“501st Confidential (Except It’s Not)”

Over ten years of reading fanfics and I still have yet to come across a single oc/reader insert that was actually well written

Can’t tell if this is meant to be an insult or…?

Either way I’m happy to recommend a few fics that I personally enjoy.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Title: Command and Consequence

Fox x Reader x Wolffe

Summary: Your a friend of Jango Fett’s, he had asked you to come to Kamino to help train clone cadets, more specifically the cadets who were pre selected as commanders. Pre-Clone Wars. Pretty much just a love triangle between my fav clones. Bit angsty towards the end.

⸻

You hadn’t even wanted the job.

Kamino was cold, clinical, and crawling with wide-eyed clones who couldn’t shoot straight or punch worth a damn. But Jango had asked. And when Jango Fett asked, you didn’t exactly say no.

So, you found yourself here, drowning in rain and the hollow clatter of trooper boots on durasteel, overseeing the elite cadets being fast-tracked to become clone commanders.

They weren’t commanders yet. Not officially. But the Kaminoans had flagged a few standouts early—Fox, Wolffe, Cody, Bly, Neyo, Gree—and they were yours now.

Jango called them assets.

You called them projects.

Most of them respected you. Some feared you. And then there were those two.

Fox and Wolffe.

Walking disasters. Brilliant tacticians. Fiercely loyal. And completely, irredeemably idiotic when it came to you.

They’d been vying for your attention since day one—squabbling, sparring, brawling—and you’d brushed it off. Flirting wasn’t new to you. You knew how to shut it down. But these two? These two were stubborn. And clever. And just reckless enough to keep you on your toes.

You stood now at the edge of one of the open training rings, arms folded, T-visor reflecting a dozen cadets going through various drills. Cody was holding his own in a two-on-one blaster sim. Bly was shouting orders like he thought he owned the place. Gree was crouched in the mud, recalibrating his training rifle mid-drill.

But your eyes were on Fox and Wolffe, again.

They were arguing by the supply crates, the tension between them so thick it might’ve passed as heat if Kamino weren’t freezing.

“I’m telling you,” Wolffe was growling, “she was talking to me yesterday.”

“Right,” Fox drawled. “She called you ‘uncoordinated and overconfident.’ Sounds like flirting to me.”

“You don’t get it, she’s Mandalorian. That’s basically a compliment.”

“Boys.” Your voice sliced through the rain like a vibroblade.

They both snapped to attention so fast they nearly knocked heads.

“Get in the ring.” You didn’t even raise your voice. “Now.”

Fox and Wolffe exchanged a look—equal parts dread and defiance.

“Yes, instructor,” they muttered.

“I want five laps if either of you so much as winks.”

You tossed a training staff toward Fox. He caught it clumsily and frowned. “What, no sim?”

“Nope. You’re with me.”

Somewhere behind you, you heard Bly mutter, “He’s dead.”

“Pay attention to your drill, cadet,” you barked.

Fox stepped into the ring with the same confidence he wore into every disaster. “Try not to go easy on me, yeah?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

The fight started fast. Fox was quick, smooth, used his weight well—but you’d trained on Sundari’s cliffs, in Death Watch gauntlets, and in the company of monsters who made even Jango look tame.

Fox didn’t stand a chance.

He lasted maybe three minutes before you dropped him with a shoulder feint and a sweep that sent him crashing into the mat.

“Dead,” you said flatly, planting your boot on his chest.

Fox groaned. “You always this brutal with your favorites?”

“You’re not my favorite.”

“Oof.”

Then—Wolffe shoved past the other cadets and stepped into the ring.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice tight. “He’s training, not being punished.”

You cocked your head. “You volunteering?”

“I’m not letting you flatten my brother without a fight.”

You smirked behind the visor. “Your funeral.”

What followed was nothing short of combat comedy.

Wolffe was sharper than Fox. Calculated. But he was still a cadet. You pushed him hard—Mando-style, merciless, unrelenting. Rain slicked the mat, thunder cracked outside, and your staff never slowed.

Wolffe held his own longer.

But he was still losing.

Then, desperate—he lunged.

And bit you.

Right on the bicep.

“Kriffing—”

You staggered back, jerking your arm away, teeth clenching as the pain bloomed under your armor.

“Did you just—did you bite me?!”

Wolffe, still crouched and panting, looked horrified. “You weren’t stopping!”

Fox, flat on his back, howled with laughter. “You feral loth-cat! What, was headbutting too civilized?”

You peeled your glove off and stared at the bite. “You drew blood,” you growled. “I liked this undersuit.”

“Instinct,” Wolffe muttered.

“Idiot,” you shot back.

By now, the other cadets had gathered around the ring, wide-eyed and whispering. You turned slowly to the group.

“Let this be a lesson. I don’t care if you’re a cadet, a commander, or kriffing Supreme Chancellor himself—if you bite me, I bite back.”

Fox wheezed. “She’s not joking. I’ve seen her take out two bounty hunters with a broken fork.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “Fifteen laps, Fox. For running your mouth.”

Fox dragged himself upright and groaned, limping toward the track.

Wolffe started to follow.

You grabbed his pauldron.

“Don’t ever use your teeth in a fight again, unless you’re actually dying.”

“Yes, instructor.”

“…And next time, if you are gonna bite, aim higher.”

He blinked.

And you walked off, bleeding, storming, and already plotting their next humiliation.

Commanders?

Kriff.

They were barely house-trained.

⸻

The morning after the Bite Incident started like most—grey skies, howling wind, and Kaminoan side-eyes.

You strode onto the training deck in full gear, fresh bandage wrapped over the healing bite mark on your arm. The clones were already lined up, posture rigid, eyes straight. You could feel the tension radiating from the group like a bad smell. No doubt they’d all heard the rumors.

One of them bit you. And lived.

You stopped in front of them, hands behind your back. “Which of you thought it was smart to bet on me losing?”

Half the group tensed. Cody coughed.

You didn’t wait for an answer. “Double rations go to the one who bet I’d win and that one of you idiots would end up chewing on my armor.”

That got a chuckle—nervous, brief—but it broke the tension. Good. You weren’t here to baby them. You were here to make them legends.

“Group drills today. Partner up.”

Predictably, Fox beelined for your side. “So. How’s the arm?” he asked, lips twitching.

You turned slightly, giving him just enough of a smirk. “Tender. Wanna kiss it better?”

Fox visibly froze. For the first time in all the months you’d trained him, he blinked like a man who’d just taken a thermal detonator to the soul.

Wolffe, watching from across the training floor, snapped his training blade in half.

Like, literally snapped it.

You didn’t even react.

Cody whistled low. “He’s gonna kill someone.”

“Hope it’s not me,” Fox muttered under his breath, heart rate visibly climbing.

You raised your voice. “Wolffe. Grab a new blade and meet me in the ring. Fox, go help Gree with his stance. The last time I saw someone hold a blaster like that, they were five and trying to eat it.”

Fox, now flustered beyond recognition, stumbled off. Wolffe stalked over, eyes dark.

“You flirting with him now?” he asked, low and sharp, as you passed him a fresh blade.

You leaned in—just close enough for your voice to dip like smoke. “He flirted first.”

“And you flirted back.”

You tilted your head. “You gonna bite me again if I do it twice?”

Wolffe looked like he might combust.

The spar started aggressive—Wolffe striking fast, sharp, his technique tighter than usual, anger giving him extra momentum. You blocked him easily, letting him wear himself out. Letting him stew.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” you taunted, hooking his leg mid-swing and sweeping him to the mat with a sharp twist.

He landed with a grunt, breathless. You knelt beside him, blade tip pressed to his chestplate.

“I flirt with the one who keeps his teeth to himself,” you said, tone casual. “Consider that motivation.”

Wolffe didn’t answer. He just stared at you, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear it grinding through the floor.

By the time drills ended, Fox was glowing. Wolffe was feral. And you?

You were thriving.

Let them fight over you. Let them stew, and sulk, and throw punches at each other behind the mess hall.

This was war training. They’d better get used to losing battles.

Especially the ones with their own hearts.

⸻

You were late.

Not tactically late. Intentionally late.

The cadets were already lined up, soaked to the bone from outdoor drills—Kamino’s rain coming in sideways like daggers. You made your entrance like a storm, dripping wet and smirking like you hadn’t made half the room lose sleep last night.

Fox was waiting at the front, eyes locked on you. He didn’t salute. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked—calm, steady, sharp.

And you felt it. That shift.

Wolffe was off to the side, glaring holes into the back of Fox’s head. You caught it all in a sweep of your gaze.

“Who wants a live-spar match to start the morning?” you called.

Several cadets groaned. Cody actually muttered something about defecting to Kaminoan administration.

But Fox? Fox stepped forward. “I do.”

You tilted your head. “Sure you want that smoke, pretty boy?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You think I didn’t train for this?”

You narrowed your eyes, intrigued.

The match was brutal. Not because Fox was stronger—but because Fox was different. Controlled. Confident. Calculated. He didn’t let your taunts shake him. He dodged quicker, pushed harder. When he caught your leg and sent you crashing to the mat, the cadets gasped.

Even Wolffe made a strangled noise like a dying animal.

You coughed, winded, pinned under Fox’s knee, his hand resting against your collarbone.

“Yield?” he asked.

You blinked up at him. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Already did,” he said, low enough for only you to hear. “You like it.”

You shoved him off you with a grin, rolling to your feet.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “But I’m still prettier.”

Fox actually laughed.

Wolffe walked off the mat.

Straight to the armory.

Because of course he did.

Later, when the others had cleared out and you were wiping sweat from your brow, you felt that familiar weight behind you—boots heavier than a clone’s, presence impossible to ignore.

“Jango,” you greeted, not turning.

“You’re playing with them.”

You wiped your blade clean. “I’m training them.”

“You’re toying with them,” he said, voice flat. “They’re assets. Not toys. Not lovers. Not soldiers you can break for fun.”

You turned, arching a brow. “I know the difference between a weapon and a man, Fett.”

He stepped closer. “Then stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”

That one hit—low and sharp.

You swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. “They’re soldiers, Jango. If a little heartbreak cracks them, the war will kill them faster.”

“They need guidance. Not confusion.”

“And what about me?” you asked, arms crossing. “What do I need?”

His eyes didn’t soften. “You need to choose. Or leave them both alone.”

You didn’t answer.

He left you with the silence.

That night, you found Fox alone in the mess, bruised, hungry, and tired.

“You did good today,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look up from his tray. “So did you. Playing with me until Wolffe snapped?”

“Wolffe snapped because he thinks I’m yours.”

Fox looked up now, slow and dangerous. “Are you?”

You leaned in. Close. Almost touching. “I could be.”

Fox’s jaw clenched. “Then stop making him think he has a chance.”

You didn’t reply.

Not right away.

And that pause? That breath of hesitation?

That was the crack in everything.

⸻

You stopped showing up to the mess.

You didn’t call on Fox or Wolffe for sparring. You rotated them into group drills only. You stopped lingering after hours. No more teasing remarks. No more slow smirks and heat behind your eyes.

No more touch.

It was easier, at first. For you.

They were cadets. Not yours. Not meant to be anything more.

Jango’s voice echoed every time you started to second-guess yourself.

“Stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”

So you holstered your weapon. Locked the fire down. Played it straight.

And watched them start to unravel.

Fox was the first to try and confront you.

He caught you in the hallway outside the training rooms. Quiet, calm, alone.

“You ignoring me on purpose?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t stop walking. “You’re a soldier. I’m your instructor. That’s all.”

Fox stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

“So that was all it ever was? The fights? The flirting? Me on top of you on the mat?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, despite his best efforts.

You looked at him, jaw tight. “Fox—”

He laughed. Bitter. “No. Say it. Say it meant nothing.”

You couldn’t.

And that was the problem.

“It’s better this way,” you said instead, and slipped past him.

He let you go.

That was what broke your heart most of all.

Wolffe was worse. He didn’t say anything—at first.

He trained harder. Fought rougher. Every drill was a warzone now. He snapped at Cody. Nearly dislocated Gree’s shoulder. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Until one night—

You caught him in the dark on the training deck, punching into a bag like it owed him his life.

“Wolffe.”

He didn’t stop.

“I said, stand down—”

He spun on you.

“Why?” he snapped. “So you can ignore me again?”

You froze.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he growled. “You pulled away from both of us. Playing professional like you weren’t the one making Fox look like a damn lovesick cadet. Like you weren’t the one making me feel like I was yours.”

Your chest tightened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes, it was!” he shouted. “And now you think pulling back fixes it? You think it makes the want go away?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Wolffe stepped forward, eyes burning.

“Let me make it real easy for you,” he said. “If you didn’t mean any of it—tell me you never wanted me. Say it.”

You couldn’t.

You didn’t.

You just turned and walked away.

Again.

And behind you, in the dead silence of the deck, you heard something break.

⸻

They started showing off.

It wasn’t even subtle.

Fox perfected his bladework, spinning twin vibroknives in a blur, always training just where you could see. Wolffe started calling out cadets for slacking mid-drill, standing straighter, yelling louder, fighting longer.

Every time you passed, there was tension—tight like a wire, straining.

And you kept pushing.

Harder, faster drills. No breaks. No leniency. You called them out in front of the others when they slipped. You sent them against each other in spar after spar, knowing they’d go all out.

They did.

Until Fox went down hard—breathing ragged, cut bleeding at his brow, fingers trembling.

And you snapped: “Get up. Again.”

He looked at you. Not angry. Not sad. Just tired.

Wolffe stepped between you before Fox could even move.

“No.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Wolffe growled. “He’s bleeding. He’s exhausted. He’s not a toy you wind up just to see how far he’ll go.”

“This is training—”

“This is punishment,” Fox cut in, standing up slow behind Wolffe. “And we’re done letting you use us to beat your own feelings into the ground.”

The silence that followed hit harder than a punch.

You looked at both of them—Wolffe, tense and furious, jaw clenched; Fox, bleeding but still looking at you like he cared.

“You think this is about feelings?” you spat. “I’m preparing you for war. You’re not ready.”

“We were,” Wolffe said quietly. “Until you made yourself the battle.”

That hit you straight in the ribs.

You stared at them, breathing hard, adrenaline high, rage burning under your skin—and then you turned away.

“Training’s over,” you muttered.

Neither of them moved.

When you left the room, they didn’t follow.

And for the first time since setting foot on Kamino, you realized what losing both of them might actually feel like.

⸻

The sky on Kamino never changed.

Just endless grey. Rain like a drumbeat. A constant hum of sterile light and controlled air.

You stood at the edge of the landing platform, your gear packed, your armor slung over your shoulder like it didn’t weigh a hundred kilos in your gut.

“I thought you were done bounty hunting,” Jango said behind you.

You didn’t turn.

“I thought I was too.”

He walked up beside you, slow and even. No judgment in his stride. No comfort either.

“They got to you,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

“They’re good soldiers. You saw that. You made them better. You drilled discipline into their bones.” A pause. “So why run?”

You clenched your jaw.

“Because I stopped seeing them as soldiers,” you muttered. “I started seeing them as—”

You broke off. Not because you didn’t know the word. But because it hurt too much to say it.

Jango sighed. “I told you not to toy with the assets.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You flirted. You made them think—”

“I didn’t make them think anything,” you snapped, turning to him finally. “I felt something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now it’s bleeding into training and—” your voice cracked. “They’re getting hurt.”

Jango looked at you for a long, quiet second.

Then, almost gently: “You never had the stomach for clean lines. You’re too human for that.”

You laughed bitterly. “Maybe. But I won’t be the reason they break.”

Jango gave you a nod. Subtle. Approval, maybe. Or just understanding. He turned to leave, boots echoing on the wet metal.

“Where will you go?” he asked over his shoulder.

You looked back out at the grey sea. Thought of neon lights. Cold bounties. Silence without faces you cared about.

“Somewhere I don’t have to see their eyes.”

Jango didn’t say goodbye.

He never did.

And when your ship lifted off, you didn’t look back.

⸻

The cadets lined up in silence.

There was tension in the air. They could feel it—like a shift in pressure right before a storm hits.

Wolffe had a sick feeling crawling up his spine. Fox had barely spoken all morning.

You hadn’t shown up for dawn drills. Again.

Then the door opened.

Boots. Not yours.

Jango Fett strode in—full beskar, helmet tucked under his arm, scowl like a thunderhead.

Every cadet stiffened.

“Form up,” he barked.

The lines straightened immediately. But all eyes were looking past him—waiting.

Wolffe’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Where’s our instructor?”

Jango’s lip curled slightly. “Gone.”

Fox frowned. “Gone where?”

Jango stared them down.

“She left Kamino. She won’t be returning.”

Just like that.

Silence exploded across the room.

Wolffe’s fists clenched.

Fox’s mouth opened—then closed. His jaw locked.

“She didn’t say goodbye,” Neyo whispered.

Jango looked at them like they were stupid.

“She didn’t need to.”

No one breathed.

Then Jango paced in front of them, slow and deliberate.

“You were here to be trained to lead men in battle. Not to fall for someone who made you feel special. You don’t get attachments. You don’t get comfort. You get orders. Understand?”

No one answered.

Jango stepped closer to Wolffe, then Fox, his voice low and cold.

“She gave you the best of her and got out before you ruined it. Don’t make the mistake of chasing ghosts.”

And with that—he barked for drills to begin.

They ran until their lungs burned, until every cadet dropped to their knees from exhaustion. Jango didn’t ease up once.

Wolffe didn’t speak the entire time.

Fox trained like he wanted the pain.

And no matter how hard they hit, how fast they moved, how sharp they became—

You didn’t come back.

⸻

The job was supposed to be clean.

A simple retrieval on Xeron V—a mid-tier Republic contractor gone rogue, hiding in the crumbling husk of an old droid factory. Get in, grab the target, drag him to a shadowy contact with credits to burn and questionable allegiance.

But you should’ve known better.

The second you got your hands on him, everything went sideways. Someone tipped off the Republic. Gunships rained from the sky. Your target fled. You got cut off. Cornered.

And then the unmistakable howl of clone comms filled the air.

The 104th.

You almost laughed when you saw the markings—gray trim, wolf symbols, bold and sharp.

Fate had a sick sense of humor.

You were disarmed in seconds, pinned to the floor with your cheek pressed against cold durasteel.

Even then, you didn’t fight.

Wolffe was the one who yanked off your helmet.

You expected a reaction.

All you got was silence.

Not even a curse. Not even your name.

Just a stiff order to “secure the bounty hunter” and a curt nod to the troopers flanking you.

And then he walked away.

Like you were nothing.

Now you sat in the Republic outpost’s holding cell, bruised but mostly fine—aside from your ego and whatever parts of your heart still hadn’t gone numb. The armor plating of your new life, as a notorious bounty hunter, felt thinner by the second.

He hadn’t even looked you in the eye since they dragged you off the ship.

Not when you spat blood onto the hangar floor.

Not when they clamped the cuffs on your wrists.

Not when your helmet rolled to his feet like some ghost from a forgotten life.

Just protocol. Just silence.

Just Wolffe.

Outside the cell, Master Plo Koon approached his commander, his quiet presence always felt before it was seen.

“She knew your name,” Plo said gently.

Wolffe’s armor flexed as his fists curled. “She trained us. All of us. Before the war.”

“But there is more, isn’t there?”

Wolffe glanced sideways. “Sir, with respect—”

“I am not scolding you, Wolffe.” Plo’s voice remained steady. “But I sense a storm in you. I have since the moment she arrived.”

Wolffe said nothing.

“She left something behind, didn’t she?”

And for just a second, Wolffe’s mask cracked.

“Yeah,” he said, jaw tight. “Us.”

⸻

The hum of the gunship in hyperspace filled the silence between you.

You were cuffed to a seat, armor stripped down to a flight-safe bodysuit. Your posture was relaxed, but your gaze never left the clone across from you.

Wolffe sat still—helmet in his lap, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken since takeoff.

“You gonna give me the silent treatment the whole way?” you asked, voice dry.

He didn’t even blink.

You sighed and leaned back, jaw clenching. “Fine. I’ll do the talking.”

No response.

“I didn’t think they’d make you my escort,” you continued. “You’d think after our history, that might be considered a conflict of interest.”

“Maybe they thought I’d shoot you if you acted up,” he muttered.

You smirked. “I thought about acting up. Just to see if you still care.”

That got him.

His head snapped toward you, eyes burning. “Don’t.”

“What? Push your buttons?” You arched a brow. “That used to be my specialty.”

“You used to be someone else.”

The smile dropped from your lips.

So did your heart.

Wolffe looked away again, tightening his grip on the helmet in his hands.

You turned your head toward the window, hiding the sting behind sarcasm. “You look good in Commander stripes.”

“And you look good in chains.”

There it was again—that damn tension. Sharp and unresolved. You almost welcomed the sting.

Almost.

⸻

Coruscant.

The gunship touched down in the GAR security hangar. Sterile, bright, swarming with guards in crimson-red armor.

You knew who ran this show before you even stepped off the ramp.

Fox.

The last time you saw him, he was still a smart-ass cadet fighting over who could land a blow on you first.

Now?

He wore the rank of Marshal Commander like a second skin. Polished. Cold. Untouchable.

The second your boots hit the durasteel, he was there.

“Prisoner in my custody,” he said to Wolffe, not even sparing you a glance.

“She’s your problem now,” Wolffe replied, handing over the datapad.

You smirked. “Nice armor, Foxy. Didn’t think you’d climb so high.”

He didn’t even blink.

“No jokes. No names. You’re not special anymore.”

The smile dropped off your face like a blade.

“I see the Senate really squeezed all the fun out of you.”

Fox stepped in close, nose-to-nose. “That bounty you botched? Republic senator’s aide was caught in the crossfire. He’s still in critical care.”

Your mouth opened, but he kept going.

“You may think you’re the same snarky Mandalorian who used to throw cadets around on Kamino. But you’re not. You’re a liability with a kill count—and you’re lucky we didn’t shoot you on sight.”

You swallowed hard.

Wolffe stood off to the side, helmet tucked under one arm, watching. Quiet. Controlled.

But his gaze never left your face.

Fox turned to his men. “Take her to holding. I’ll debrief in an hour.”

You were grabbed by the arms again, dragged off without ceremony. As you passed Wolffe, your eyes met just for a second.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything.

But Wolffe looked away first.

And this time, it hurt worse than anything else ever had.

The room was cold. Not physically—just sterile. Void of anything human.

One table. Two chairs. Transparent durasteel wall behind you.

And Fox, across the table, red armor like a warning light that never shut off.

He hadn’t said a word yet.

Just stood in the doorway, datapad in hand, watching you like he was trying to decide whether to question you or put a bolt in your head.

Finally, he sat down.

“You’re in a lot of trouble.”

You leaned back in the chair, manacled wrists resting against the tabletop. “Let me guess. That senator’s aide I accidentally shot was someone’s nephew?”

Fox didn’t flinch. “You’re lucky he’s not dead.”

“I’m lucky all the time.”

He stared you down. “Tell me why you took the job.”

You rolled your eyes. “Credits.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s the truth.”

His fingers tapped against the datapad. A slow, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the silence.

“Target was mid-level intel—why would someone like you take a low-rank job like that?”

“I don’t screen my clients. I don’t ask questions.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You used to.”

You stilled.

There it was. The first crack.

“Back on Kamino,” he added, voice quieter. “You asked questions. You gave a damn.”

You looked away. “That was a long time ago.”

Fox’s jaw tightened. “Then help me understand what changed.”

You laughed once, bitter. “Why, Fox? This isn’t an interrogation. This is you trying to pick apart what’s left of someone you used to know.”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “This is me trying to figure out whether the person I used to trust is still in there.”

Your gaze snapped to his.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t break.

But you saw it.

That same flicker he used to show you, late in training when he couldn’t hide how much he hung on every word you said. That look when he fought with Wolffe over who got to spar with you first. That silence after you left Kamino without saying goodbye.

“I trained you to be a good soldier,” you muttered. “Not to sit behind a desk and spit Senate lines.”

“I became a good soldier because of you,” he shot back. “But you left before you could see it.”

Silence settled again.

He dropped the datapad to the table and leaned back in his chair. “Do you even care who you’re working for these days?”

You smirked, tired. “You want me to say I regret it. But I don’t think you’d believe me if I did.”

Fox stood abruptly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

He moved to leave—then hesitated, fingers flexing at his side. He looked back once, gaze sharp and unreadable.

“We’re not done.”

You lifted your brow. “Didn’t think we were.”

He stared at you another heartbeat longer.

Then left.

The door hissed closed behind him.

And still, his questions lingered.

⸻

It was past midnight, but Coruscant never slept.

The holding cell lights were dim, humming faintly above your head. You sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on your knees, staring through the thick transparisteel wall like you could still see stars.

Your wrists ached from the manacles.

Your chest ached from everything else.

When the door hissed open, you didn’t look.

You already knew who it was.

He stepped inside, slow and careful—like maybe if he moved too quickly, he’d change his mind and leave.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” you said quietly.

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Figured.”

You turned your head. Wolffe was still in full armor, helmet off, but the tension in his shoulders was more than battlefield wear.

He stepped closer but didn’t sit. He just looked at you. Like he hadn’t had the chance to really see you until now.

“You really left,” he said.

You huffed a breath. “You mean Kamino?”

He nodded once.

“Jango warned me,” you said. “Told me not to mess with the assets.”

His jaw clenched. “You weren’t messing with us.”

“Weren’t I?”

Wolffe looked down, quiet for a moment. Then:

“We would’ve followed you anywhere.”

The silence between you cracked open—raw, vulnerable.

“I couldn’t stay,” you whispered. “Not after that. Not when I knew I was screwing with your heads. You and Fox were fighting over a ghost. I was your first crush, not your future.”

“You were more than that.”

“No,” you said gently. “I was just the one who got away.”

Wolffe looked like he wanted to argue. Wanted to reach out. But he stayed exactly where he was, arms stiff at his sides.

“You’re going to be court-martialed,” you said with a dry smile. “Visiting the prisoner. Real scandal.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. You always did. That’s what made you a good soldier.”

He didn’t reply to that. Just let the silence stretch.

Finally, you asked, “So what happens now?”

Wolffe’s eyes hardened—not cold, but braced. “You’re staying. Senate wants answers. GAR wants a scapegoat.”

“And you?”

“I want—”

He stopped himself.

You sat up straighter. “Say it.”

He exhaled, jaw flexing, voice low. “I want you to walk out of here. I want you on my squad, back where you belong. I want to forget you ever left.”

You didn’t look away.

“I want to stop wondering if we ever meant anything to you.”

You stepped toward the barrier between you.

Then the comm in his vambrace flared to life.

“—Commander Wolffe, this is General Koon. We’re wheels up in five. Rendezvous at Pad D-17.”

He didn’t answer it. Just looked at you.

“I guess that’s your cue,” you said, trying to smile. “Duty first.”

“Always.”

But this time, he didn’t move.

He just stared at you like maybe—just maybe—he’d stay.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said. “I made my bed. I’ll lie in it.”

He nodded slowly. “You always did sleep like hell anyway.”

You laughed once. It hurt.

“I’ll see you again,” he said finally.

“You sure about that?”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Another call came through. Urgent.

He stepped back, slow, deliberate, like every footfall cost him.

You stood alone behind the transparisteel wall.

And he left without another word.

Because he was a commander.

And you were the one who got away.

Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader (order 66)

*warnings* - death

And then, there was Wolffe.

Commander Wolffe—one of the few clones who had earned your trust completely—stood in the corner, his helmet in hand, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time today. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, content simply to share the quiet that filled the space between you.

Despite the war and the strict boundaries of your roles, you had always felt something more for him. It started as camaraderie—two soldiers who understood the price of duty—but over time, the bond deepened into something more complicated, something you could never speak of aloud.

"How are the men?" you finally asked, your voice breaking the silence.

Wolffe's lips curved into a half-smile, though there was a sadness behind his eyes. "They're good. Holding steady. As long as I'm around, they know what's expected." His gaze softened, but there was something unreadable about his expression. "What about you, Jedi? Are you holding steady?"

Your heart fluttered slightly at the sound of your title—Jedi. It still felt strange to hear it from him. You were no longer the young Padawan of Master Plo Koon, his silent guidance ever-present, but now you were a Jedi Knight, responsible for countless lives. But it didn't make the distance between you and Wolffe any easier to bear.

You didn't know how to answer him, how to explain that, while you were a Knight of the Order, part of you was constantly torn between duty and the feelings you had for him. It was forbidden—Jedi and soldiers were not meant to share such attachments—but those lines had blurred long ago.

"I'm..." You paused, searching for the right words. "I'm here, Wolffe. Just trying to keep us all alive."

His gaze never wavered from yours, and the weight of his look made your pulse quicken. There was a silent understanding between you, a quiet admission that neither of you could ever truly voice aloud. You wanted to be close to him, to be more than comrades, but the Jedi Code—your duty—kept you at arm's length.

He stepped closer, the usual tension in his posture relaxing just a fraction. "I know what you want, Jedi," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. "But I can't have you distracted. We've been through too much for that."

You swallowed, the knot in your throat tightening. "And I can't ignore what I feel," you replied quietly. "But I won't let it affect my duty, Wolffe. Not now."

He chuckled softly, but it lacked its usual humor. "The war's not kind to people like us."

The silence hung between you for a long moment, both of you standing there, unsure of what to say next. But the unspoken truth between you lingered, undeniable, even in the midst of the endless war.

Then, you both heard the sharp hiss of the door opening, and you quickly broke your gaze, stepping back as though the moment had never happened. Wolffe returned to his usual stoic demeanor, but there was still a flicker in his eyes.

It was always like this—moments stolen in between the chaos, stolen moments that both of you knew couldn't last.

The mission had been successful, the Separatist threat neutralized. Yet, a strange heaviness filled the air as you returned to the cruiser. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—something was coming, something that neither you nor Wolffe could stop.

As the day wore on, you found yourself drawn to the Jedi temple for brief meditation. But then, the unmistakable buzzing of your commlink interrupted the rare moment of peace.

Before you could even comprehend it, the cold realization hit like a tidal wave. The clones, your brothers, the soldiers who fought beside you—they were ordered to execute all Jedi. Including you.

You didn't hesitate. Your instincts kicked in, and you sprinted through the hallways, hoping against hope that somehow, the clones wouldn't be able to carry out the order. Wolffe, however, was waiting in the shadows, and the moment you laid eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.

"Wolffe," you called, voice trembling but determined. "You have to listen to me—this isn't you."

His eyes flickered for a moment, uncertainty clouding his usually steadfast gaze. "I have no choice, Jedi," he said, his voice a hollow echo.

The words hit you like a blow to the chest, but you refused to back down. "Wolffe, please—this isn't you. This is an order, an order you can't control. You're not just a soldier. You're more than this."

His helmeted face was a mask, but you could see the hesitation in his stance, the way his hands shook as they held his weapon. For a split second, you thought he might break free from the mind control, might step away and abandon the mission to kill you. But that hesitation was fleeting.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, voice strained as though the words themselves were foreign to him. "I'm sorry... but I have to do this."

Your lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss, and you tried to reach him, tried to make him understand, but the clones—your brothers—were already moving in, following the orders they were given, following the programming they couldn't fight.

Wolffe fired, the blaster bolt striking you square in the chest. You barely had time to react, your body forced into the unforgiving cold of the ship's hull.

You gasped, your vision blurring as the world tilted, everything fading into darkness. Your last thought was of Wolffe—of the man who had meant so much to you, the man you loved, and the man you knew would never have the chance to love you back. You reached out with your hand, trying to call out to him, but no words came.

Wolffe stood frozen in place, his heart shattering as he watched you fall, the weight of the blaster's shot sinking deep into his soul. He had never wanted this. Never wanted to hurt you. But the order... the order had been too strong, too powerful.

As the last of the life left your eyes, Wolffe's knees buckled, his helmet clattering to the floor as he collapsed beside your body. His hands trembled as they hovered over you, unable to fix the damage, unable to undo the pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, the guilt crushing him from within.

But the war, the Order—nothing could undo what had been done. And Wolffe was left alone, stricken with guilt and a heart full of love he could never express. His final regret was that he'd never told you how much you meant to him before it was too late.

“Only One Target”

Captain Rex x Sith Assassin!Reader

Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.

⸻

Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.

You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.

Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.

“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.

“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.

Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.

Skywalker.

Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.

Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”

Simple. Clean.

But Jedi never made things easy.

A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.

Perfect.

Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”

You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.

But Skywalker—he came for you.

He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.

“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.

“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”

“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”

Your blades clashed.

He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.

Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.

You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

“Who sent you?” he snarled.

“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”

His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.

This wasn’t going to plan.

Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”

“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.

“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”

You turned—but it was already too late.

A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.

Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.

Coward.

You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.

And in front of them stood a clone captain.

Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.

He didn’t look at you like a person.

He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.

You smirked through the pain.

“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t shoot you either.

⸻

The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.

You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.

Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.

“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.

You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”

He stopped pacing, turned on you.

“Who sent you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”

He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”

He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.

“I will get answers out of you.”

You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”

“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”

He stared at you for a long, tense beat.

Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.

“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.

Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.

⸻

Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.

You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.

“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Rex didn’t move.

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”

“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”

You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”

Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.

“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”

Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.

“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”

You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.

“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”

He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.

Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.

“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”

Your smirk softened. Just a bit.

“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”

“Convenient.”

“True.”

The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.

“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.

You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.

“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”

He paused in the doorway, head tilted.

“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

But you knew.

You always knew.

⸻

Captain Rex hadn’t come back.

Not once.

And it was driving you crazy.

Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.

But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.

Something had changed.

The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then the alarms started.

Again.

You stood.

Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.

Then the scream of a clone dying.

You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.

So dramatic.

She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.

“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”

You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”

She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”

You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.

“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”

Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”

She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.

Chaos.

And in chaos… came opportunity.

Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.

And you intended to walk through it.

You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”

But you were already lunging at him.

The fight was brutal.

He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.

But you were sharper.

He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.

You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.

Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.

You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:

“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”

Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

You smirked, breath warm at his ear.

“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”

And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.

Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.

“Damn it.”

⸻

The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.

You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.

You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.

The kiss.

You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.

Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.

Maybe it was to mock him.

Or maybe it was something else.

You pushed the thought away.

The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.

He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.

The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.

“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”

“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.

“For now.”

Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”

You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”

Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”

“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”

You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”

“They were in your way.”

You were quiet.

Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.

“You toyed with them.”

The words sliced like ice.

“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”

You tensed.

Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.

Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”

Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”

“You failed the objective.”

His voice rose like thunder.

“You kissed the enemy.”

You blinked once. Slowly.

“I did,” you said.

Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.

He stepped closer.

“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”

“I haven’t.”

He leaned in, towering.

“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”

You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”

He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.

“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”

He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.

“Next time, you kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure you could.

⸻

The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.

Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.

He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Back in that hallway.

Back in the smoke.

Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.

It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.

Instead, she kissed him.

And now she was out there.

Alive.

And he hated that he kept thinking about her.

Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.

Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”

“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”

Rex shifted. “Just processing.”

“Hm.”

Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.

“She messed with your head,” he said casually.

Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”

“She kissed you, didn’t she?”

That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

Anakin grinned, triumphant.

“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”

Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”

“That’s not evidence of anything.”

“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”

Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”

Skywalker’s brow furrowed.

“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”

A pause. Tense. Thick.

Rex looked away.

“I hesitated.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“…I don’t know.”

It was the only honest thing he could say.

Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”

He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.

“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”

Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”

Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.

“You find her.”

A beat.

“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”

Rex nodded once.

But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.

⸻

“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.

Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”

Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”

Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”

That got his attention.

Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”

“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”

“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”

Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.

Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—

He clenched his jaw.

“She’s bait.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.

“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”

But he wasn’t sure he believed that.

Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.

She wouldn’t hide.

Not unless she was hiding from them too.

⸻

You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.

Every shadow was a threat.

Every sound could be them.

You hadn’t slept in days.

Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.

He hadn’t even tried.

You were nothing to him now.

Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.

And yet, part of you was relieved.

No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.

But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.

You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.

Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.

Rex.

You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.

To his defiance.

His strength.

His disgust.

That heat in his stare when you kissed him.

You’d told yourself it was just a game.

So why did it still make your chest ache?

You swallowed hard.

And then you felt it.

A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.

And getting closer.

“They found me.”

⸻

Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.

“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.

Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”

Rex ignored them.

“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.

Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

“No.”

But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.

This woman was running.

And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.

⸻

The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.

Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.

She should’ve known better.

She was good.

But he was better.

A flash of movement to his right.

He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.

And there she was.

Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.

She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.

In fact—she looked tired.

“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.

The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.

“Drop the weapon,” he barked.

You raised your hands. Slowly.

“I’m unarmed.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”

“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”

You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”

Rex didn’t answer.

He studied you.

No backup. No escape route. No fight.

This wasn’t an ambush.

This wasn’t a trap.

This was… surrender.

“Where’s your army?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“Dooku?”

You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”

“And Ventress?”

A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”

That, at least, made sense.

Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.

“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.

“Why should I believe you?”

You looked at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“I don’t care if you do.”

Another beat of silence.

And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.

“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”

He stared at you.

One word. One plea.

“Please.”

It wasn’t seductive.

It wasn’t tactical.

It was real.

And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.

The wind howled between you.

And he… didn’t pull the trigger.

Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The truth sat thick between them.

“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”

There was a pause.

Then static cracked and—

“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.

“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.

Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.

When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.

“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”

Rex followed without a word.

⸻

The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.

You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.

Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.

Always watching.

“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.

“But you didn’t call me in.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

You looked up. Eyes meeting his.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”

You exhaled, slowly.

“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”

Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.

You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”

The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.

Then—

“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.

You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”

“A dangerous one.”

“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”

Rex looked at you then. Really looked.

You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”

He flinched at that.

“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”

Rex didn’t respond right away.

Then, finally—

“I believe you.”

The words hung in the air like a confession.

You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”

He hesitated.

“…I don’t know yet.”

Another pause.

Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.

“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”

His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”

You smiled. “Did it work?”

He didn’t answer.

You were closer now. Too close.

And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.

But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.

Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”

He met your gaze.

“I don’t have time to wonder.”

“Maybe you should start.”

You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.

Then, at the last second, you pulled back.

“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.

Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

And outside, the storm raged.

⸻

Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.

“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.

Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”

Fives smirked. “He found her.”

“And didn’t bring her in.”

They shared a look.

“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.

Fives clicked his tongue.

“I think he hopes not.”

⸻

The storm had passed.

The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.

You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.

Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.

You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.

“They’ll know soon enough.”

“I know.”

“They’ll think you let me go.”

“I did.”

Finally, you turned to him.

Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.

“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.

“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”

You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you stepped forward. Closer.

“This is the part where I disappear again.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step forward.

Didn’t say stay.

Because he couldn’t.

You leaned in, eyes searching his.

“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”

And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.

Just real.

Warm.

A goodbye.

Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you were gone.

Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.

Like you’d never been there at all.

Except he’d never forget.

⸻

Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”

Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”

Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.

“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.

“She was never there,” Rex said.

Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”

“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”

They watched him.

Said nothing.

Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.

And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.

A smear.

No, not a smear.

Lipstick.

Fives blinked.

Then grinned like a menace.

But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.

And muttered without looking back—

“Don’t.”

“War On Two Fronts” pt.1

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

(A/N, this fic is purely for my own amusement, enjoy it if you must. I simply wanted to create the most random, somewhat unhinged, love triangle I could think of)

The Jedi Temple stood still that morning.

Even with the war breathing down the galaxy’s neck, even with whispers of clones and Kamino and Separatist strongholds, the Temple had not forgotten how to hold its silence.

A rare breeze swept through the Pillars of the hall, rustling the gold-edged tapestries that hung like memories between the columns. The high, vaulted ceiling glowed dimly from the skylights overhead—no harsh illumination today. Just solemn sun and shadow.

You knelt at the center of it all, the marble cool beneath your knees, the hem of your robes curled slightly from movement. Your hands, for once, were still.

Before you stood Master Windu.

And as always, he was a wall.

A composed, unmoving force of principle and power—yet even now, in his rigid stance and unreadable expression, you could feel it. That slight shift in his presence. That guarded warmth he never allowed the others to see. His version of pride was like his version of affection: precise. Controlled. But real.

“You’ve grown into a warrior the Council did not expect,” he said quietly. His voice echoed through the chamber, flat but grounded. “That is both your strength… and your warning.”

A wry smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “That sounds like you, Master.”

“Former Master,” Mace corrected, though the corner of his mouth almost twitched. “As of today.”

You glanced sideways, just enough to catch a glimpse of Master Yoda seated beside the ceremonial flame, nodding with quiet approval. A few other Masters flanked the hall—Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, Obi-Wan. Anakin was here too, arms crossed, a smirk barely hidden. Of course he would be. He’d want to see someone else screw with the rules for once.

Mace raised his amethyst saber.

The room fell into breathless quiet, save for the snap-hiss of energy igniting.

“For your skill in battle,” he said. “For your persistence in training. For your commitment to the Force—despite your unorthodox methods.”

You heard the faintest beat of amusement in his voice, even as the blade hovered above your right shoulder.

“I name you Jedi Knight.”

The saber passed over your left shoulder, then extinguished in a smooth hiss. The light faded.

So did the weight.

You rose to your feet, your chest oddly tight.

You’d imagined this moment a thousand times. You thought you’d grin. You thought you’d make a joke. Maybe wink at Anakin, toss your braid in celebration.

But instead, you looked at Mace.

And for the first time since you’d been a reckless thirteen-year-old hurling training sabers at his back in the practice ring… you saw the crack in his armor.

Pride.

Not spoken. Never spoken.

But it was there.

He stepped forward and quietly handed you your old braid, cut clean through and wrapped carefully in cloth. His gloved hand lingered a second too long as you took it.

“You’ll never be like me,” he said, low enough for only you to hear.

You looked up at him, caught off-guard.

“And that is the greatest relief I’ve known in some time.”

Your throat tightened, emotion flashing hot behind your eyes, but you swallowed it.

“I learned from the best,” you managed, voice rough.

He didn’t smile. But he gave you a look that you would remember when the sky fell—when the war bled through every part of your soul. A look that said: I see who you are. I will always see it.

And then the moment passed.

Yoda called the next words.

The crowd shifted. Masters murmured. A few clones, newly commissioned, stood near the archway in pristine armor. The air already smelled like smoke. War was coming, and peace was being written into the margins of your life.

You were a Jedi Knight now.

And you were already being sent to assist the Galactic Marines on Mygeeto.

⸻

The Venator-class cruiser was silent in the way warships always were before deployment—tense, mechanical, full of breath held in systems and lungs alike.

You stepped onto the hangar deck with your boots echoing, the hem of your new robes catching the gust from a passing LAAT. The smell of oil and ozone hit like a punch. The air was cooler than the Temple. Less forgiving.

The Galactic Marines didn’t look your way when you passed.

They didn’t need to.

Their reputation had preceded them—shock troopers bred for winter warfare and brutal sieges, trained under a commander who was as known for his silence as he was for his kill count.

Commander Bacara.

You spotted him almost immediately near the forward transport: broad frame, maroon-striped armor, helmet on. He didn’t salute. Didn’t approach. Just stood, arms crossed over his DC-15, as if sizing you up from thirty paces.

You let the moment hang before making your way to him, slow and purposeful.

“Commander Bacara,” you greeted, offering a nod. “I’m [Y/N], attached to this campaign per Council orders.”

Silence.

Not a word. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.

You arched a brow.

“Right. Strong, silent type. Got it.”

Still nothing. His visor remained locked on you, unreadable.

“Did the clones get assigned vocal cords or are you just allergic to Jedi in general?”

That got a reaction—a tilt of the helmet, ever so slight. Then, at last, a gravel-thick voice rumbled from the vocoder:

“Only the loud ones.”

Your mouth quirked into something halfway between irritation and amusement. “Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Before he could reply—or walk off, which you sensed he very much wanted to do—a voice cut in behind you.

“[Last Name].”

You turned, spine stiffening.

Ki-Adi-Mundi stood at the foot of the boarding ramp, flanked by two clone officers. His long fingers were clasped behind his back, face pinched in that constant mix of detachment and disdain.

You bowed, briefly.

“Master Mundi.”

“I’ve been reviewing the battle plan for Mygeeto,” he said, skipping any preamble. “We’ll be launching a three-pronged assault on the main Separatist refinery. Bacara will lead the frontal push with his battalion, supported by armor units and orbital fire.”

Your jaw clenched.

“With all due respect, Master, a frontal push against entrenched droid cannons is going to get a lot of men killed.”

Ki-Adi blinked at you, calmly. “That is war. They are soldiers. They understand the risks.”

“They understand orders. Not suicidal tactics.” Your voice rose just slightly, heat creeping in. “If we reroute half the armor for flanking and force the droids to split, we could avoid heavy losses and push them off the ridge before nightfall.”

“I did not ask for a tactical critique,” Mundi said, tone sharpening. “And I trust Commander Bacara’s ability to execute the current plan.”

You glanced at Bacara. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Just stared.

Of course he agreed with Mundi. They were cut from the same ice.

“I didn’t realize Jedi Master meant immune to input.”

Silence fell over the deck. The clones nearby tensed. Bacara’s helmet shifted an inch toward you.

Mundi stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You are newly knighted, [Last Name]. This war will demand obedience, not bravado.”

You took a slow breath.

Then offered the barest, tightest smile. “Then it’s a good thing I never had much of either.”

Mundi turned and strode up the ramp without another word.

You exhaled once he was gone, rolling your shoulders like you could shrug off the frustration. You could feel Bacara still watching.

“What?” you snapped without looking at him.

There was a beat of silence.

“You better be half as good as you think you are.”

You turned. “Or what?”

“I’ll be requesting a reassignment.”

Your laugh came out bitter. “Better men have tried.”

He paused. Then, with a tilt of his head, said lowly: “I’m not a better man. I’m a soldier.”

Then he turned and walked away.

You stood there a moment longer, heat buzzing under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was from anger—or something worse.

⸻

The descent onto Mygeeto was chaos.

Even through the LAAT’s thick hull, you could feel the storm—icy wind slicing across the city’s skeletal towers, artillery screaming through clouds of smoke and crystalline ash. The Separatists had fortified every corner of the industrial sector, their cannon fire lighting up the skyline like a cursed sunrise.

As the dropship pitched, the clones inside with you braced without a word. Focused. Ready. Not afraid—just used to dying.

Your hand gripped the support bar as the doors peeled open mid-hover, revealing a battlefield straight from a nightmare. Turbolaser fire scorched the skyline. Glimmering bridges of ice and shattered durasteel crumbled beneath the weight of battle tanks. Somewhere far below, you saw a battalion caught in a choke point—blaster bolts raining down from enemy artillery nested in a half-collapsed tower.

Your stomach turned.

“Is that Bacara’s forward unit?” you shouted over the roar.

“Yes, sir!” one of the clone gunners confirmed. “Pinned since the last push!”

You turned to the pilot. “Drop me there. Now.”

The pilot hesitated. “But orders—”

“Now.”

The gunship banked sharply, the icy wind slamming into you as you leapt onto the fractured platform below, lightsaber already blazing to life.

It took less than ten minutes.

Droids fell in pieces, turrets melted under redirected blaster bolts, and you pushed your way to the trapped Marines like a blade through frost. You helped them retreat behind makeshift cover, shielding them with the Force and your saber, yelling for them to move. Not all of them made it.

But more than would have.

When the smoke cleared, and the men were medevaced out, you stood amid the wreckage, panting, cut along one shoulder and streaked with soot.

And Bacara was waiting for you.

He stormed toward you from the north ridge, visor locked onto yours, stride like a thunderhead.

You straightened, chin high, refusing to flinch.

“You disobeyed direct chain-of-command,” he growled, voice deep and cold. “That was my operation.”

“Your men were dying,” you snapped. “I made a call.”

“It wasn’t your call to make. I had them.”

“They were pinned with zero cover, Bacara! If you had a plan, it was to bury them in ice!”

His helmet came off in one sharp motion.

You hadn’t seen his face until now.

Shaved head. Sharp scar across the side of his cheekbone. And a scowl that looked carved from stone.

“Don’t pretend you know my men better than I do, Jedi.”

You stepped forward. “And don’t pretend that your silence is strategy. You may be good at war, but you’re not the only one fighting it.”

Before he could reply, another voice cut through the comms.

“Commander Bacara. Young [Last Name]. Report to the north command post immediately.”

It was Mundi.

The command post was a hollowed-out transport, half-frozen and lit by dim tactical screens. Ki-Adi-Mundi stood in the center, flanked by officers.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You endangered the mission with your reckless disobedience.”

“I saved your troopers.”

“You undermined your commander. You undermined me.”

You stared at him, jaw locked.

Mundi finally turned, his tone colder than the planet itself. “You may carry a lightsaber, but you are not exempt from consequence. Effective immediately, you are being reassigned.”

“What?” you breathed. “You can’t be serious.”

“You will report to General Skywalker and the 501st at once. They’ve requested Jedi support. You’re clearly more suited to their methods.”

You laughed once, bitter. “You mean chaos? No rules? You’d get rid of me in an instant?”

“If it will keep you from sabotaging another campaign, then yes.”

You looked to Bacara.

He said nothing. Didn’t even look at you.

It stung more than it should have.

Mundi turned away, already dismissing you. “Dismissed.”

You stood there a moment longer, anger a low drum in your ribs.

Then you turned sharply and left—your boots loud, your breath hot, and the ice of Mygeeto clinging to your back like regret.

⸻

The drop onto Christophis was smoother than Mygeeto.

No bitter wind. No ice underfoot. Just the blue-tinged glass of a besieged city glowing beneath your boots, and the hum of LAAT engines fading into the dusk.

You exhaled slowly.

For once, it didn’t fog the air.

The 501st was already dug in—half-built barricades, mounted cannons, troopers weaving through lines of duracrete rubble and smoldering droid parts. The camp smelled like burned plastoid and caf. And somehow… it didn’t feel like death.

Not yet.

You adjusted your gear and crossed into the center of the forward line, where a knot of officers stood around a portable holo table. A tall familiar figure turned toward you before you could announce yourself.

“General [Last Name], I presume?” the man asked with a bright smirk and a heavy Core accent. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s still warm—if you like ration bricks and bad company.”

General Anakin Skywalker. He grinned at you like an old friend.

You blinked. “I… wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.”

“You’re not coming from the High Council,” Anakin replied, clearly picking up on your edge. “You’re here to fight. That’s more than enough for us.”

A few troopers nearby chuckled. One even offered a small wave before returning to repairs on a nearby speeder. You weren’t used to clones acting so… relaxed.

Anakin slung an arm across the shoulders of the nearest officer, a clone with a blond buzz cut, blue markings on his pauldron, and eyes sharp with experience.

“This is Captain Rex,” Anakin said. “He keeps me alive and makes sure I don’t get court-martialed.”

Rex offered his hand. “It’s good to have another General on the line. The men could use someone steady. Master Skywalker tends to… improvise.”

“I prefer the term creative solutionist.”

You shook Rex’s hand firmly. “I’ve been assigned to assist for the duration of this campaign. Support, field command, and lightsaber damage control, apparently.”

“Don’t let the last bit worry you,” Rex said, voice warm but measured. “Most of us like having a Jedi around. Just don’t get yourself shot trying to do everything alone.”

You hesitated. That’s the only way I’ve ever done it.

But instead, you said, “Copy that, Captain.”

Anakin returned with two ration packs and tossed one at you.

“Come on,” he said. “Briefing starts in ten. Might as well eat something before the next artillery barrage.”

You caught the ration and followed him into the makeshift war room. The 501st felt… alive. Not like a machine, or a tool. Like people. Clones joked with each other between shifts. Someone was fixing a vibro-guitar in a corner. Laughter drifted through the halls of war like smoke.

He studied you for a moment while chewing a bite of compressed stew.

“So,” he said, grinning. “You’re Windu’s kid.”

You blinked. “I’m not his kid.”

“Please,” Anakin scoffed. “You practically are. He used to lecture me about setting a better example because you were watching.”

You smirked despite yourself. “He does that with everyone. It’s how he shows affection. Judgement equals love.”

“I don’t think he’s capable of affection,” Anakin said, half-muttering into his rations. “But you? You’re the exception.”

You leaned back against the wall, tone softening. “He trained me to be better. Sharper. Not just strong with a saber, but… clear. Even when I didn’t want to be.”

Anakin tilted his head. “He proud of you?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Not that he says it, but… yeah. I think so.”

He grinned. “Bet he didn’t love you getting assigned to me.”

You laughed under your breath. “Not exactly. He said, ‘Skywalker needs someone with both instinct and control. Be that someone.’ Then he stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.”

Anakin chuckled. “Yep. That sounds like Mace.”

You took another bite of your ration and glanced around the lively camp—clones talking, techs laughing, life humming even in the lull before battle.

“Feels different here,” you said.

Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Good different?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It feels like… they’re not just soldiers.”

He offered a quiet smile. “They’re not. You’ll see.”

And you would.

But not before the war reached its cold fingers toward you once again.

You ate in silence while Skywalker outlined the next assault—tight push through Separatist-occupied towers, with limited casualties expected. He spoke quickly, clearly, and didn’t interrupt you when you pointed out structural weak points or alternate flanking positions. In fact, he nodded along, visibly impressed.

Anakin raised a brow. “Did you and Mace ever clash?”

You hesitated. “He sees obedience as strength. I’ve always… leaned more toward instinct.”

Skywalker grinned. “Good. You’ll fit in just fine here.”

And for the first time in weeks—since the icy silence of Bacara’s helmet and Mundi’s cold dismissal—you felt the tension in your chest loosen. Just a little.

⸻

The Separatists had fortified the western spires overnight, turning crystalline towers into sniper nests and droid chokepoints. A slow siege was no longer an option. The 501st was going in—fast, loud, and all in.

“Your unit’s with me,” Rex said, voice clipped as he secured his helmet. “Skywalker and Torrent Squad are flanking left. We punch through the center, collapse the staging platform, and pull back before reinforcements converge.”

You adjusted the grip on your lightsaber hilt, watching the blue blade snap to life with a hum. “You lead. I follow.”

Rex gave a short nod, visor glinting in the low light. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. He moved with the weight of trust already earned—his men mirrored his focus, his readiness.

You hadn’t seen command like this on Mygeeto. Not from Ki-Adi-Mundi. And definitely not from Bacara.

The gunships roared over the skyline.

“Drop in ten!” a trooper shouted, clinging to the side rail of the LAAT. You stood beside Rex as the bay doors opened, revealing the shimmering battlefield below—glass and stone, fire and blue lightning crashing from tower to tower.

The LAAT banked hard and you leapt, landing in the center of a collapsing avenue as blaster fire rained down from the towers above. Rex hit the ground a second later, blasters up, already shouting to his men.

“Push forward! Second squad—cover the left lane!”

You spun your saber, deflecting bolts as the first wave of droids charged. The 501st advanced in perfect coordination—like flowing water, shifting and reforming around obstacles as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

You slipped into the rhythm with them, striking hard through advancing B1s, clearing the rooftops with mid-air leaps, redirecting sniper fire with narrow, deliberate swings. The clones covered you, trusted you, fell into sync with you like you’d been fighting beside them for years.

No hesitation. No resistance.

Just trust.

You didn’t know what that felt like until now.

At the front of the charge, Rex cleared the last of the droid forces on the platform with brutal efficiency. You landed beside him, both of you breathing hard but steady, the wind howling through broken towers.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

“Good work,” he said, like it was fact, not flattery.

“You too,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

A pause stretched between you. Not silence, not in the middle of war—but something else. A mutual understanding. The beginning of something… not yet defined.

The comm crackled.

“501st—fall back to Rally Point Aurek. Enemy movement on the east ridge.”

“Copy,” Rex said, turning away. “Let’s move.”

You followed without hesitation, eyes scanning the horizon.

War didn’t allow time for reflection. But as you fell into step with Rex—side by side—you couldn’t help but think:

This felt different.

⸻

The sky over Christophis had finally quieted.

The battle was won—for now. The towers no longer pulsed with enemy fire, the droids had retreated deeper into the city’s core, and the crystals that jutted from the landscape reflected nothing but the dull orange haze of a weary sunrise.

You walked side-by-side with Rex, the only sound between you the soft crunch of shattered glass beneath boots and armor. This was your fourth perimeter sweep since the offensive. He didn’t talk much. You didn’t either.

Still, it wasn’t silence. It was… companionable.

“I thought Jedi preferred peace,” Rex said after a while, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“I do,” you replied, stepping over a cracked durasteel beam. “But I’m good at war.”

Rex turned slightly to look at you. “You don’t sound proud of that.”

You shrugged. “I’m not.”

Another beat passed. You slowed your pace, scanning an alley where the shadows felt too thick. Just scavengers. Nothing moved.

“You were better in battle than I expected,” Rex added. “The way you covered the west flank—that was clean. Calculated.”

You snorted. “I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to be calculating.”

He paused at the edge of a shattered courtyard. “You’re not like the others I’ve seen.”

You tilted your head. “That a compliment?”

Rex didn’t answer right away. He just looked out over the city, where blue light still shimmered in the air like a war that refused to die completely.

“I don’t think you care whether it is or not,” he said eventually.

That earned a quiet laugh from you. “Now that sounds like a compliment.”

The moment stretched a little longer this time. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just a thread of something starting to pull taut between you, quiet and unspoken.

Then the comms chirped.

:: This is General Kenobi. 212th battalion has entered the theater. Coordinates sent. ::

Rex exhaled through his nose. “Great. The cavalry.”

You smirked. “Not a fan of the beard?”

“He’s fine. His men are loud.”

From the high ridge, you could already see them—yellow-marked troops of the 212th fanning out like wildfire, Obi-Wan walking ahead with the patient authority of someone used to saving the galaxy before breakfast.

“General Kenobi,” you called as you approached. “You’re late.”

Kenobi raised a brow. “Fashionably. You’re holding up well, Padawan.”

“Knight, actually,” you said, quirking a brow. “But thanks for the demotion.”

Rex nodded politely as Cody jogged up beside him. The two commanders exchanged a quick, wordless handshake—the kind only shared between soldiers who’d bled on similar soil.

“Looks like things just got louder,” you murmured.

Rex glanced sideways at you. “You sure that’s a bad thing?”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

Next Chapter

mon mothma getting wasted and dancing to space pop music because one of her oldest friends is about to get assassinated and she feels guilty while her cousin sits and mopes because she just saw her situationship for the first time in ages and it was only because she's here to carry out said assassination. andor is AWESOME.

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

I lied put your clothes back on. I don't know how to fuck and I'm scared

“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.”

⸻