Lock In? No. I’m Locked Out. Please Let Me In. I Promise Im The Real Me And Not My Evil Clone

Commander Wolffe x “Village Crazy” Reader

⸻

The mission was simple: a supply drop to a small village that had been hit hard by the Separatists a few weeks ago. The 104th were tasked with delivering medicine, food, and supplies, and Master Plo had insisted on accompanying them—his calm presence often a welcome relief in tense situations. It was a peaceful village now, recovering from the wreckage, though it had its oddities.

And one of those oddities stood waiting on the village outskirts as the shuttle carrying the 104th came in to land.

You were a local, though you didn’t seem to fit the mold of the average villager. You were known as the “village crazy,” a title you wore with pride. You were eccentric, a little wild, and, to put it bluntly, you were unlike anyone the soldiers had ever met. You spent most of your days wandering the village, dancing on the shoreline, speaking in riddles, and telling stories—stories that were elaborate, nonsensical, and always different from the last. You had a gift for spinning tales that no one could follow, and you never told the same story twice. There was always something new, something unexpected, and most importantly, you never left anyone with the same sense of reality.

The shuttle doors opened, and Commander Wolffe was the first to step off, his helmet glinting in the sunlight. He scanned the area, taking in the sight of the quiet village, a few villagers waving at him and his men. The 104th were used to these kinds of missions—helping out the people who needed it, always the soldier’s duty.

But the moment his eyes landed on you, standing in the middle of the village with your arms raised to the sky, spinning in slow circles, he stopped.

“Well, this is going to be… interesting,” Warthog muttered from behind him, a grin creeping up on his face as he watched you twirl, completely oblivious to the soldiers’ presence.

“You sure she’s not a droid in disguise?” Boost asked, his brow raised as he adjusted his rifle.

Wolffe only sighed. “She’s definitely not a droid.”

At that moment, you caught sight of Master Plo, and your face lit up with an expression of delight. You skipped over to him, arms wide, your bare feet brushing the ground as you moved with a fluid grace that felt otherworldly. “Master Plo! The sky told me you would be here today! The wind, the ocean—it all speaks when it’s time.”

Master Plo gave you a serene smile, ever the diplomat. “I’m glad to see you, [Y/N]. What news do the stars share with you today?”

“The stars are confused,” you replied cryptically, your voice playful yet serious. “They’ve lost their way, Master Jedi. The moons are turning, but the tides are still.”

Wolffe, standing a few paces back, exchanged a glance with Warthog. His brow furrowed, and he couldn’t suppress a mutter under his breath. “This is going to be a long mission.”

You, however, took no notice of his cynicism. You had already moved to the next subject, dancing in circles as you spoke. “I once saw a giant fish the size of a mountain! It came out of the sea and roared at the sun! It was blue, but it wore a cape made of clouds—like a king of the waves!”

Wooly snorted. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “A fish that wears a cape?”

“I’m telling you, Wooly,” you replied with a wink, “I’m never wrong. You’ve just never looked at the ocean the way I do.”

“And how’s that?” Boost asked, raising an eyebrow.

With a sly smile, you leaned in closer to him, speaking in a lowered voice. “With the eyes of a mermaid, of course. You can see everything—beneath the waves, beneath the stories, beneath the stars. You just have to listen.”

Wolffe, arms crossed, watched the exchange with growing confusion. “Right,” he muttered, glancing over to Master Plo. “Is she always like this?”

Plo chuckled softly, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Yes, but there’s wisdom in her madness. [Y/N] sees the world in a way that few of us can. Sometimes, we just have to let the river flow.”

“River…?” Wolffe raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. He’d seen his fair share of strange characters, but none quite like this one. You were certainly different.

Master Plo turned back to you with a smile. “And how have you been, [Y/N]? The village looks well, I see.”

You spun once more, eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and mystery. “I’m good! But… oh, the tide’s about to turn again, Master Jedi. I can feel it! I can hear the whales calling from the mountains, and the ground feels restless. Something’s stirring.” You leaned in toward him conspiratorially, whispering as though sharing a great secret, “The sky’s eyes are looking this way, and I think… I think it’s about time for a visit from the stars.”

Wolffe watched, unimpressed but intrigued nonetheless. “Great, more riddles.” He muttered under his breath, but Plo only chuckled.

“There’s more to her words than you think, Commander,” Plo said gently. “She is… connected to the Force in ways that don’t always make sense to us.”

You, still twirling, suddenly stopped and looked directly at Wolffe, catching him off guard. “The moon is rising, Commander. The shadows are long, and the stories are ready to be told. But be careful—there are wolves in the woods that sing songs of fire.”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow. “Wolves in the woods?”

You nodded, as though everything you said made perfect sense. “The kind that howl with the wind. But no need to worry; they only come when the stars fall.”

He gave you a half-hearted smile, his skepticism never wavering. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You grinned widely. “Good, Commander. You must always listen to the stars and the wolves. They know things we cannot.”

As the day wore on, Wolffe, Boost, Warthog, and Wooly found themselves working alongside the villagers, setting up the relief supplies and ensuring that everything was distributed properly. You flitted around the camp, speaking to anyone who would listen with your wild stories and cryptic observations.

At one point, you approached Wolffe again, who was overseeing the unloading of medical supplies.

“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in the boxes, Commander,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

He glanced at the crates and then back at you, a little bemused. “And what exactly am I looking for, [Y/N]?”

“The truth,” you answered with a knowing smile, your voice soft and almost tender. “But it’s hiding behind the moon. It always is.”

Wolffe blinked, processing the strange words. For a moment, he wanted to laugh it off, to brush you aside as just another eccentric villager. But something in the way you spoke—so sure, so confident in your own world—made him pause.

Maybe, just maybe, there was more to you than the others saw. And maybe, just maybe, your wild stories held a grain of truth.

⸻

The days passed in a haze of strange encounters and stories as the 104th continued their relief mission in the village. Commander Wolffe found himself oddly drawn to the “village crazy,” as she was affectionately known. You were an enigma—one moment spinning wild tales about stars, the next, dancing barefoot along the shore or chatting to animals as though they were old friends. It was baffling, and Wolffe couldn’t help but find a strange charm in your unpredictability.

He would catch glimpses of you wandering around the camp, your eyes gleaming with excitement as you spoke to the sky, or weaving through the villagers as though you were part of something larger than what any of them could comprehend. There was an air of serenity about you, a sense of knowing that Wolffe couldn’t quite place. You were unpredictable, yes, but there was a peacefulness in your madness that was strangely… grounding.

The oddest part? Master Plo seemed to have no issue with it. He’d often smile as he watched you interact with the world around you, a knowing look in his eyes.

“I think, Commander,” Master Plo had said one evening as they watched you from a distance, “there is wisdom in her madness. She sees the world through a different lens, but that lens allows her to glimpse truths we might miss.”

Wolffe gave him a skeptical look. “She’s a little… strange.”

Master Plo chuckled softly. “We all are in our own way, Commander. Sometimes, it’s not the surface that matters, but what lies beneath. [Y/N] may have more to offer than she lets on.”

Wolffe didn’t respond, instead just watching you as you twirled across the village square, talking animatedly to an empty chair as though it was a long-lost friend. He couldn’t deny that there was something captivating about you—something that made him want to learn more, despite himself.

Meanwhile, the rest of the 104th had their own thoughts on the matter. Sinker and Boost in particular weren’t quite as enchanted by your eccentricities. They had grown used to following orders, taking things seriously. And the constant stream of bizarre stories you told and your odd behavior didn’t sit well with them.

“You know, I’m starting to think we’re all in the middle of some bizarre dream,” Sinker grumbled as he leaned against a crate, watching you dance in the distance. “She’s like a walking, talking riddle.”

“She’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a headache,” Boost added with a smirk, crossing his arms as he watched you spin around.

You had been telling tales about the stars and the oceans again when they spotted you—this time, however, you weren’t just dancing by the shore. You were out in the water, waist-deep, moving gracefully around a strange creature—a sort of aquatic alien, with shimmering scales and bioluminescent markings that flickered like the stars themselves. It was an oddity they had never seen before.

“What in the galaxy is that?” Sinker asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

“It looks like some kind of alien fish… thing,” Boost said with a chuckle. “That’s one way to make a splash.”

You didn’t seem to care that they were watching. You danced with the creature, laughing and singing softly to it in a language none of them recognized. Your voice blended with the sound of the waves as you seemed to communicate with the animal, a soft bond of mutual understanding between you and the strange creature.

Wolffe had joined the two clones at the edge of the village, having finished his patrol. He looked over at the scene in the distance, his brow furrowing slightly as he saw you in the water, laughing with the alien. His first instinct was to protect you, but the sight was strangely calming. You were unbothered by their stares, completely immersed in the moment.

“She’s definitely got some screws loose,” Sinker muttered under his breath, watching you from a distance.

Boost snorted. “I don’t know, Sinker. Maybe she’s onto something. Who else do we know who can communicate with random sea creatures?”

“She’s not communicating with it, Boost,” Wolffe said, his voice surprisingly soft. “It’s… just a connection. You can’t understand it unless you’ve seen it for yourself.”

Sinker and Boost exchanged looks before Sinker laughed. “You’re starting to sound like her, Wolffe. Watch out, you might start dancing with fish too.”

Wolffe didn’t respond. He just watched you, a flicker of something uncertain passing through his mind. He was… intrigued. Fascinated, even. The way you seemed to fit into the world so effortlessly, the way you didn’t care what anyone thought. It was a sharp contrast to the rigid, regimented life of a clone trooper.

⸻

The relief mission was drawing to a close, and the 104th were preparing to leave. The shuttle would be ready for takeoff within the hour. Supplies had been delivered, the villagers were starting to rebuild, and the atmosphere of quiet recovery settled over the village. It was a peaceful ending to a mission that had, in its own strange way, been one of the more memorable ones.

The 104th had gathered near the shuttle, preparing to board, when Wolffe found himself standing a little further back from the others. His helmet was tucked under his arm, and he was quietly observing the bustling village one last time. His thoughts, however, were far from the mission. His mind kept wandering back to you—the village “crazy.” You were unlike anyone he had ever met, and even now, as he watched the villagers wave goodbye to the clones, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you had somehow made your way into his thoughts.

You weren’t far off. As always, you had a way of slipping into the edges of their world without anyone noticing—until it was too late.

Wolffe’s eyes caught sight of you as you wandered over to him, your bare feet making no sound against the dirt path. You were humming a tune that didn’t seem to belong to any world the clones knew, a soft, almost haunting melody that drifted in the warm air.

“Commander Wolffe!” you called out, your voice light and filled with the same mystery that seemed to surround you. “I have something for you.”

He turned to face you, raising an eyebrow as you approached. “Something for me?” he asked, his tone flat, though his interest was piqued. “What’s that?”

You stopped just in front of him, your eyes sparkling with mischief, and held out your hand. In it was a small, smooth rock—nothing extraordinary, but there was something special about the way you presented it. It glinted in the sun, and the edges were rounded, worn down by time, smooth like a river stone.

“This is a gift from the stars,” you said cryptically, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll need it where you’re going. It will remind you to listen to the waves, the winds, the stars… and to yourself.”

Wolffe hesitated for a moment, eyeing the rock in your hand. “I don’t need reminders, [Y/N],” he said, though his voice softened at the end. “I’m not the kind of man who needs… stars.”

You smiled wider, a knowing look in your eyes. “That’s why you’ll need it,” you replied with a wink. “When the time comes, you’ll hear them. I promise.”

For a long moment, Wolffe simply stared at you, unsure of how to respond. Your words, as always, felt like a riddle wrapped in a mystery, but there was a sincerity to them that made him want to believe you. He could hear the faint whisper of the wind through the trees, the faint sound of the ocean nearby. Maybe… just maybe, there was truth to what you were saying. And maybe, you were right.

“Alright,” he muttered after a moment, taking the rock from your hand. “I’ll keep it. But don’t expect me to start listening to the waves.”

You smiled brightly, as if you’d won a great victory. “It’s not the waves you need to listen to, Commander,” you said softly. “It’s the silence between them.”

There was a brief silence between you two, neither of you moving. Wolffe felt something shift in the air—a quiet, inexplicable connection that, despite his reservations, had grown over the past few days. You had a way of making him feel… less like a soldier and more like a man, someone capable of hearing the things he normally ignored. Even if it didn’t make sense, it didn’t feel wrong.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of Warthog shouting from the shuttle, his voice carrying over the wind. “Commander! Get over here! We’re ready to leave!”

Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t immediately turn away. Instead, he glanced back at you. Your eyes were filled with that quiet understanding again—like you could see right through him.

“Well, I guess this is it,” you said softly, spinning the rock in your fingers like a talisman. “Don’t forget to listen.”

“I won’t forget,” Wolffe said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But I might not listen, either.”

You chuckled, a sound that seemed to carry across the entire village. “You never know when the stars will choose to speak to you, Commander.”

With that, you stepped back, giving him space to go. But just before he turned away, you added one final word. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to listen.”

Wolffe stood there for a moment, staring at you with a mixture of confusion and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. You were so strange, so utterly different from anyone he had ever met. And yet… there was something comforting in your oddity. Something that made him feel less alone in a world that often felt too rigid, too predictable.

He finally gave you a small nod, almost imperceptible. “Take care of yourself, [Y/N].”

And then, with a final glance over his shoulder, Wolffe walked toward the shuttle, leaving you standing there at the edge of the village, your figure bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

⸻

As the shuttle lifted off, Wolffe leaned against the side of the ship, looking down at the small rock in his hand. He had no idea what it would mean, or why it felt like the weight of the universe was pressing against it. But somehow, he didn’t mind. There was something about that village, something about you, that had made him believe—if only for a moment—that there was more to life than just the orders he followed.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what the stars were trying to tell him.

Happy May the 4th Be With You!

Apparently drawing Codywan for Star Wars day is my new tradition 🥰

“Collateral Morals” pt.1

Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader

The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.

Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.

“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”

Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.

“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”

You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.

“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”

There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.

You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.

You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.

“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”

A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.

You stared them down.

“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”

You bowed your head. “That’s all.”

And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.

⸻

You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.

You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.

“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”

You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”

That’s when the glass shattered.

You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.

Sniper.

You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.

A shadow shifted across the floor.

Then—crash.

A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.

But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.

You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.

Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.

Commander Thorn.

He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.

“Clear.”

Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.

“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”

You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”

Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”

His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”

“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”

There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.

You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”

“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”

You paused.

“…You’re kind of intense.”

He stared.

“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.

You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”

⸻

You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.

Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.

You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.

He didn’t even blink at your state.

“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”

You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”

“No.”

“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”

No answer.

You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.

Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.

You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.

Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”

You didn’t.

But you did flash a grin at the cameras.

“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”

Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.

⸻

“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”

You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”

Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.

Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”

“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”

He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”

You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”

“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.

You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”

Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”

He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”

“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”

“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”

He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”

You stood. “You owe me answers.”

“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”

Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.

“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”

⸻

The day hadn’t gotten better.

You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.

You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.

Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.

“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.

“Not required.”

“You don’t flinch either.”

“No point.”

You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”

Silence.

You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”

More silence.

You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”

He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”

You blinked—then smiled.

“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”

“I’m not here to be fun.”

You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”

You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”

His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”

And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.

It was the electric kind.

The kind that promised more.

⸻

The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.

You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.

Thorn, behind you, said nothing.

Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.

Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.

“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”

Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”

“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”

“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.

Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”

Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.

“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”

Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”

“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”

Anakin ignored that. Barely.

Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.

You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”

“Only when you stop being a walking target.”

You laughed. “So never?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.

You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.

But their eyes never really left each other.

You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.

“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”

Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”

You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”

Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.

You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”

“I’m never off duty.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”

Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever start?”

That almost-smile again.

And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.

Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”

Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.

Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.

As a man.

Then—

“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”

His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.

You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.

The commotion turned out to be nothing.

A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.

No fire. No attack.

Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.

“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”

“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”

You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”

Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.

Yours was not.

“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”

Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.

Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”

You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”

“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”

You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”

Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”

You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.

Dead silence.

Padmé choked.

Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.

Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”

⸻

You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.

“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”

You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”

“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.

“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I am.”

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.

He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”

“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”

He snorted. Actually snorted.

You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.

You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“I don’t have the patience.”

You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”

He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.

He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.

“It might be.”

You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding.

“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.

“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”

You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”

He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”

You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.

“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.

His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”

That made you smile.

He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.

And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.

“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”

You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”

“I don’t do soft,” he said.

“I noticed.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.

But you stopped.

Just short.

Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.

“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.

You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.

He was still standing there.

Still watching.

Still unreadable.

⸻

Morning crept in too early.

You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.

Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…

Stars.

You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.

“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.

A glass appeared on the side table beside you.

You blinked up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—

He was standing just a bit too close.

“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.

Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.

You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—

No. You shook it off.

Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.

You, less so.

“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.

His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.

Your breath caught.

“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”

He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You blinked. “Which part?”

“You’re not a hypocrite.”

You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.

But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.

“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.

“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”

Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.

You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”

His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”

You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.

“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He wanted you.

And he wouldn’t act on it.

Because that’s what made him him

⸻

The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.

Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”

You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”

Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.

It was subtle. Surgical.

But not subtle enough for Fox.

He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”

Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”

You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.

“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”

The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”

“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”

“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.

“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.

Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.

Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

Thorn said nothing.

“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”

Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.

Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.

You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.

You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”

“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.

You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.

“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.

You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”

His smile only widened.

But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.

And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.

But he knew.

⸻

The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”

Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.

Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.

Too still.

Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”

Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”

Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”

Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.

“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”

At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.

“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”

“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.

“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”

Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”

Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”

“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”

He paused, voice softening just a hair.

“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”

A beat passed.

“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”

Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.

Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”

They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.

Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.

Next Chapter

Hiya lovely! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch X blind force sensitive Reader where they did the painting of her on their ship but since she can’t see she doesn’t mention it but the bit are flustered because she’s like their version of a celeb crush because of unorthodox on the battle field.

Very much enjoy reading your stories! 🧡🧡

“Echoes of a Legend”

The Bad Batch x Blind Jedi!Reader

Even before the Order made it official with her rank, she moved through warzones like a rumor given form. Jedi Master [Y/N], field strategist and warrior monk of the Outer Rim campaigns, was a living contradiction—unpredictable, untouchable, devastating.

And blind.

Not metaphorically. Physically. Her eyes were pale and unseeing, but the Force made her a weapon no enemy wanted to face. Not when her saber moved like liquid flame, her bare feet danced across fields of blaster fire, and her instincts cut sharper than any tactical droid could calculate.

Clone troopers told stories of her—how she once Force-flipped an AAT into a ravine because “it was in her way.” How she never issued orders, only spoke suggestions, and somehow her men moved with perfect synchronicity around her. How she’d once been shot clean through the shoulder and kept fighting, citing “mild discomfort.”

To Clone Force 99, she was something between a war icon and a celebrity crush.

They’d never met her. Not officially. But they’d studied her campaigns. Memorized her maneuvers. And after Tech had painstakingly stitched together footage from her battlefield cams, Wrecker had pitched the idea: “We should paint her on the Marauder.”

It had started as a joke.

But then they’d done it.

Nose art, like the old warbirds from Kamino’s ancient archives. Cloak swirling. Lightsaber ignited. Body poised in mid-air, wind tossing her hair. There were probably more elegant ways to honor a Jedi Master. But elegance had never been Clone Force 99’s strong suit.

And now, they were docking on Coruscant.

And she was waiting for them.

“She’s here.”

Hunter stared at the holopad in his hand. Her silhouette stood at the base of the landing platform, backlit by the setting sun, cloak fluttering in the breeze.

“Right,” Echo muttered. “No turning back now.”

“She doesn’t know about the painting,” Crosshair said. It wasn’t a question.

“She’s blind,” Tech replied. “So in all likelihood, no.”

Wrecker, sweating, mumbled, “What if she feels it through the Force?”

No one answered that.

The ramp lowered.

She didn’t move as they descended, but they all felt it—that ripple in the air, like entering the calm center of a storm. She stood still, chin slightly tilted, as if listening to their boots on durasteel. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back. No lightsaber in sight. But the power radiating off her was unmistakable.

Then she smiled.

“I thought I felt wild energy approaching,” she said, voice warm, low, and confident. “Clone Force 99.”

The voice didn’t match the chaos they’d expected. It was calm. Even soothing.

They all saluted, more out of reflex than formality.

“Master Jedi,” Hunter said, his voice lower than usual.

“‘Master’ is excessive,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re the ones with the art exhibit.”

Hunter’s face went slack. Echo coughed. Tech blinked. Crosshair’s toothpick fell.

Wrecker choked on his own spit.

“…Art?” Echo asked, voice high.

You turned toward the ship—just slightly off to the side.

“The painting. On the nose of your ship. I hear it’s flattering.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched. “You… saw it?”

“No. I heard it. The padawan of the Ninth Battalion told me. With great enthusiasm.”

Wrecker groaned and dropped his helmet onto the ground with a thunk.

“I haven’t looked,” you added gently. “Don’t worry.”

That… only made it worse.

“I wasn’t aware I’d become wartime propaganda,” you continued, starting toward them with measured steps. “But it’s not the strangest thing I’ve encountered.”

Crosshair muttered, “Could’ve fooled me. You yeeted a super tactical droid off a cliff on Umbara.”

“I did,” you replied, smiling faintly. “He was being condescending.”

They walked with you through the plaza toward the Temple, though it felt more like a parade of sheep behind a lion. Despite your calm presence, none of them could relax. Especially not when you turned your head toward them mid-stride and said:

“Which one of you painted it?”

Silence.

Tech cleared his throat. “It was… a collaborative effort. Conceptually mine. Execution—shared.”

You grinned. “Collaborative pin-up Jedi portraiture. You’re pioneers.”

“I’m sorry,” Echo said sincerely. “We meant it as a tribute.”

“I know.” You touched his elbow lightly as you passed. “That’s why I’m not offended.”

Hunter, walking beside you, couldn’t help but glance down. You didn’t wear boots. Just light wrap-around cloth sandals. Not exactly standard issue for a battlefield. But then again, you were anything but standard.

“You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me,” you said to him softly.

“We painted you on our ship,” he replied, the words gravel-rough. “Forgive me if I’m not sure what I can say.”

You turned toward him, unseeing eyes oddly precise. “Say what you mean.”

Wrecker—trailing behind with his helmet under one arm—whispered, “She’s terrifying.”

“Terrifyingly interesting,” Tech whispered back.

“She can hear you,” you called over your shoulder.

Wrecker squeaked.

By the time they reached the Temple steps, all five were sweating—some from nerves, some from heat, some from the sheer existential dread of having their war-crush walking next to them and being nice about the whole embarrassing mural situation.

“You’re staying onboard the Marauder for this mission, aren’t you?” you asked as they paused near the gates.

Hunter nodded. “Yes, Master Jedi.”

“Then I suppose I’ll be seeing myself every time I board.”

Sheer panic.

“But don’t worry,” you added with a smirk, sensing it. “I’ll pretend I don’t know what it looks like.”

Crosshair grumbled, “Or we could repaint it.”

“Don’t,” you said, suddenly serious. “It’s nice to be remembered for something other than war reports.”

And then you were gone—ascending the Temple steps with grace that shouldn’t have belonged to someone without sight, cloak trailing like shadow behind fire.

The Batch stared after you.

“She’s—” Wrecker began.

“I know,” Hunter said, almost reverently.

Echo exhaled. “We’re in trouble.”

“Red Lines” pt.1

Fox X Reader

Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.

⸻

The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.

You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.

“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.

You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.

“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”

Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.

“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”

You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”

The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”

The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.

“Senator [L/N], a moment?”

Chuchi.

You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”

“And I call you reckless.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”

The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.

Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.

“Senators.”

Both of you turned in unison.

Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.

Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.

“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”

You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.

Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.

Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.

“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”

You shot her a look.

She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.

You both had the same thought.

Oh. He’s beautiful.

And neither of you was going to back down.

⸻

The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.

You hated every second of it.

The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.

You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.

“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.

You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.

“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”

His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”

You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.

“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”

You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”

Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”

You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”

Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”

“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.

A moment later, you felt the air shift.

You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.

Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.

The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.

You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.

Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.

She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.

You smiled. She didn’t.

She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.

You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.

“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”

“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”

Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.

You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.

She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.

You drained your glass.

She was playing the charm angle.

You? You preferred a more direct approach.

You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.

You timed it perfectly.

“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.

He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.

“Senator,” he acknowledged.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.

He hesitated. “Not particularly.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”

His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”

There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.

“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”

You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”

Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.

“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”

“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”

Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”

You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”

Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.

He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.

The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.

Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.

You watched him go. So did Chuchi.

The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.

“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.

“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”

You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”

Chuchi’s jaw tensed.

You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”

“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”

You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”

She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”

You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”

She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.

“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”

She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.

“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”

You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.

You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.

Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.

And now?

It was war.

The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.

Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.

You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.

There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.

You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.

“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”

Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.

“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”

You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”

One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.

“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”

You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”

He sneered. “You have no proof.”

You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”

Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.

“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.

You blinked, surprised.

Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”

Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”

Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”

Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”

“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”

The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.

You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”

He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”

You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”

“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.

He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.

You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.

You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.

This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.

⸻

The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.

You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.

Not without one last indulgence.

You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.

You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.

“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.

Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”

That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.

You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”

Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.

Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”

You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”

More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”

“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”

“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what?”

“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”

One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”

“CT-8812. Silence.”

“Yessir!”

You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”

“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”

You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”

His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”

You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”

Fox said nothing.

You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”

The silence stretched.

Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.

Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”

“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.

Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.

“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.

You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”

He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.

You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.

“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”

You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”

He blinked once behind the visor.

Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.

Let him stand there and figure it out.

If he could.

The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.

Senator Riyo Chuchi.

Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.

“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”

Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”

“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”

Fox blinked. “Senator?”

Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”

“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.

Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”

He was quiet a moment.

“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”

Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”

She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”

Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”

“Was she?”

He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”

Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”

Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.

“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”

Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.

“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”

She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.

“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”

She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.

Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.

And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.

⸻

Next part

me: I write for myself, not validation

also me after posting a fic *refreshes ao3 every five minutes*

(two things can be true)

“Crossfire” pt.1

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

⸻

The Outer Rim. A nowhere planet with a forgettable name. A bar that stank of spilled liquor and dreams that died in the dust. The kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone had something to hide.

Perfect.

You stepped through the door, your boots leaving gritty impressions on the warped floorboards. The air inside was thick with smoke, body heat, and the sour scent of desperation. The music was low, sluggish. There was laughter—loud, drunk, desperate—and the unmistakable tension of blasters under tables.

You spotted them before they spotted you.

Kenobi. Clean robes despite the grime. Always did like to pretend he wasn’t in the gutter with the rest of you.

Skywalker. Brooding in the corner like he owned the galaxy.

Ahsoka. Sharp-eyed, too observant.

And then the clones.

Commander Cody, sitting at the bar, looking like he was trying to blend in but failing miserably. That rigid spine was a dead giveaway.

Captain Rex, by the sabacc table, helmet at his side, hand near his belt. He looked right at home in this kind of chaos.

And of course, they hadn’t noticed you yet. Not yet.

Their target sat in a booth at the far end, sweating bullets. A former Seppie bigshot gone rogue, data chip hidden in his belt, secrets worth a fleet. Everyone wanted him.

And you’d been paid a lot to make sure he didn’t leave this dump alive.

So you didn’t hesitate.

One clean shot between the eyes.

The bar froze. Then erupted.

Blasters were drawn, tables flipped, civilians ducked. The rogue Seppie’s lifeless body slumped in the booth as chaos swallowed the room.

You ducked a shot, returned fire, elbowed a low-level bounty hunter in the face (probably the idiot who’d been hired to extract the Seppie), and spun—only to feel the hard press of a stun round hit your shoulder. Your world blinked white.

⸻

You woke up cuffed, sitting across from the same bounty hunter you clocked earlier. He looked pissed, bleeding from his nose.

“You broke it,” he snarled.

“Yeah?” You smirked. “Want me to break the other half for symmetry?”

“Enough,” Cody growled from beside the shuttle door.

You turned your head lazily toward him. “Commander. Still as charming as ever.”

“And you’re still a pain in my shebs,” Rex muttered, arms folded as he leaned against the wall opposite you.

You gave him a wink. “Thought you liked that about me.”

Skywalker wasn’t as amused. “You just jeopardized months of intel.”

Kenobi, to his credit, looked more tired than angry. “Why did you kill him?”

You shrugged. “Because someone paid me to.”

“That’s your only reason?” Ahsoka asked, arms crossed.

“I’m a bounty hunter, kid. What did you expect—moral qualms?”

The shuttle rattled slightly as it took off. You leaned back in your restraints, smirking at the other bounty hunter who was still fuming.

“If you keep glaring at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like the pain,” you said.

“I’m gonna gut you.”

“You can try. They’ll probably stop you halfway through. Probably.”

⸻

When the shuttle touched down and they dragged you toward the brig, you kept up the banter, kept smiling through it. They threw you into a cell—right across from someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

Cad Bane.

He sat on the cot, arms folded, hat gone. He looked up slowly, red eyes gleaming.

“Well, well. Look who finally got caught.”

You leaned against the bars, grinning. “Still bitter I outshot you on Lothal?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Nah. Just funny seein’ you in a cage. Guess even you couldn’t run forever.”

“I’m not running,” you said. “Just biding my time.”

Cad raised a brow. “That’s what they all say.”

From behind you, you heard Rex mutter to Cody, “This is going to be a long debrief.”

Cody replied, “We should’ve left her on Taris.”

You smirked. “You missed me, admit it.”

They didn’t answer—but you swore you saw the corner of Cody’s mouth twitch. Rex didn’t look away fast enough.

Yeah.

This wasn’t over.

⸻

The cell was cold. Imperial-grade, sterile, humming with the low sound of energy fields. The kind of place designed to keep people like you in line.

You sat on the bench, arms draped casually over your knees, studying your chipped nails while the other bounty hunter—Dren or Dray, whatever his karking name was—paced like a caged nexu.

He stopped in front of you. “When we get out of here—”

You cut him off without looking up. “You’re going to try to kill me. Yeah, yeah. You’ve said it five times already. Sixth time’s the charm?”

He growled low in his throat.

Cad Bane laughed from his cell. “If he doesn’t do it, I might.”

You smiled sweetly. “Aww, Bane. Missed me that much?”

He smirked. “Not as much as I missed your karkin’ messes.”

Before Dray could lunge, the door hissed open.

Commander Cody stepped in first, helmet off, expression carved from stone. Rex followed close behind, also helmetless, his eyes scanning the room like he expected you to pull a trick just for fun.

And oh, you wanted to.

“Let’s make this simple,” Cody said. “One at a time.”

He gestured to Dray, who sneered at you before being dragged out by two troopers.

⸻

They threw him into the chair, cuffed to the table. Skywalker stood near the door, arms crossed. Ahsoka leaned in the corner. Kenobi took a seat opposite him.

Cody and Rex remained silent but close.

“So,” Kenobi started, polite as ever. “Why were you sent after the separatist?”

Dray spat blood onto the floor. “Someone big. Black Sun, maybe. Zygerrians. Don’t know. Don’t care. I don’t ask.”

“But you were told to bring him back alive,” Ahsoka pressed.

Dray shrugged. “My job. Pretty sure hers was the opposite.” He jerked his chin toward the door.

Skywalker’s brow twitched. “And you didn’t think to stop her?”

“Have you tried stopping her?” Dray barked a bitter laugh. “She doesn’t stop until the job’s done.”

Kenobi exchanged a look with Cody. “And what do you think her goal really is?”

Dray smirked. “Chaos. She lives for it.”

⸻

They didn’t even bother dragging you. You walked.

Rex stayed close. His arm brushed yours once in the hallway. Neither of you said anything, but the contact lingered.

They sat you in the room, uncuffed your hands—but you didn’t miss the stun baton nearby.

Kenobi this time sat across from you. Ahsoka and Skywalker flanked the wall. Cody stood by the door. Rex leaned against the table, arms folded, watching you carefully.

“Who hired you?” Kenobi asked.

You shrugged. “Don’t know. Credits came clean. Dead drop. Professional middle-man.”

“What were your instructions?”

You smirked. “Make sure the Seppie doesn’t leave the bar alive. Job well done, I’d say.”

“You jeopardized months of intelligence,” Skywalker snapped.

You tilted your head, mock-innocent. “Aw. You poor things. Didn’t have a backup plan?”

Rex cut in, voice low. “Why take that job?”

“Because it paid better than babysitting cadets,” you replied, eyes locking with his.

Cody’s jaw tensed. “You knew we’d be there.”

You let the silence stretch.

Kenobi sighed. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You leaned forward, grin sharp. “I’ve always played dangerous. And the best part? I win.”

Cody stepped closer. “Not this time.”

You looked up at him. The air shifted. That heat. That damn history.

“You sure about that, Commander?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t break eye contact either.

⸻

Later: In the Cells Again

“You’re going to get us all killed,” Dray snapped.

“Only you,” you replied sweetly.

“Keep talkin’,” Cad Bane drawled, “and I’ll kill ya both just to sleep in peace.”

You laughed. “You’re too old and slow, Bane.”

He smirked. “You sure? Maybe I’m just waitin’ for the right moment.”

You stood and leaned against the bars. “You want out, don’t you?”

Bane looked up slowly. “You plannin’ somethin’?”

“Maybe. But I’m gonna need you not to shoot me first.”

Dray scoffed. “You’re conspiring with him?”

You turned. “I’d rather get spaced with Bane than babysit you for another karking hour.”

“You’d die before we even got to the hangar.”

“I’d die after stabbing you in the eye,” you snapped.

“Enough!” Cody’s voice cracked through the corridor. “You’re all on thin ice.”

Rex followed behind him, eyes flicking between you and Cad Bane. “What are they whispering about?”

“Escape,” Bane said easily.

“Sabacc,” you said at the same time, deadpan.

Cody sighed. “Stars help me.”

You flashed him a grin. “Come on, Commander. You never did like me quiet.”

Cody stared at you, tired and tense. “You’re going to make this hell, aren’t you?”

You leaned in through the bars. “Only for you.”

Behind him, Rex didn’t laugh. But he looked away—like maybe he remembered too much.

And it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

⸻

He came to your cell alone. Helmet under one arm, posture like durasteel—guarded, unreadable. But his eyes… they lingered.

“I don’t get you,” he said finally.

You arched a brow, leaning against the wall. “That’s the fun, isn’t it?”

“You could’ve walked a different path.”

“Couldn’t we all?”

He stepped closer to the bars, voice lower. “You’re good. You’ve always been good. But you waste it chasing the next high, the next payday.”

You met his eyes. “And you waste yours dying for a war you didn’t start.”

Silence crackled between you.

“You know I almost trusted you once?” he said, quieter now. “Back on Ryloth.”

You smiled sadly. “I trusted you too. That’s why it hurt.”

Cody’s jaw clenched. He stepped back.

“Good night,” he muttered.

But as he walked away, you whispered after him, “I liked you best when you didn’t follow orders.”

He paused. Just for a second.

And then he was gone.

⸻

Night cycle hummed over the Republic cruiser like a lullaby—dimmed lights, soft hums of systems in idle. Most troopers were off duty, leaving only the skeleton crew watching the prisoners. Which made it the perfect time.

You sat on the bench in your cell, silent, eyes cast down—but your mind was spinning like a rigged sabacc deck.

From the cell across the hall, Cad Bane shifted. “So. We doin’ this or not?”

You glanced up. “I’m in. As long as you don’t shoot me in the back.”

He chuckled darkly. “Only if you give me a reason.”

“You always find reasons.”

⸻

It started with a cough. A sound code—three stuttered bursts and a hum.

You shifted the small sharp sliver of metal you’d hidden in your boot sole. Slipped it into the lock of your cuffs. Click.

Bane did the same. Quick, smooth. Silent.

Then came the bang—explosive discharge from a faulty conduit Bane had rigged with the power from his bed frame over the past two nights.

Smoke filled the hall.

Guards shouted.

The cell shields dropped.

You were on your feet in seconds, vaulting out, slamming a stolen baton into a clone trooper’s head. Bane rolled beside you, gunning another down with a blaster stolen mid-scrap.

Dren/Dray, the other bounty hunter, stumbled into the hall behind you. “What the hell is going on?!”

“Keep up,” you snapped, firing at a control panel to unlock the main access hatch.

But he didn’t keep up.

He panicked.

He tripped the silent alarm.

And you watched, stunned, as he shot toward you in his confusion—blaster bolt nearly missing Bane, grazing your arm.

“You idiot,” you hissed.

Bane growled. “He’s gonna get us killed.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You turned and shot him point-blank in the chest.

Dren gasped, staggered, eyes wide. “You—”

“Should’ve stayed in your cage.”

He dropped. Dead weight. Smoke and blood.

Bane didn’t comment. Just nodded.

You both bolted.

⸻

Later—after the alarms died, after the blast doors sealed, after you slipped into a half-abandoned maintenance shaft and disappeared into the dark—Rex found you.

He always found you.

You were nursing your arm in an old hangar, steam hissing from busted pipes, blaster on your lap.

He didn’t raise his weapon. Just stood there. Watching.

“Was it worth it?” he asked.

“Surviving usually is.”

He took a few steps closer. His armor scraped the floor. His eyes, so damn tired, locked on yours.

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

You sighed. “He was going to blow the whole thing. He already tried to shoot me.”

“He was scared.”

“So was I.” You looked up. “I still am.”

That caught him off guard. He blinked. “You?”

You gave him a tired smile. “I’m not made of stone, Rex.”

He knelt in front of you, gaze softer now. “I know.”

Your hands brushed when he passed you a med patch. You didn’t move away.

“You could come back,” he said, voice so low you almost missed it.

“Come back to what?” you asked, searching his face. “The war? The orders? The cage?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t stop looking.

And you didn’t stop hoping he’d say something that would make you stay.

Instead, you stood. Pulled your hood up.

“If you see Cody…” you started, then paused. “Tell him I liked the way he looked at me. Even when he hated it.”

You turned.

Rex didn’t stop you.

But his voice followed you, low and sure.

“You still owe me a drink.”

You didn’t turn back.

But your smile did.

⸻

The outer rim planet fell behind you in a smear of stars and scorched debris. The freighter Cad Bane had “borrowed” from some now-dead smuggler creaked through hyperspace like a dying animal, but it flew. That’s all you needed.

You leaned against the console, arms crossed, one leg kicked up. Bane was at the controls, hat tilted low, cigar smoldering at the edge of his teeth.

“You always bring the drama,” he muttered without looking at you.

You smirked. “You miss it.”

“Miss the pay. Not the company.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He chuckled. “And you’re still too loud for stealth work.”

You both knew it was banter. The real conversation sat thick between the lines.

You killed a Republic target. In front of the Republic. You got out. And now… now you were heading straight for the heart of it all.

“You sure about this client of yours?” Bane asked finally.

You looked out the viewport. “He pays well. Doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“Too many questions?” Bane repeated with a slow grin. “That’s usually my line.”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

The freighter touched down in a private bay tucked into the shadow of the Senate. No inspection. No questions. It was already cleared.

You didn’t ask how.

Bane didn’t follow. “I ain’t steppin’ foot back on this dirtball unless someone’s bleeding for it,” he muttered, lighting a fresh cigar.

“Suit yourself.”

He gave you one last look as you descended the ramp. “Watch your back, girl.”

You flashed him a smile over your shoulder. “Always do.”

The hangar door sealed shut behind you with a hiss like a final breath.

You weren’t escorted.

You didn’t need to be.

You knew the route—hallways hidden in plain sight, guarded only by shadows and silence. A turbolift opened to a private suite carved beneath the Senate tower. Cold. Ornate. Smelling faintly of incense and age.

He stood there waiting—Chancellor Palpatine.

A soft smile curved his lips. The kind of smile you should never trust.

“My dear,” he said warmly, stepping toward you, “I trust the target was… eliminated?”

You bowed your head slightly. “Clean shot. Left no trace.”

“I’m sure they saw it differently,” he murmured, amused. “Tell me—how did our Jedi friends take the loss?”

“They were angry. Confused. Lost the asset and control.”

Palpatine smiled wider. “Excellent.”

You said nothing.

He stepped closer, his eyes sharper now. “You’ve done well. But I must caution you, my dear—you’ve caught the attention of some very dangerous people. Commander Cody. Captain Rex. Jedi Skywalker…”

“I can handle them.”

He tilted his head. “I’m certain you think so.”

There was something about him—like he could peel the skin from your bones with just a glance.

He reached into his cloak and handed you a small black chip. “Your payment. And… a little something more.”

You took it, eyes narrowing. “What’s the bonus?”

“A new target,” he said softly. “But not yet. When the time comes, I will summon you.”

“And if I’m busy?”

His eyes gleamed like ice in the dark.

“You won’t be.”

You stepped back into the shadows of the Coruscant underworld, chip in hand, heart pounding. Not fear—no. Something worse.

Anticipation.

You’d just made a deal with the devil.

And he was wearing the face of the Republic.

“Name First, Then Trouble”

Fives x Female Reader

Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive

⸻

The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?

Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.

From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.

And tonight was no different.

Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.

Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”

You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”

He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”

You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”

Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”

“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”

He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”

From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”

“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.

“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”

You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.

“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”

You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”

Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”

Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.

“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.

His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”

Fives blinked. “Find out what?”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:

“If you want to come back to my apartment.”

Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.

“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.

“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.

You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”

Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.

⸻

The room was warm.

Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.

Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”

Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”

“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”

He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”

“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”

Fives groaned. “Both.”

A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:

“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”

You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”

“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”

You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.

He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”

“My name!” you said firmly.

“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”

You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”

Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”

You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”

He paused. “You don’t know?”

“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”

“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”

“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.

⸻

Echo was waiting for him.

Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.

Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.

“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”

Fives coughed. “Define fun.”

Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”

Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”

“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”

“You what?”

“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.

“Multiple times.”

“And you never told me?”

Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”

Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”

Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”

Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m accurate.”

Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”

Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.

“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”

“She has a last name?”

POV: Bad Batch Season 3 Finale

Endorsed by bestie @hatzlanna-blog 🌝