety-nine-point-seven percent match.

He glanced across the cantina where she was wiping down a counter with feigned disinterest, like she hadn’t felt the moment his eyes landed on her. But he knew better. Jedi always felt when they were being watched.

He stood and approached casually, careful not to spook her. “I take it this isn’t your preferred line of work.”

She stiffened slightly, then looked over at him with cool neutrality. “Not really, no. But it’s honest.”

“Curious,” Tech said. “That honesty would be your refuge. Especially for someone like you.”

She paused. The rag in her hand stilled. “Someone like me?”

“A Jedi Knight,” he replied plainly. “Confirmed through tactical footage of Christophis. You served alongside Captain Rex.”

Her throat worked once, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be looking into me.”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said, calm and even. “And cautious. After all, fugitives tend to attract the Empire’s attention.”

“You’re fugitives too,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Then why out me?” she asked, voice quieter, with the weight of exhaustion clinging to it.

“I didn’t say I would. But perhaps… we could be of use to each other.”

That made her blink. “You want to align with a Jedi?”

Tech pushed his goggles up slightly. “You have experience. Strategic value. And the Empire has already labeled us traitors. I see no logical reason not to align with someone equally hunted—especially someone who once fought for the same Republic we did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the rag before setting it down.

“I’m not who I used to be,” she said.

Tech tilted his head. “Neither are we.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Cold Front”

Commander Bacara x Reader

The bass of the music thumped like a heartbeat. Smoke curled lazily through violet lights, and every set of eyes in the room was fixed on the dancer in the center of it all—you.

You moved like you didn’t care who watched, like the galaxy’s chaos didn’t touch you. It was part of the act. No one noticed the way you studied people back. No one but him.

He didn’t belong here.

Commander Bacara stood against the far wall, still in his armor, helmet clipped to his side, expression unreadable but stern. Even from the stage, you could tell—he hated this place. Too loud. Too soft. Too alive.

You liked that about him.

After your set, you made your way through the crowd, glittering drink in hand, heels clicking with purpose. You stopped in front of him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

“Enjoy the show, Commander?”

“No,” he answered flatly.

You laughed, sipping your drink. “Honesty. Refreshing.”

“This establishment is inefficient. Security is lax. Your exit routes are exposed. You shouldn’t be working here.”

“And you shouldn’t be in a nightclub, but here we are.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either.

“I was told you have information,” he said. “About a Separatist envoy using this venue for meetings.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

His brow furrowed. “This is a war zone, not a performance.”

“It’s both,” you said, leaning in. “You wear that armor like it’s your skin. I wear this smile like it’s mine. We both hide behind something, Bacara.”

He froze. Most didn’t call him that. Certainly not dancers with glitter on their collarbones.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“I’m not here to fight a war,” you countered. “Yet somehow, we’re both losing.”

A silence settled between you.

You studied his face—cut from stone, eyes like a blizzard on Mygeeto. A soldier made for killing. Raised in cold, trained to crush. He probably thought you were soft. Flimsy. Useless.

But he didn’t walk away.

“Tell me what you know,” he said, lower this time. “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

You leaned in closer, close enough to smell the cold steel scent of him. “What makes you think I want protection?”

He didn’t answer.

You touched the edge of his chestplate with a single finger. “You’re all edge, Bacara. No softness.”

“I don’t need softness.”

“Maybe not,” you said, stepping back. “But I think you want it. Even if you hate yourself for it.”

He stared, jaw clenched, like he was bracing for something. You smiled again and turned.

“I’ll send the intel,” you called over your shoulder. “But next time, you come here as a guest. Not a soldier.”

You didn’t see him leave.

But hours later, when you returned to your dressing room, there was a small datapad on your table. Coordinates. A thank you. And nothing else.

Cold. Precise. Just like him.

And somehow… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

⸻

You didn’t expect him to return.

Men like Bacara didn’t double back for anything—especially not for someone like you. You were used to one-way glances, hot stares, empty promises dressed up as danger.

But two nights later, he was there again. Right on time. Leaning against the rusting frame of a service door

, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his belt, white armor streaked with grime from travel.

Silent.

You lit a cigarra with one hand and tossed him the datachip with the other. He caught it easily.

“Happy?” you asked, blowing a stream of smoke toward the gutter light. “Encrypted. Real-time surveillance, time stamps, backdoor schematics. Everything the Separatist envoy’s been up to in my club.”

He turned the chip over in his palm, then slipped it into a compartment at his belt.

“You held onto this longer than necessary,” he said.

You arched a brow. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

“I don’t ask.”

“Right,” you muttered, flicking ash. “Clone Commanders don’t ‘ask.’ They demand, they invade, they execute. Such charm.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re not just a dancer.”

You turned to him then, leaning back against the wall. “No, I’m not. But I’m also not your informant. Or your ally. I gave you what you wanted because I wanted to.”

He studied you. Cool, detached, calculated.

You hated that he could look right through you. Hated it more that you let him.

“You’re efficient,” he said finally. “Unsentimental.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

The rain started again—soft, cold, hissing down the walls. You shivered despite yourself, arms crossing over your chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

Still, he didn’t offer anything.

Just stepped forward, close enough that his presence alone made the alley feel smaller.

“This intel—” he began.

“I know what it means,” you cut in. “The envoy’s selling clone positions to mercenary networks. My club was the drop zone. I didn’t know until I did. I fixed it.”

“You interfered.”

You gave a slow smile. “What’re you gonna do, arrest me?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “If you were a threat, you’d be dead.”

A beat passed.

“Flattering,” you said. “Your version of flirting, I guess.”

“I don’t flirt.”

“No,” you murmured, looking up at him, “you don’t.”

The silence between you stretched long. Not soft. Never soft. Just charged.

He didn’t step closer. You didn’t touch him.

But something was laid bare in that narrow space between your bodies. A wordless understanding. You gave him your intel. He gave you his time.

“You’re leaving tonight,” you guessed.

“Yes.”

“You’ll be back?”

“Not if I can help it.”

You nodded, forcing a grin. “Careful, Bacara. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’re consistent.”

He turned, no further words, already walking into the rain.

You didn’t watch him go. Not this time.

You just stayed in the alley, smoke burning low, wondering why you felt like you’d just given away something more dangerous than a datachip.

⸻

The club was closing, lights dimmed, staff gone. You were alone backstage, slipping off your heels, when you heard the door open.

You didn’t flinch. You knew who it was before he said a word.

“You said you were leaving,” you said, not looking at him.

“I am.”

“You lost, Commander?”

His footsteps echoed—measured, armored, unhurried. When you turned, Bacara was there in the doorway, helmet in hand, gaze locked on you like a tactical target.

“I don’t like loose ends,” he said.

“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, voice light but brittle. “A mission to complete?”

“You gave me intel I didn’t earn. That’s motive.”

“So this is you—closing the loop?”

His jaw clenched slightly, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t leave variables behind,” he said.

You snorted, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately. “That’s funny. Because I think you came back for the one thing you can’t control.”

The space between you evaporated. You barely registered him moving—just felt your back hit the wall behind you, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Bacara loomed in front of you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your chin, not cruel, but firm.

“Careful,” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you’re dangerous because you wear a new name every night. But I see the cracks.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t want to flinch. But you did. Slight. Barely there.

He saw it.

And leaned in closer.

“I don’t care about the act,” he growled. “I care about the one underneath it. The one who lies, cheats, and keeps a weapon under the floorboards.”

You stared up at him, lips parted, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out.

“And what do you want with her?” you whispered.

“I want her to stop pretending she’s untouchable.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—never tight, never cruel—but there. Asserting. Commanding.

You didn’t push him away.

You tilted your head back, letting out a slow breath. “You going to order me around now, Commander?”

“I don’t give orders to civilians,” he said.

His hand flexed. “But I do take control.”

Then his mouth was on yours—hard, claiming, no warning. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. His hand fisted in your hair as he pressed you to the wall, your body fitting to his armor, your fingers gripping the cold edge of his chestplate like it anchored you to reality.

You kissed back like you’d been starving. Because you were. For something that wasn’t fake. For someone who didn’t need you to perform.

His grip never wavered. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every move was intentional—controlled, dominant, unyielding.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. Dizzy. Your hands shaking slightly where they rested on his armor.

He didn’t look smug. He looked the same. Just focused.

“This changes nothing,” he said, voice even.

You licked your lips, voice rasped. “Good. I hate messy.”

He stepped back. Just a fraction.

“War calls,” he said simply. “Don’t follow.”

“I won’t,” you lied.

His eyes lingered one last time.

And then he was gone.

Flower boy 🌻

Prettiest man ever!?? Fives in a flowercrown is something i didnt know i needed to draw for therapy ❤️‍🩹

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

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

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

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

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

You squinted. “Warmer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

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

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

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

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

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

“Wrecker.”

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

“So I’ve been told.”

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

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

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Title: Still Just a Rat in a Cage

Sev (Delta Squad) x Reader

He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.

Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.

The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.

But Sev?

He didn’t disappear.

He stood out.

He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”

You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.

“Rough night?” you asked.

Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”

Then he downed it and left.

That was six months ago.

Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.

Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.

But Sev?

He watched you.

Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.

Tonight, it was just him.

Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.

Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.

“Was it bad?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”

You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”

He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”

You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”

That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”

“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”

He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”

You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”

His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.

“I was made to kill,” he muttered.

“But that’s not all you are.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”

You didn’t move.

Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”

Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.

You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.

“You scare me,” you admitted.

He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”

“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Silence.

Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.

“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”

You met his eyes.

“Because even rats deserve to be free.”

He didn’t kiss you.

He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.

Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.

Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao

I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling

“You’re What?!”

501st x Reader

You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.

“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.

You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.

“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.

“Fine. Just tired.”

Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.

That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.

The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.

“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Fives blinked. Then frowned.

“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”

And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.

“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”

“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”

“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.

“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.

Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.

“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.

“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.

Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.

“Is this true?”

You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”

Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”

He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”

The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.

⸻

Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.

“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.

“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.

Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”

“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”

Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”

Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”

You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”

Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”

Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”

“…It’s a cold, sir.”

“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”

By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.

And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?

There was a banner.

“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”

Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.

Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.

Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”

“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.

“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”

Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You might be cold.”

Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.

Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”

Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”

At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.

Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”

“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”

“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”

Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”

“…Why are there six different bowls?”

“We all made you soup.”

“I am not eating six soups.”

“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”

You were 80% sure he made that up.

That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.

“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”

There was even a checklist on your locker:

• No dying

• No hiding symptoms

• Tell Kix everything

• At least try to act mortal

You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.

You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.

You weren’t just better.

You were home.