Me: I Write For Myself, Not Validation

Star Wars: Bad batch - Luscious Locks

[The Bad Batch are sitting down at a table to eat an actual meal] Crosshair: [absolutely disgusted] Hunter, I swear. If I find ONE MORE HAIR in my food… Hunter: Jealous of my luscious locks? 😏 Crosshair: That’s it! I’m shaving you bald. [Under his breath] Never had to deal with this in the empire. Omega: Don’t! Hunter’s senses will be dulled! Hunter: Yeah, Crosshair. Listen to the kid. My- wait. What? Omega: Hunter’s hair amplifies his senses by acting as an extension of his nervous system. Hunter: Oh, really? 😑 What about smell? Omega: Nose hair. Hunter: Sight? Omega: Eyelashes. Hunter: Hearing? Omega: Ear hair. Hunter: …Fashion sense? Echo: Pft! That ‘tactical’ scarf says otherwise. Hunter: It messes with facial recognition! Echo: How? We share the same face. [Hunter and Echo start bickering] Crosshair, to Tech: She’s kidding, right? Tech: Wrecker, don’t touch that! [Leaves without answering] Crosshair: She’s kidding, right?!

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

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

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

- Rebels Wolffe x reader “somewhere only we know”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

- x reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

- x Reader “hit me (like you mean it)”❤️

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List

happy Monday friend! Can I request some angst and fluff with wrecker that ends in cuddles please? I could use a giant hug today! Thank you so much for being awesome

“Big Enough to Hold You”

Wrecker x Reader

You didn’t mean to snap at him.

It wasn’t Wrecker’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The day had just been too much—the mission gone sideways, another evac too close to the edge, too many people screaming, not enough time. You’d gotten separated. Lost track of him. Thought—just for a moment—you’d lost him for good.

And when he came back, grinning like he always did, banged up but fine…

You’d yelled.

“Don’t do that to me again!”

His smile faded instantly, eyes wide like a kicked tooka.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I thought you were dead, Wrecker!”

Silence followed your words like a stormcloud.

You didn’t wait for him to respond. Just turned on your heel and left the ship’s ramp, sitting down hard on a nearby crate, hands shaking, throat tight. You weren’t even mad at him. You were scared. You were so damn scared.

And then you heard the heavy footsteps.

Slow. Hesitant.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the weight of him settle next to you. Big. Warm. Safe.

“…M’sorry,” Wrecker said quietly.

You blinked. Looked up.

He was staring at the ground, fingers picking at his gloves, like he thought you might still snap. Like he was afraid you wouldn’t want him close.

That hurt more than anything else.

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just… you scared me, Wrecker.”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to hold the line ‘til Hunter pulled you out. Wasn’t gonna let ‘em get near you.”

“I know,” you said, throat tight. “That’s the problem.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And whatever he saw on your face must’ve broken something in him, because the next second you were swept into the warmest, strongest hug you’d ever known.

“I’m right here,” he said into your hair. “I’m big enough to hold anything you’re feeling, alright? Scared, sad, mad—don’t matter. Just don’t shut me out.”

You clung to him. Just melted into that broad chest, buried your face in his neck and breathed. He smelled like metal and burn marks and something warm and safe. Like home.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you said, voice muffled.

“You won’t,” he promised. “Not if I got anything to say about it.”

He shifted, adjusting you easily in his lap until you were curled into him like a child, his arms wrapped around you like a fortress. He rocked you gently—just a little—and hummed something soft under his breath. You didn’t know the tune. You didn’t need to.

Time passed. Neither of you moved.

Eventually, he whispered, “You good now?”

You nodded against his chest. “Better now.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ go for a while.”

And he didn’t.

The rocking slowed, and his hand settled at the back of your head, big fingers threading through your hair with slow, careful strokes. Your breathing evened out against his chest, your fingers still curled in his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

Wrecker didn’t say anything—just held you tighter, chin resting on your head like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

“You sleepin’?” he murmured after a while, voice hushed and tender.

No answer.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his grip, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing, like you were precious. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, breath warm against his skin.

The others were quiet in their bunks. Tech was reading. Echo nodded in greeting. Hunter glanced over but didn’t say a word—he just smiled, soft and knowing, and went back to sharpening his knife.

Wrecker nudged the door to your shared space open with his boot and brought you inside.

The lights were low. The sheets were turned down.

He set you down on the bed with all the care in the galaxy, brushing a hand over your hair, tucking the blanket around you. You stirred slightly—just enough to mumble his name in a sleep-heavy voice.

“Wreck…”

“I’m here,” he said, instantly, quietly. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You reached for him blindly. “Don’t go.”

His heart cracked in two. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

He climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his size, and pulled you into him like a gravity well. One arm beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist, your head nestled beneath his chin.

Your body relaxed completely—safe, warm, wrapped in the scent and strength of him.

You were already asleep again.

But he didn’t sleep for a while. He just lay there, holding you, watching your chest rise and fall with every breath. A gentle giant wrapped around the most important person in his world.

And when he did sleep, it was with a soft smile, because for once he knew you were safe.

And you knew you were loved.

“Pull the Trigger”

Scorch (RC-1262) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content

You shouldn’t have let him take the detonator.

But here you were—sprinting down a blackened corridor on a Separatist cruiser, the air behind you thick with smoke and laughter. His laughter.

“Scorch!” you shouted, coughing. “That was not what I meant when I said ‘make a distraction’!”

He turned, grinning under his helmet, shoulders relaxed like this was a holiday and not a mission gone sideways. “Come on, mesh’la. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You blew out two support beams and almost buried us alive!”

He jogged backward in front of you, still grinning. “Almost only counts in sabacc and thermal charges. You should know that by now.”

You skidded to a stop near a still-smoking hatch, chest heaving. The emergency lights flickered blood-red across the metal walls, shadows dancing. Scorch leaned one arm against the bulkhead, casually blocking your path like this was some kind of game. His visor tilted down toward you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

His voice lowered, suddenly rougher. “Because you’re flushed, panting, and glaring at me like you want to kill me or kiss me.”

Your lips parted. “And if I do both?”

“Then I really hope you start with the kissing.”

The heat between you wasn’t from the explosions anymore.

You stepped forward, crowding into his space, fingers curling into the edge of his armor. “You know you’re a menace, right?”

Scorch reached up, tugged his helmet off with one hand and dropped it with a careless clatter.

“I’m your menace,” he said.

And then his mouth was on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting.

His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you didn’t even try to hide the sound you made. It felt like falling into the middle of a detonation—chaotic and exhilarating and impossible to stop.

He tasted like heat and danger. The kind of kiss that burned.

You shoved him back against the wall and bit his bottom lip just enough to make him growl.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” you breathed. “The adrenaline. The explosions. Me pissed off and in your face.”

“I like the view,” he said, eyes dark and wild. “You in combat gear, cursing at me. Gets my blood pumping.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands didn’t leave him. One of them slipped under a loosened strap on his chest plate. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’m full of something,” he muttered, voice low.

You kissed him again—harder this time. His hands found your hips, grounding you like a storm. You didn’t have time to undress, not here, not now—but Maker, you wanted to. And he knew it.

Instead, you just stayed locked together like that—gripping, kissing, devouring—until the hallway filled with smoke again and the comm crackled to life.

“Scorch, where the hell are you?” Sev’s voice snapped. “Extraction in four minutes.”

Scorch broke the kiss with a low groan and leaned his forehead against yours, breath hot on your skin.

“Guess we’ll have to finish this later, sweetheart.”

“Assuming you don’t blow us up first.”

He smirked. “Now where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

You grabbed your blaster and turned down the corridor. “You coming?”

He slipped his helmet back on, voice crackling through the filter. “Behind you, always.”

And as you ran, side by side toward the drop zone with the scent of smoke and something wilder still clinging to your lips, you knew this was how it would always be with him.

Fast. Fiery. Unpredictable.

A joyride with a lit fuse and no brakes.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The club was one of those places senators didn’t publicly admit to frequenting—no names at the entrance, no press allowed, no datapad scans. Just a biometric scan, a whisper to the doorman, and you were in.

Nestled high above the skyline in 500 Republica, it was a favorite among the young elite and the exhausted powerful. All glass walls and plush lounges, dim gold lighting that clung to skin like honey, and music that never rose above a sensual hum. Everything in here was designed to make you forget who you were outside of it.

And tonight, that suited you just fine.

You had a drink in hand—something blue and expensive and far too smooth—and laughter on your lips. Not your usual politician’s laughter either. No smirking charm or polite chuckles. This one was real, deep in your belly, a rare sound that only came out when you were far enough removed from the Senate floor.

“Tell me again how you managed to silence Mas Amedda without being sanctioned,” you asked through your grin, blinking slowly at Mon Mothma from across the low-glass table.

“I didn’t silence him,” Mon said, sipping delicately at a glowing green drink. “I simply implied I’d reveal the contents of his personal expenditures file if he didn’t yield his five minutes of floor time.”

“You blackmailed him,” Chuchi said, eyes wide and utterly delighted. “Mon.”

“It wasn’t blackmail. It was diplomacy. With consequences.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Stars above, I love you.”

You weren’t the only one laughing. Bail Organa was seated nearby with his jacket off and sleeves rolled, regaling Padmé and Senator Ask Aak with a dry tale about a conference that nearly turned into a duel. For once, there were no lobbyists, no cameras, no agendas. Just the quiet, rare illusion of ease among people who usually bore the weight of worlds.

But ease was temporary. The night wore on, and senators began to peel away one by one—some called back to work, others escorted home under guard, a few sneaking off with less noble intentions. Mon and Chuchi left together, promising to check in on you the next day. Padmé disappeared with only a look and a knowing smile.

You, however, weren’t ready to go.

Not until the lights got just a bit too warm and the drinks turned your blood to sugar. Not until the music softened your spine and left your thoughts curling in all directions.

By the time you left the booth, your heels wobbled. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just the kind of warm that made everything feel funny and your judgment slightly off. Enough to skip the staff-speeder and walk yourself toward the street-level lift like a very determined, very unstable senator.

You barely made it past the threshold of the club when someone stepped into your path.

“Senator.”

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Metal-wrapped silk.

You blinked, head tilting up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet tucked under one arm, brow slightly raised, red armor catching the glint of the city lights like lacquered flame. His expression was hard to read—professional, always—but it wasn’t Fox-level impassive. There was a quiet alertness in his eyes, and something… else. Something you couldn’t name through the fuzz of your thoughts.

You gave him a slow once-over, then grinned.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the charming one.”

Thorn’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You’re leaving without an escort.”

“Can’t imagine why. I’m obviously walking in a very straight line.”

You took a bold step and swerved instantly.

He caught your elbow in one gloved hand, his grip steady, sure. “Right.”

You laughed softly, not pulling away. “Did Fox send you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I was stationed nearby. Saw you entered and didn’t leave with the other senators. Waited.”

You blinked, the words catching up slowly.

“You waited?”

His tone was casual. “Senators don’t always make smart choices after midnight.”

You scoffed. “And you’re here to protect me from what—bad decisions?”

“Possibly yourself.”

You leaned in slightly, still smiling. “That doesn’t sound very neutral, Commander.”

“It’s not.”

That surprised you.

Not the words—the admission.

He guided you toward the secure transport platform. You walked close, his arm still steadying you, your perfume drifting between you like static. You felt him glance down at you again, and for once, you didn’t deflect it with a joke. You let the silence stretch, warm and a little unsteady, like everything else tonight.

When you reached your private residence, he walked you to the lift, hand never once leaving your arm. It wasn’t possessive. It was watchful. Protective. Unspoken.

The lift doors opened.

You turned to him. Slower now. Sober enough to remember the mask you usually wore—but too tired to lift it fully.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

“I’d rather see you escorted than carried,” he said simply.

A beat passed.

“I think I like you better outside of duty,” you said, voice quieter. “You’re a little more human.”

And for the first time, really, Thorn smiled.

Not a twitch. Not a ghost.

A real one.

It was gone before you could memorize it.

“Goodnight, Senator.”

You stepped into the lift.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

The doors closed, and your chest ached with something that wasn’t quite intoxication.

⸻

You barely had time to swallow your caf when the doors to your office hissed open without announcement.

That never happened.

You looked up mid-sip, scowling—only to find Senator Bail Organa storming in with the calm urgency of a man who never rushed unless the building was on fire.

“Good morning,” you said warily. “Is something—”

“There’s been a threat,” he interrupted. “Targeted. Multiple senators. Chuchi, Mon, myself. You.”

You lowered your mug, slowly. “What kind of threat?”

Bail handed you a datapad with an encrypted message flashing in red. You scanned it quickly.

Anonymous intel. Holo-snaps of your recent movements. Discussions leaked. Your voting history underlined in red. The threat was vague—too vague for your comfort. But it didn’t feel like a bluff.

And it had your name in it.

You exhaled sharply. “Any idea who’s behind it?”

“Too early to confirm. Intelligence thinks it’s separatist-aligned extremists or a shadow cell embedded in the lower districts.”

“Of course they do.”

Bail gave you a meaningful look. “Security’s being doubled. The Chancellor’s assigning escorts for all senators flagged.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. I don’t get to pick mine.”

“No. But I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was assigned to you.”

The door opened again before you could ask.

Two sets of footsteps. Distinct.

Heavy. Precise.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

Fox.

Thorn.

Of course.

Fox was already scanning the room. No helmet, but sharp as a knife, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner of your office like you were under attack now. Thorn walked half a step behind, expression calm, posture less rigid, but still unmistakably alert.

“I see we’re all being very subtle about this,” you muttered, glancing at the armed men flanking your office now like guards of war.

“You’re on the list,” Fox said. His voice was like crushed gravel—low, even, never cruel, but always tired.

“What list, exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms. “The ‘Too Mouthy to Survive’ list?”

Thorn’s mouth twitched again—always the one with the faintest hint of humor behind the armor.

“The High Risk list,” Fox replied simply.

“And how long will I be babysat?”

“Until the threat is neutralized or your corpse is cold,” Thorn said, deadpan.

You blinked.

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“He does,” Fox said without looking at him. “Badly.”

“I hate this already,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.

Bail cleared his throat. “They’ll rotate between shifts. Never both at the same time, unless the situation escalates.”

Your head snapped up. “Both?”

“Yes,” Bail said flatly. “Two of the best. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I’d feel luckier if my personal space wasn’t about to become a crime scene.”

Thorn stepped forward, tone gentler than Fox’s but still authoritative. “We’re not here to interfere with your duties. Just protect you while you do them.”

“And that includes sitting in on committee meetings? Speeches? Dinner receptions?”

Fox nodded. “All of it.”

You looked between them—Fox, with his granite stare and professional distance, and Thorn, who still hadn’t quite stopped looking at you since last night.

Something in your gut twisted. Not fear. Not annoyance.

Something dangerous.

This wasn’t just political anymore.

You were being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

And these two were now your only shield between that threat and your life.

You hated the idea of needing protection.

You hated how safe you felt around them even more.

⸻

The Senate chamber was unusually quiet.

Not silent—never silent—but that thick kind of quiet that came before a storm. Murmurs dipped beneath the domes, senators eyeing each other with the unease of shared vulnerability. No one said it outright, but the threat had spread. Everyone had heard.

And everyone knew some of them were marked.

You sat straighter in your pod than usual, spine taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. You’d spoken already—brief, pointed, and barbed. You had no patience today for pacifying words or empty declarations of unity.

Somewhere behind you, still and unreadable as always, stood Commander Fox.

He hadn’t flinched when your voice rose, hadn’t twitched when you called out the hypocrisy of a few senior senators who once claimed loyalty to neutrality but now conveniently aligned with protection-heavy legislation.

Fox didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

His presence was a loaded weapon holstered at your back.

You ended your speech with a clipped nod, disengaged the microphone, and leaned back in your seat. The applause was polite. The glares from across the chamber were not.

When the hearing adjourned, your pod retracted slowly, returning to the docking tier. You stood, heels clicking against the durasteel, and without needing to signal him, Fox stepped into motion behind you.

He said nothing.

You said nothing—at first.

But halfway down the polished hallway leading back toward your office, you tilted your head slightly.

“You know, you’re a hard one to read, Commander.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “That’s intentional.”

“I figured.” You glanced sideways. “But you’re really good at it. Do you even blink?”

“Occasionally.”

Your lips twitched, a smile curling despite yourself.

“Not a lot of people can keep up with me,” you said, voice softer now. “Even fewer try.”

Fox didn’t reply immediately. But something shifted.

Not in what he said—but in what he didn’t.

He moved just half a step closer.

Most wouldn’t have noticed. But you were trained to pick up the smallest things—micro-expressions, body language, political deflections hidden in tone. And you noticed now that he was watching you more directly. That his shoulders weren’t held quite as far from yours. That his footsteps echoed in perfect sync with yours.

You turned your head toward him, brow raised.

“I thought proximity would make you uncomfortable,” he said, finally.

You blinked. “Because I’m a senator?”

“Because you don’t like being watched.”

“Everyone watches senators,” you said. “You’re just better at it.”

Another step.

Closer.

He still didn’t look at you outright, but you felt it. That shift in awareness. That quiet, focused gravity pulling toward you without making a sound.

“What’s your read on me, then?” you asked.

Fox stopped walking.

So did you.

He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You’re smart enough to know what not to say in public,” he said. “But reckless enough to say it anyway.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between offense and amusement.

“And that makes me what? A liability?”

“It makes you visible,” Fox said. “Which is more dangerous than anything else.”

Your mouth was dry. “Is that your professional opinion?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes.”

You felt the air shift between you. Unspoken, heavy.

Then, just like that, he stepped ahead of you again, resuming the walk as though the pause hadn’t happened at all.

You followed.

But your heart was beating faster.

And you weren’t sure why.

You were almost at your office when the change in guard was announced.

“Senator,” Fox said, pausing by the lift. “My shift’s ending. Commander Thorn will take over from here.”

You opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he was already stepping back. Already gone.

And just like that, you felt it.

The cold absence where his presence had been.

The lift doors opened before the silence had a chance to stretch too far.

“Senator,” Thorn greeted, stepping out with that easy, assured confidence that Fox never wore.

His helmet was clipped to his belt this time, revealing the full sharpness of his jaw, the subtle smirk tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His expression was casual—friendly, even—but his eyes swept you over with that same tactical precision as Fox’s.

You noticed it, even if others wouldn’t.

“Commander Thorn,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair back. “How fortunate. I was just getting bored of no conversation.”

Thorn chuckled. “That sounds like Fox.”

“He said maybe twelve words the entire time.”

“Four of them were probably your name and title.”

You smirked, but your tone turned dry. “And you’re any different?”

He fell into step beside you without needing to be told. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Whether you want someone who listens, or someone who talks.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting that level of insight. “Bold for a man I barely know.”

“I’d say we know each other better than most already,” he said casually. “I’ve seen you argue with half the Senate, smile at the rest, and stumble out of a club at 0200 pretending you weren’t drunk.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I was not pretending.”

He grinned. “Then you were very convincing.”

You reached your office doors. The security droid scanned you and unlocked with a soft click. You didn’t go in right away.

“You’re not like him,” you said after a beat.

“Fox?” Thorn’s brow lifted. “No. He’s the wall. I’m the gate.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s either poetic or deeply concerning.”

He leaned slightly closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the sheer reality of the man behind the armor. “Just means I’m easier to talk to.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

But your fingers lingered a little longer on the door panel than they needed to.

“I’ll be inside for a few hours,” you said finally, voice softer now.

Thorn didn’t step back. “I’ll be right here.”

The door closed between you, but your heart was still beating just a little too loud.

⸻

You were seated at your desk, halfway through tearing apart a policy proposal when the alarms flared to life—blaring red lights streaking across the transparisteel windows of your office.

Your comms crackled a second later.

“All personnel, code red. Attack in progress. Eastern Senate wing compromised.”

You stood so fast your chair tipped over.

Outside your door, Thorn’s voice was already sharp and commanding.

“Stay inside, Senator. Lock the doors.”

“Thorn—”

“I said lock it.”

You hesitated for only a second before slamming your palm against the panel. The doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sounds beyond.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The east wing. You didn’t need a layout map to know who worked down there.

Mon Mothma.

Riyo Chuchi.

You turned toward your comm panel and opened a direct line.

It didn’t go through.

The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.

Moments passed. Five. Ten. Long enough for doubt to slither into your chest.

Then the door unlocked.

You turned quickly—but not in fear. Readiness.

Thorn stepped inside, blaster still drawn. His armor was singed, one pauldron scraped, the other glinting with something wet and copper-dark.

“Are they okay?” you asked, voice too sharp, too desperate.

“One confirmed injured,” Thorn said. “Not fatal. Attackers fled. Still sweeping the halls.”

You exhaled, relief unspooling painfully down your spine.

Thorn crossed the room to you, checking the windows before stepping back toward the door.

“I’m getting you out,” he said.

“Now?”

“It’s not safe here.”

You followed him without hesitation.

But just before the hallway opened fully before you, another figure joined—emerging from the opposite end with dark armor, dark eyes, and a darker expression.

Fox.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at Thorn. Then at you.

Then back at Thorn.

Thorn gave a small, dry nod. “Guess command figured double was safer.”

Fox stepped into pace beside you, opposite Thorn.

Neither man said a word.

But you felt it.

The change. The pressure. The electricity.

Both commanders moved in unison—professional, focused, unshakable. But their attention wasn’t just on the halls or the shadows. It was on each other. Measuring. Reading. Holding something back.

And you?

You were caught directly between them.

Literally.

And, for the first time, maybe not unwillingly.

The Senate had been locked down, but your apartment—tucked within the guarded diplomat district—was cleared for return. Not safe, not exactly, but safer than a building that had just seen smoke and fire.

Fox and Thorn flanked you again.

The hover transport dropped you three streets out, citing security rerouting, so the rest of the way had to be walked. Late-night fog curled between the towers, headlights casting long shadows.

You should’ve been quiet. Should’ve been tense.

But something about the presence of both commanders beside you—so alike and yet impossibly different—made your voice turn lighter. Bolder.

“I feel like I’m being escorted by a wall and a statue,” you teased, glancing sideways. “Guess which is which.”

Thorn let out a low snort, barely audible.

Fox, predictably, did not react.

You smiled a little. Then pressed further.

“You really don’t say much, do you, Commander?” you asked, turning slightly toward Fox as your heels clicked against the pavement.

“Only when necessary.”

“Lucky for me I enjoy unnecessary things.”

Fox’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not outwardly. But he said nothing, which somehow made the game more interesting.

You leaned in, just enough to brush near his armor as you passed a narrow alley. “What if I said it’s necessary for me to hear you say something soft? Maybe something charming?”

Fox didn’t stop walking. But his gaze turned fully to you now, sharp and unreadable.

“Then I’d say you’re testing me,” he said lowly.

Your breath caught for a beat.

Behind you, Thorn cleared his throat—just once, quiet but pointed.

You looked back at him with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not starting a fight. Just making conversation.”

“You’re good at that,” Thorn said, polite but cool.

Was that… jealousy? No. Not quite. But close enough to touch it.

You reached your door and turned toward both men.

“Are either of you coming inside?” you asked, only half joking.

Fox didn’t answer. Thorn gave you a knowing smile.

“Not unless it’s protocol, Senator.”

You shrugged dramatically. “Shame.”

The locks activated with a soft click. You turned just before stepping through the threshold.

“Goodnight, Commander Thorn. Commander Fox.”

Fox gave you a single nod.

Thorn, ever the warmer one, offered a parting smile. “Sleep easy, Senator. We’ve got eyes on your building all night.”

You stepped inside.

And as the door closed behind you, you pressed your back to it… smiling. Just a little.

One was a wall. The other a gate.

And both were beginning to open.

⸻

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Hi! I had a fun idea for maybe a Bad batch or even 501st fic where it’s clones x fem!reader where’s she’s trying to be undercover as a guy and is trying her best not to get caught (like how mulan plays ping in Disneys Mulan) bit of crack but maybe some spice if it fits?

Love your writing, it’s so addictive! Xx

“Call Me Pynn”

501st x Fem!Reader

The Republic needed a local contact for a black ops infiltration on an Outer Rim moon run by a rogue droid manufacturer supplying the Separatists. The factory was buried under city sprawl, well-guarded, and impossible to breach without drawing too much attention. So the plan was simple: go in quiet, sneak through the underworld channels, and shut down the operation from the inside.

And for once, you were the contact.

The catch? You had to go in disguised—a young male merc, neutral in the conflict but “curious” enough to lend his skills. Intel said the droids had been tricked into recruiting unaffiliated guns. All you had to do was get in, get the layout, and feed it to the Republic.

Of course, the Jedi had “improved” the plan. Now you were being assigned to a squad for deep cover infiltration—the 501st.

And they thought you were a boy.

⸻

You were barely five minutes in when you walked into the wrong locker room.

“Yo, Pynn! Took you long enough,” Fives called out, peeling off his blacks like it was a kriffing spa day. “Locker’s open next to mine. You sharing with Jesse—he snores, so wear earplugs.”

You blinked. “Wait—I thought I had quarters—”

“No time,” Rex interrupted, walking by with a towel over his shoulder and absolutely no shame. “We’re shipping out at 0600. Briefing in twenty.”

Anakin, sitting on a bench with a datapad, looked up and smirked. “You’ll get used to the smell.”

You stood there, frozen. You were still in partial armor, hair short under your helmet, chest bound so tight you could barely breathe. You hadn’t even figured out how to change in private yet.

Then Fives pulled you in, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You showerin’? C’mon, kid. You’re part of the team now. No secrets.”

Oh no.

⸻

You managed to fake an urgent comm call to avoid the group debrief butt-naked shower bonding time.

Now, sitting stiffly between Jesse and Kix, you studied the holomap.

“Droid patrols here, here, and here,” Anakin said, pointing to the glowing corridors of the factory. “You and Pynn go in first, disguised as freelancers. The rest of us follow once the back door’s open.”

Rex narrowed his eyes. “You sure he’s ready for that?”

“I’m standing right here,” you muttered, lowering your voice an octave.

“Relax,” Anakin replied. “Pynn’s more experienced than he looks. Isn’t that right?”

You nod. “Seen worse gigs.”

“Where?” Kix asked. “Nar Shaddaa? Ord Mantell?”

You pause. “…Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both. At the same time.”

Kix blinked. Fives let out a low whistle. “Damn. Respect.”

You were barely holding it together. Between the compression binder, the fake voice, and the constant fear of discovery, your nerves were fried.

And yet… you caught Jesse watching you from the corner of his eye. That half-grin. Suspicious. Too suspicious.

⸻

Barracks

Lights out. You’d pulled your bunk curtain shut and were lying stiff as a corpse in full blacks, binder still on. You couldn’t risk changing. Not here. Not yet.

Then came the whisper.

“Hey… Pynn.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

It was Fives.

You pulled the curtain back just enough to peek. “What?”

He grinned. Way too close. “You snore like a frightened tooka.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Also—you sleep fully dressed. Bit weird, huh?”

You stared. “Cold-blooded. Like a Trandoshan.”

He chuckled. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

Then he leaned in a little more, eyes flicking down your face.

“You ever kissed anyone, Pynn?”

You choked. “What kind of question—”

“You know. Just asking.”

Pause.

“…What would that make you if I had?” you shot back, trying to channel swagger instead of fear.

Fives winked. “Confused. But not uninterested.”

⸻

The city smelled like burnt copper and damp oil. Steam hissed from vents and flickering lights strobed against wet duracrete. Jesse walked ahead of you, dressed in stolen merc armor and moving like he’d always been on the wrong side of the law.

You trailed behind, posture low, helmet tucked under one arm, trying not to look like a girl bound so tightly her ribs wanted to snap.

Your alias was “Pynn Vesh”: rogue merc, unaffiliated, decent with tech, better with blasters. That part was true. The part where you were definitely not a woman infiltrating a droid facility with the Republic’s most observant soldiers? Not so true.

“Factory gate’s two klicks east,” Jesse muttered over his shoulder. “You good?”

“Fine,” you rasped, lowering your voice.

“You always sound like that, or is this just your merc voice?” he teased.

“Puberty was… weird for me,” you muttered.

Jesse gave a huff of amusement but didn’t push it. Thank the stars.

You slipped through the outer checkpoint without issue, your stolen ident chip scanning green. Jesse grinned at the droid guard, real smooth.

“Name’s Jax. This is my partner, Pynn. We’re here to see Garesh. He’s expecting us.”

The droid blinked in binary.

“Proceed.”

As you stepped through the blast doors into the factory interior, Jesse leaned close.

“You’re pretty quiet for a merc.”

You glanced at him. “Quiet doesn’t get me shot.”

He smirked. “Fair. But I still can’t figure you out.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Jesse said easily. “Just makes me curious. You got anyone waiting back home?”

You froze.

“What?”

“You know—girlfriend, boyfriend, someone who writes you sappy comms? Never thought mercs got the chance.”

Oh. Oh no.

Behind you, another voice crackled through the comm.

“Pynn?”

Anakin.

You flinched.

“Y-yeah?”

“Signal’s clean. You’re in. Factory’s wide open on thermal—mostly droids. You’ll need to plant the beacon by the east terminal. That’ll give us access.”

“Copy.”

But Jesse wasn’t done.

“Seriously though. Someone’s gotta be missing you.”

You blinked fast, keeping your face neutral. “No time for that.”

Fives cut in over comms, voice full of amusement. “You mean you’ve never hooked up? Stars, you’re worse than Rex.”

“Hey.” Rex barked.

“Just saying!” Fives laughed. “We fight, we bleed, and apparently some of us die virgins.”

You almost choked.

“Would you all shut up?” you hissed.

Jesse chuckled. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—shut up.”

“Wait,” Anakin said suddenly. His voice changed—focused. “Zoom in on Pynn’s thermal feed.”

You stopped cold.

“Why?” Jesse asked.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Anakin’s voice again, casual but sharp. “Something’s… off.”

You started sweating under your armor. The binder tightened like a vice around your ribs.

Jesse looked at you sideways. “You sick or something?”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too quickly.

“Pynn,” Anakin said. “Stay sharp. Jesse, watch his six.”

You reached the terminal, hands shaking. Plugged in the beacon. Light turned green. Done.

“We’re clear,” you breathed.

“Copy that. Pull out—quietly.”

You started to move—then froze again.

A droid had turned.

Its photoreceptors locked on you.

“Unauthorized personnel detected—”

“Shab,” Jesse growled.

“Engaging—”

Blasterfire lit the air.

“GO!” Jesse shouted, grabbing your arm.

You bolted, ducking bolts, binder cutting into your chest, heartbeat like a drum. Jesse covered your back as you both ran into the alleys.

⸻

Back at the safehouse, breathless and bruised, you collapsed into a chair. Jesse paced, helmet off, frowning.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you gasped, trying to discreetly loosen your chest wrap under your shirt. It was soaked with sweat.

“You sure? You were… wheezing.”

“Kriff, let a guy breathe.”

He stared at you. “…You are a guy, right?”

Your heart stopped.

The room went dead silent.

You opened your mouth.

Before you could say anything, the door opened.

Anakin stepped inside.

Slowly.

Staring straight at you.

You froze.

He cocked his head.

“…Pynn,” he said, voice low. “We need to talk.”

You stood rigid by the supply crates, breathing hard through your nose as Anakin Skywalker stared you down like you were a broken protocol droid confessing to murder.

Jesse sat slumped on the couch behind you, fiddling with his helmet, clearly confused but too tired to start asking weird questions. Yet.

Anakin took one slow step forward, arms crossed over his chest.

“You want to explain what that thermal scan was?”

You clenched your jaw. “I was told this op was need-to-know, General. Even your team wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Uh-huh.”

Another step. He was studying you like a puzzle. You hated it.

You lowered your voice, just enough. “I was sent in under deep cover. Female operative, disguised as male. Assigned contact for internal breach. Command wanted eyes inside without the boys sniffing it out.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh,” he said finally. “So you’re not a guy.”

You scowled. “What gave it away?”

Anakin cracked a grin. “Besides the thermal? You run like you’re trying not to split a seam.”

“I am.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“Okay. Well, you’re a crap dude.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Voice is too soft. You’re skittish as hell. And you make weird eye contact with Fives. Which honestly just made me think you were scared of him, but now I’m guessing you were trying not to get flirted into oblivion.”

“I was absolutely scared of him.”

Anakin chuckled again, shaking his head. “Stars help you when they find out.”

You stiffened. “They can’t.”

“Relax. I’m not going to say anything.”

You blinked. “You’re not?”

“Nope.” He smirked. “But you’ll crack. That’s not a threat, it’s a guarantee. I give it two days before Jesse walks in on you binding your chest or Fives tries to play strip sabaac.”

You groaned, dropping your head against the crate with a dull thud.

“Don’t remind me.”

He leaned casually against the wall. “So what’s your name?”

You hesitated. Then sighed.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” His grin widened. “You know, this is probably the least chaotic thing to happen to me this month.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“Tell me about it.” His tone grew a bit softer. “You handled yourself well out there, by the way.”

You blinked.

“Thanks… General.”

“But seriously,” he added, already halfway to the door, “the second Fives finds out, he’s going to combust.”

You buried your face in your hands.

Fives paused by the safehouse wall, where he’d been leaning casually with a ration bar, totally not eavesdropping. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep confusion.

He looked at Jesse, who had joined him during the tail end of the conversation.

Jesse blinked. “Did—did General Skywalker just call Pynn she?”

Fives chewed his bar, brow furrowed. “I thought he said they.”

Jesse squinted at the door.

“I think I need to sit down.”

⸻

The worst thing about pretending to be a guy?

Sleeping with the guys.

You’d been given a cot shoved between Jesse and Kix. Jesse snored like a malfunctioning speeder bike and Kix talked in his sleep—violently. And you? You’d slept curled under a blanket, stiff as a body in carbonite, binder nearly slicing into your sides.

Now it was morning. And unfortunately, your binder strap had snapped.

You stood frozen in the refresher, one gloved hand holding the compression vest tightly closed, staring at yourself in the cracked mirror.

There was a knock.

“Pynn?” Jesse’s voice.

Your soul left your body.

“You good?” he called again. “You’ve been in there for like… thirty minutes.”

“I’m fine,” you croaked, voice cracking so hard it practically betrayed everything.

Jesse paused. “…you sound weird.”

“I’m constipated!” you blurted.

Silence.

“…Okay,” Jesse muttered, “well, drink water or something.”

You slapped a hand over your face. Kriffing hell.

You had managed to throw on your chest plate and keep things moderately together, but something was off. The guys were starting to notice.

Especially Jesse.

He was watching you.

Not like in a creepy way. Just—watching. Narrow-eyed. Curious.

And Kix? The medic?

He kept frowning at the way you moved. At your stiff posture. At how your breaths came shallow. You were doomed.

“Hey, Pynn,” Jesse called while twirling a blaster idly. “Come run drills with me.”

You nearly flinched. “Drills?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Hand-to-hand. See what you’re made of.”

“No thanks,” you said quickly. “I, uh—pulled something.”

Fives piped in from the corner: “What, your integrity?”

“I will shoot you.”

Jesse kept smirking. “What are you so afraid of, Pynn? Losing to me? C’mon. Don’t be shy.”

You were about to answer when you turned too fast—your vest caught on the table edge—and a rip echoed through the air.

Time slowed.

Your chest plate dropped.

Your binder loosened.

And suddenly, you were holding the front of your shirt together with both hands, eyes wide in pure panic.

Fives blinked.

Hard.

Jesse straight-up choked.

Hardcase—Force bless him—walked into the room mid-moment and said, “Hey, are we outta rations?—Oh kriff.”

Everyone froze.

You didn’t breathe.

Then Jesse’s eyes dropped. His jaw dropped lower.

“…You’re a girl,” he whispered.

Fives made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. “That’s why you wouldn’t shower.”

“I knew something was off,” Kix muttered, half in awe, half scandalized.

You were burning alive.

Anakin appeared in the doorway with a cup of caf, took one look at the scene, and sipped slowly.

“I gave her two days,” he said smugly.

Jesse looked back at you, face suddenly unreadable. “…Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “guess the mission really was classified.”

Fives leaned on the wall and grinned at you. “You know, you’re a lot prettier when you’re not pretending to be constipated.”

“I hate all of you.”

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

“I wanna wreck our friendship”

Wrecker x GN!Reader

⸻

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

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

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

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

“Gee, thanks.”

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

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

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

But… you didn’t know what he wanted.

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

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

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

You laughed. “That’s a fair worry.”

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

Your heart stuttered. “Shoot.”

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

You stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed, heart fluttering. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

You touched his cheek, grinning. “Wrecker?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re mine too.”

⸻

lock in? no. i’m locked out. please let me in. i promise im the real me and not my evil clone

a printer error is an attempt from god to get you to kill yourself but you must be stronger and you must must must beat the printer to death with a large object like object