Latest Posts by areyoufuckingcrazy - Page 11

Sargent Hunter x Mandalorian Reader pt.1

---

The sound of blaster fire echoed through the narrow alleyways of the war-torn city. The Republic had been fighting for years, but the true cost of war weighed heavily on everyone—soldiers and civilians alike. Sergeant Hunter and his squad were on a mission: to extract a high-ranking separatist official, someone who held vital intelligence. But things had gone awry, as they often did.

"Alright, boys, spread out," Hunter said, his voice calm but commanding. "We're on a tight timeline."

The Bad Batch—Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair—moved with precision, their enhanced skills making them unmatched on the battlefield. As they advanced through the streets, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. A figure clad in Mandalorian armor stood silently against a crumbling wall, watching them.

Hunter's instincts kicked in immediately. He had seen many soldiers and mercenaries, but there was something about this one—a presence, a coldness that didn't quite fit the norm of the typical bounty hunter. She wasn't in full view, but even from a distance, he could tell she was skilled. Her helmet was shaped with the distinct Mandalorian T-visor, and her armor bore the unmistakable dents and scratches of someone who had seen too many battles.

He motioned to Echo, signaling him to take point. "Cover me."

The rest of the squad adjusted their positions, but Hunter moved toward the alley, cautious but intrigued. The Mandalorian's eyes never left him. She didn't reach for a weapon, but she was clearly ready for one if needed. He approached slowly, his blaster at his side.

"Are you lost, soldier?" her voice was low and guarded, but there was an undeniable strength to it.

"Just looking for someone," Hunter replied, studying her carefully. "You?"

"Same," she said with a slight tilt of her head. There was an unreadable expression beneath her helmet, but Hunter could hear the slight hint of amusement in her voice. "But I don't think you're the one I'm after."

Hunter furrowed his brow. "Then you're not a threat?"

She chuckled, and it was a sound that made his instincts flare. "Not to you, no. I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else."

He took a cautious step closer. "I don't know many who would wear Mandalorian armor and not fight for a cause."

The Mandalorian paused, her posture shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. "My cause is my own, Sergeant," she said. "I'm no different from you, except I work alone."

Hunter tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem like someone who works alone."

The Mandalorian's hand subtly rested on the hilt of her blaster, but she didn't draw it. "What do you know about me, Sergeant Hunter?"

Hunter's gaze narrowed slightly. She knew his name. It was strange—he hadn't told her, and yet her tone had a knowing edge. It piqued his curiosity even further.

"I know you're a mercenary of some kind," Hunter said, testing the waters.

"Close enough," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I'm no mere merc. I'm a bounty hunter. And I have my own code to follow."

Hunter nodded slowly. He'd encountered bounty hunters before, but there was something about her—her confidence, her skills—that set her apart from the usual hired guns.

The two stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of war barely breaking the stillness between them.

Hunter wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to this woman, this Mandalorian. Maybe it was the way her presence seemed to hold steady in the chaos. Maybe it was the way she didn't back down, didn't flinch under the weight of the situation. But something in him—the soldier, the leader, the man—couldn't help but want to know more.

"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, his tone more personal than he intended.

Her voice softened slightly as she answered, "Same reason as you, Sergeant. I'm looking for someone... or something. And maybe, just maybe, we're both after the same thing."

Hunter's interest peaked. "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say," she began, "I've been hunting a certain individual who's not exactly on the Republic's side. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down."

Hunter's gaze hardened as he considered her words. "I get that. But the Republic's not going to take kindly to a bounty hunter crossing their path. Especially a Mandalorian."

The Mandalorian gave him a wry smile. "I've never been one to follow the rules."

Hunter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I've noticed."

They stood there, exchanging glances, understanding the complexity of the situation. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—two warriors, both driven by duty, yet standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.

"So," Hunter said, "what happens now?"

The Mandalorian's gaze flickered toward the distant sounds of blaster fire and explosions. "Now? We finish the mission. But don't get too attached, Sergeant. My code is my own."

"I don't plan on getting attached," Hunter said, though he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, an unspoken connection between two soldiers caught in a war that neither fully understood.

They exchanged one last look before turning back to their separate paths. The mission was still at hand, and neither of them had time to deal with distractions—at least, not yet. But as Hunter moved back to join his squad, he couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter, wondering just how much she was hiding beneath that cold exterior.

And maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again. The war had a way of bringing people together, even when they didn't want to be.

Captain Rex x Jedi Reader

Summary: After a blast on Umbara, Rex saves you and you are forced to remain in a bacta tank the rest of the campaign. You try to reach out to Rex through the force and he hears your warnings about Krell’s betrayal. When the truth comes out, Rex is consumed with guilt.

The skies over Umbara were poison.

Choked in mist and war.

And somewhere beneath it all, you bled into the dirt.

The blast had taken you hard—chest scorched, body broken. Rex had been the first to reach you, his voice cutting through the chaos, calling your name like it meant something more than rank or Jedi title. He held you as the medics arrived, armor slick with mud and grief.

He didn’t let anyone else carry you.

Not even Fives.

Not even when General Krell barked at him to return to the line.

Once the 501st finally breached the airbase, Rex made sure you were stabilized in the nearest field medcenter. They submerged you into a bacta tank, pale and silent, your saber charred and clipped to Rex’s belt instead of your own.

He stood watch over you every night when he could—alone, visor off, hands balled into fists. Fives had noticed. Hardcase had joked about it once.

He never joked about it again.

_ _ _ _

The First Warning

It came while Rex was reviewing troop formations alone.

A sudden pressure behind his eyes, like a gust of wind had blown through his skull.

“Rex…”

Your voice, faint—like a ripple across still water.

He froze, datapad slipping from his hands.

“General?”

No answer. Just the distant hum of machinery and the low buzz of the bacta tank nearby. He turned toward it. You floated within, unconscious, brow furrowed like you were fighting something that didn’t live in the waking world.

Then—again.

“He is not what he seems…”

Rex’s heart skipped. “General? What—what does that mean?”

But the connection faded, leaving only silence and misty breath against the tank’s glass.

The Second Warning

Rex didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.

Krell was pushing them too hard. The losses were piling. Something was off.

And then it happened again.

He was armoring up when he felt it—a cold sliver down his spine.

“They are not your enemy…”

“He is.”

Rex’s blood ran cold.

“Who?” he whispered into the dark. “Krell? You mean Krell?”

But again, the connection blinked out like a dying star.

He ran his gloved hands through his hair, helmet dangling from his side.

It made no sense.

Krell was a Jedi. Brutal, sure—but wasn’t war brutal by nature? Could he really be turning against them?

_ _ _ _

The Betrayal

And then they were deployed. Told the enemy had stolen clone armor. Told to open fire.

The forest exploded with blasterfire and screams.

And then—

"Cease fire!" Rex’s voice tore through the chaos. “Cease fire!”

It was too late. Bodies littered the jungle floor.

Clones.

Not Umbarans.

His own brothers.

He fell to his knees, helmet slipping from his fingers, the sound of battle replaced by the echo of your voice—

“They are not your enemy. He is.”

He finally understood.

Krell.

He had known. You’d tried to tell him. From inside that tank. From wherever your mind had drifted in the Force, tangled in pain and bacta and fear for the men you both loved.

He felt sick.

Krell needed to pay for this.

_ _ _ _

After Krell’s capture—after the rage, the betrayal, the ghostly silence of the men—

Rex stood outside the medcenter again. Watching you.

You were healing, slowly. Still submerged. Still fighting to wake.

He placed a gloved hand against the glass.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. I should’ve—”

He swallowed hard, guilt a coiled wire around his throat.

“I’m not losing you too.”

And somewhere inside the Force, you stirred.

_ _ _ _

The Force shifted.

Like a breath held too long, finally exhaled.

A weight lifted.

A darkness lifted.

You surged back into consciousness before your eyes even opened—gasping silently in the thick blue haze of bacta, heart racing, the phantom echo of betrayal still ringing through your veins.

He was dead.

Executed.

Dogma.

You felt it.

The weight of his blaster in his hands. The fury. The confusion. The pain.

It is done, the Force whispered.

The war on Umbara was over.

But the ghosts would linger.

You woke gasping, dragging in breath like it hurt. The medical droid flinched back with a startled beep. Your lungs ached. Every inch of you was stiff and raw from mending bones and torn flesh. But you were awake.

And more importantly—alive.

“Captain!” someone called outside. “She’s waking up!”

You barely had time to get out of the tank before boots pounded toward you. Rex stormed in, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes wide and wild and disbelieving. You gave him a weak smile.

“Took you long enough,” you rasped.

He stopped cold. A dozen emotions flickered across his face. Disbelief. Relief. Guilt.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly.

You leaned back against the pillows, wincing. “You didn’t.”

He stepped closer, slowly, like he couldn’t quite trust the sight of you.

“But I lost them,” he said, voice low. “And I didn’t stop it.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I tried to warn you,” you whispered, reaching out. He took your hand instantly, holding it like a lifeline.

“I know,” he said. “I heard you. In my head. I thought I was losing it.”

You gave his hand a soft squeeze. “You weren’t. I was with you. As much as I could be.”

Rex’s shoulders dropped. The weight of war carved deep into his bones. For a moment, he looked every bit the tired, worn man behind the armor. And you loved him more for it.

_ _ _ _

The medcenter was quiet. Clones moved like shadows—silent, grieving, stunned. You sat upright now, draped in a simple robe, IV lines gone. Still sore. Still healing. But awake.

Rex lingered by your bedside long after the others had gone. He hadn’t spoken in minutes.

Finally, he said:

“They were mine.”

You looked up.

“My brothers. And I shot at them. I followed orders. I didn't question it. Not until it was too late.”

He was shaking. Just slightly. But it was there.

You moved closer, taking his hands again.

“You trusted Krell because he wore the robes. Because that’s what they trained you to do,” you said gently. “You weren’t wrong for trusting him, Rex. He was wrong for abusing it.”

His jaw clenched.

“I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” You reached up, brushing a hand against his cheek, the first real touch you’d shared in weeks. “You did what you could with what you had. And when it mattered—you stopped him. You saved who you could. And you survived.”

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

“I don't feel like I did.”

You leaned in, brushing a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead. The kind only you were allowed to give him. The kind no one else could ever see.

“You did,” you murmured. “And you’re not alone.”

Rex didn’t say anything, but his fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in your warmth.

The battle was over. But the war, within and without, would go on.

Material Lists 🩵

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

Star Wars

The Clone Wars

501st Material List🩵💙

212th Material List🧡

104th Material List🐺

Clone Force 99/The Bad Batch Material List❤️🖤

Delta Squad Material List 🧡💛💚❤️

Corrie Guard Material List ❤️

Other Clones/Characters

OC Works

“Crimson Huntress”

I accept request🩵🤍

Disclaimer!!!!!

I personally prefer not to write smut, however if requested I am happy to do so. depending on what you have requested.

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader pt.2

Some battles hit close to home—others hit the home itself.

Kamino—the birthplace of the Grand Army—was once considered untouchable. But the Separatists didn't care about sentiment or sacred ground. They wanted to strike at the heart, where the Republic bled.

A scrambled transmission had come through less than forty-eight hours ago: Kamino was next.

The birthplace of the clones. The very artery of the Republic war machine. If Kamino fell, so did everything they fought for.

Every hand was called back to defend it—including Echo and Fives.

"Feels weird being back," Echo said, eyes flicking up toward the grey Kaminoan ceiling.

"Yeah," Fives replied. "It's like coming back to visit an ex who once shot you in the face for blinking too loud."

"...You sure we're talking about Kamino and not her?"

Fives smirked, but didn't answer.

Fives was the first to notice her.

He'd just made some smartass comment to Echo about how all the regs still walked like they had sticks up their shebs when something made him stop mid-step.

A voice. That voice.

Playful. Sharp-edged. Familiar.

He turned—and there she was.

Sitting on a bunk with a cadet. Helmet off, body relaxed, back propped against the wall like she owned the place. Her fingers flicked lazily at a datapad while the cadet beside her looked one cough away from combusting.

Her laugh rang out, low and smug. "You zap a training droid like that again and the I'm gonna use your head for target practice."

The cadet groaned. "You said it was fine!"

"I said try it, not fry it. There's a difference, sunshine."

Echo stopped beside Fives, following his line of sight. His expression flattened.

"She hasn't changed."

"She got hotter," Fives said, then winced as Echo elbowed him. "Kidding. Kidding."

They watched a moment longer. She hadn't noticed them yet, too busy teasing the poor kid who looked like he might pass out from either embarrassment or adoration.

Fives smirked. "Place just got a hell of a lot more interesting."

Fives and Echo didn't move. Just watched. Like spectators waiting for a grenade to go off.

Another cadet on the adjacent bunk stood up, then jumped onto the mattress, trying to show off—springing up and down with dramatic, exaggerated bounces. The bedframe groaned beneath his boots, plastoid rattling.

"Cadet!" she snapped, not even looking up from her datapad. "Quit jumping on the bed!"

The cadet didn't listen.

Of course he didn't.

He landed with a loud creak, then flung his arms out theatrically. "C'mon, you're not as scary as everyone says you are."

Fives winced.

Echo muttered under his breath. "Dead man walking."

Still leaning back against the wall, she finally lifted her eyes to the bouncing cadet. Calm. Lazy. Almost bored.

"You sure about that?" she asked.

The kid gave a half-laugh. "What're you gonna do? Glare me into submission?"

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her belt, pulled her blaster, flicked it to stun—and fired. One clean shot.

The cadet seized midair like he hit an invisible wall. Then he collapsed, limp and unconscious, mid-jump.

Chaos erupted. The other cadets scrambled to catch him before he crashed to the floor. They caught him by the chestplate, barely avoiding a loud thud. His head lolled, tongue out, stunned to the void and back.

She holstered her blaster like it was just another Tuesday.

"That'll teach you to bounce around when I'm trying to teach someone how not to get shot."

From across the room, Fives cupped both hands around his mouth. "You stunning cadets again?" he shouted. "That's bringing back some real traumatic memories, sweetheart!"

Her head whipped around.

The casual posture straightened. That lazy look sharpened into something a little more dangerous, a little more feral.

Then she smirked. "Fives."

"Missed me?"

She jumped down and stepped over the still-unconscious cadet like he was nothing more than an inconvenient floor lamp. The others made space quick—none of them made eye contact.

Fives and Echo were already waiting for her near the bunks. Fives leaned against the wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. Smirking like he hadn't aged a day. Like seeing her again didn't just punch the air out of his lungs.

She stopped in front of them, one brow arched.

"Didn't expect to see you two," she said, voice smooth but edged. "Last I heard, you were off doing very classified things in very important places."

Fives gave a mock shrug. "Separatists don't care much for my schedule. Thought I'd swing by, relive some trauma, and see if you were still casually beating up cadets for fun in your free time."

She smiled—too sharp to be sweet.

"They bounce on my bed, they get stunned. Rules haven't changed."

Fives tilted his head, grin widening. "I missed your charming hospitality."

She stepped a little closer, just inside his space. "You missed a lot of things."

"Oh?" His eyes flicked over her, slow, searching. "Anything worth catching up on?"

She looked him up and down, then tapped his chestplate lightly with two fingers. "You still talk too much."

He caught her hand before she could drop it. Held it there for half a second longer than necessary.

"And you still shoot first."

She leaned in, just a little. "That's why I'm still alive."

Echo cleared his throat behind them—pointedly.

They both turned.

"What?" she said.

Echo just gave a dry look. "Should I leave you two to flirt or are we going to address the fact that the outer perimeter is about to be hit in less than 24 hours?"

She blinked, then sighed. "Right. That."

Fives leaned a little closer to her ear, voice lower now. "Raincheck on the verbal sparring?"

She smirked. "You'd better survive the next 24 hours, then."

He winked. "For you? I'll try."

__ __ __ __

The war room was tense. Holograms flickered with incoming scans of Separatist movement, ships breaching the upper atmosphere, debris fields thickening around Kamino like a noose. The reader stood beside General Skywalker, arms folded, gaze narrowed.

"You'll be assisting General Skywalker during the space assault," Master Shaak Ti said, her calm voice cutting through the static hum of the tactical map. "The Separatists are attempting a full-scale assault."

"Finally," the reader muttered, strapping her gloves tighter.

Skywalker cracked a grin. "You just want an excuse to blow something up."

She smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Skywalker glanced at the reader, a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. "You good with a starfighter, or am I going to have to babysit?"

She smirked. "I'll race you up there"

They launched fast—fighter squadrons tearing up through the storm clouds. Kamino's airspace was a firestorm of blaster bolts and explosions, enemy ships descending in coordinated waves. She and Skywalker split off, weaving through Vultures and skimming the wreckage fields that circled the planet.

"That's a lot of debris..." she muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not bad," she murmured, spinning her fighter between the smoking hulls of fallen debris. "We might actually win this one."

"You sound disappointed," Anakin said over comms, grinning through the channel.

Kenobi's voice cut through the comms, sharp and strained: "They're using the debris."

The channel went silent for a second.

"What?" She asked.

"They're using the debris fields to disguise troop transports," Kenobi repeated, irritation rising.

"He's just being dramatic," she muttered.

"Probably jealous we've been mopping them up faster than he has." Anakin added.

But then another "chunk" of floating debris broke open right in front of her, revealing a fully operational droid deployment pod. Her sensors screamed. The pod fired its boosters and shot down toward the city.

"Okay, that's new."

"Kenobi's right," Anakin growled. "They're already inside the city."

The reader gritted her teeth, flipped her ship into a steep dive, and kicked the throttle.

"Tipoca's about to get very crowded."

__ _ _ __

The city shook as another pod hit the platform. Rain pelted the metal walkways as she leapt out of her fighter and sprinted through the Kaminoan halls, Anakin just ahead. Sirens wailed. Clones and droids clashed at every turn. She ducked under blasterfire, slid around a corner—only to skid to a halt.

General Grievous stood just down the corridor, his cloak billowing, metal feet clanking on the floor. He turned his head toward her with that bone-white grin and a low, guttural laugh.

"Well, well..." he rasped, stepping into the light. "Who do we have here?"

Her blaster was up before he finished the sentence. The first few shots sparked off his plating, and then his sabers ignited—four in a blur of green and blue light. He charged.

She dove sideways, rolling under his sweeping strikes. One saber missed her by inches, slashing the wall and sending sparks flying. She came up low and kicked at his leg, only to get thrown back into a wall by one of his secondary arms.

Pain cracked through her ribs. She coughed and spat blood—but she was grinning.

She waited for the swing—and then moved. A twist, a duck, a slam of her vambrace against his wrist. Sparks flew, and one of his sabers dropped. She kicked it away before flipping up, landing a punch straight into his chest plate.

Another saber fell. His remaining blades whirled around her, but she was too fast, too close. Grievous lunged, but she met him head-on. Her forearm armor hissed—and from the sides of her gauntlets, twin knives slid out with a sharp metallic snap.

Her next punch drove the blade into one of his arms. His screech was guttural, inhuman. She ducked under a swing, came up behind him, and drove both blades into his back, carving a sharp X before twisting away again.

"Do you bleed, General," she breathed.

"You will," he spat.

—and then a blaster bolt cracked through the air, slamming into the floor between them.

Kenobi launched himself into the corridor, saber blazing.

"Get out of here!" he shouted.

She hesitated, still breathing hard, soaked in rain and blood and satisfaction.

Grievous roared and charged Kenobi. Their blades collided in a thunderous crash of energy. She turned and ran—dodging blasterfire, sliding through smoke-filled hallways.

She rounded another corner and practically crashed into Echo and Fives, weapons drawn, flanked by Cody and Rex.

"Hey!" Fives barked. "You alive?"

"Barely," she panted, smirking. "You miss me?"

"Always," Fives grinned, even as he loaded another power pack. "You bringing all the drama or just some of it?"

She rolled her shoulder, blood dripping from a cut at her temple.

"Grievous is back there. Kenobi's dancing with him."

Rex cursed under his breath. Cody looked grim.

_ _ _ _

Blaster bolts flew past in every direction, lighting the darkened barracks in flashes of red and blue. Cadets, barely out of training, were taking cover behind flipped bunks, returning fire with borrowed rifles. They were tired, scorched, but holding.

Fives and Echo moved through the smoke-filled corridor, flanking Captain Rex and Commander Cody. The reader was with them, blaster still hot from earlier skirmishes, armor scorched and dented. She was limping slightly, but there was a grin on her face.

"Clear that hall!" Rex ordered.

Blaster bolts seared the air as B1s and B2s advanced through the shattered entry.

One cadet ducked to reload, glanced over at the reader.

"General Grievous. You just fought him, didn't you?"

She exhaled, still crouched. "Yeah."

"You didn't even have a saber."

"Didn't need one."

"You survived?"

She cocked her head mid-firefight, casually. "There's a reason they had me training commandos."

A B2 burst into the doorway—she spun and hit it point blank with a bolt that sent it sparking back through the frame.

Echo ducked behind cover beside her. "How'd it go?"

"Hand-to-hand," she said between shots.

Fives peeked out from behind a flipped bunk. "You punched Grievous?"

"With knives."

"Where the hell did the knives come from?" Echo asked.

"Forearm compartment," she said casually. "He didn't seem to like it."

"You're insane," Fives muttered, watching her with a crooked smile. "Kind of hot, not gonna lie."

"Don't flirt in front of the cadets," she replied dryly, but her tone was lighter now.

"Probably didn't even break a sweat."Fives said, shooting her a lopsided grin.

She flashed a crooked smile back at him. "Wouldn't want to make the general feel bad."

"He still breathing?" one of the cadets asked, checking his ammo.

"For now," she said. "Kenobi stepped in before I could finish it."

"Of course he did," Cody muttered.

Another wave of droids pushed through—cadets and troopers moved as one.

"Let 'em come!" Fives shouted. "This is what we trained for!"

"You're training them now?" she teased, ducking beside him to fire.

"Only the ones that survive."

"Then you better hope I don't shoot you first."

Echo groaned behind them. "Are we seriously doing this now?"

They all ducked as an explosion shook the barracks, smoke flooding through the corridor. Screams, fire, more blaster fire. Cadets held tight, not a single one backing down.

Through the chaos, 99 appeared, hauling ammo crates toward the front lines, barely flinching as a bolt slammed into the wall beside him.

"Here!" 99 called, setting another crate down with a grunt. "Take these—don't let up!"

The reader ducked behind the cover of a half-melted support beam, reloading as she shouted, "You've done enough, 99! Get to safety!"

But he didn't stop. He never did.

Fives broke cover to grab more ammo, dragging the crate back toward the cadets. "We're low! Keep moving!"

"99!" Echo called, "Fall back!"

A B2 unit turned the corner—heavy cannon glowing.

It fired.

The shot slammed into the wall behind 99. He staggered, then dropped to one knee. Another blast hit nearby, sending shrapnel into his chest.

"No!" Fives shouted, blasting the B2 down. Echo and the reader rushed to 99's side.

She dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder gently. His breathing was shallow.

"You're gonna be alright, 99," Echo said, voice tight.

Fives crouched beside them, eyes locked on the old clone's face. "You did good. You did real good, soldier."

99 gave a weak smile. "I... I was trying to help..."

"You did help," the reader said softly. "You saved lives today."

"W-was... I a good soldier?" 99 rasped, blinking slowly.

"The best," Fives whispered. "You were one of us."

His hand fell limp. The light in his eyes faded.

The hallway quieted. Even the cadets paused—every one of them frozen in respect.

No one spoke. The only sound was the fading echo of distant blaster fire.

Rex approached slowly, helmet in hand, eyes lowered. "He didn't have to go out like this."

"But he chose to," Cody said. "He chose to stand."

The reader stood, jaw tight, fists clenched. "Let's make sure his death means something."

Fives looked up at her. "We will."

Then the comm crackled. Anakin's voice filtered through. "Commanders—we need reinforcements near the south platform. We're being overrun."

Cody clicked on his receiver. "Copy that. Moving now."

The group turned to move out. But for one moment longer, they looked back at 99—at the clone who had no number, no war name, but all the heart in the world.

Then they left the hall, blasters drawn, ready to fight in his honor.

_ _ _ _

The ceremony was simple, but it held so much weight. The clones stood in formation, their pristine armor gleaming under the lights of the command center. The air was charged with pride and anticipation as the two cadets who had proven themselves time and time again were about to be promoted to ARC Troopers.

Fives and Echo stood at attention, looking sharp as ever, despite the weight of their past battles. The reader stood off to the side, arms crossed and her eyes scanning the room, though she was focused mostly on Fives. Her lips twitched into a smile as she watched him stand there—so confident now, but she knew the struggle it had taken for him to get here.

Rex stood before them, his voice strong as he spoke to the gathered men.

"Today, we promote two of the finest soldiers I've ever had the honor to serve with. Echo and Fives, you've proven yourselves time and time again. You've earned this. And from now on, you will lead with us, shoulder to shoulder."

He paused, nodding at each of them. "Congratulations, gentlemen. You are both now ARC Troopers"

Fives and Echo exchanged glances, a look of both disbelief and excitement crossing their faces. Then, they stood tall as Rex handed them the ARC Trooper insignias.

The two men saluted, their chests swelling with pride. The rest of the clones clapped, the sound echoing in the hall.

The reader stepped forward, a smirk curling on her lips. She reached out to give Fives a solid clap on the shoulder, her voice low enough only for him to hear.

"Nice work, Fives. You didn't screw it up after all," she teased.

He shot her a grin, leaning in closer. "I told you I'd make it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but I didn't expect you to make it with your head still attached to your shoulders," she shot back, her smile playful. "Guess that's worth a reward."

The rest of the clones dispersed, leaving Fives and the reader standing near the edge of the room. Echo had already disappeared into the crowd, no doubt celebrating with the others. But Fives stayed close to the reader, a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Fives replied

"You're getting dangerously confident now, huh?"

"Maybe," Fives said with a grin.

The reader leaned in, and with a playful gleam in her eyes, she brushed a hand against his cheek, before kissing him quickly on the lips. It was brief, but the lingering heat between them made it clear they both felt the weight of that moment.

Pulling away just slightly, the reader met his eyes, her voice soft and teasing. "Don't let it go to your head. I might just have to knock you down a peg again."

Fives's grin widened, though there was a spark of something serious in his expression now. "I'll be careful. I'll be back before you know it."

"Better be," she replied, her tone playful, but her eyes holding a trace of something more sincere.

Fives nodded, stepping back with his usual swagger. "I'll hold you to that."

He turned to leave, but before he did, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her one last look. The reader watched him disappear into the crowd, a part of her wishing she could hold onto that moment a little longer, but knowing that it was only the beginning of something bigger.

_ _ _ _

Part 1

Commander Doom x Jedi Reader

Summary: Reader and Commander Doom form a quiet bond during the Clone Wars. After a successful mission, they share a brief but meaningful connection amidst the chaos of war.

Smoke curled through the broken remains of the building as you crouched beside Commander Doom. The twin Jedi Masters and the rest of the squad were a few blocks ahead, sweeping the south sector. You and Doom had been tasked with clearing out this sector—a quieter street, bombed out and ghostly silent.

"You always this calm before a fight?" you asked, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Doom didn't turn to look at you. His blaster stayed aimed at the alley ahead, but his voice carried that easy drawl of someone unshaken by chaos.

"Calm's better than nervous. Panic gets you shot. Calm gets you home."

Then, with a crooked smirk you *couldn't* see under his helmet, "Besides, I've got a Jedi watching my back. I'd be stupid *not* to feel calm."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting your grip on your lightsaber. "And here I thought clones were trained not to trust emotion."

"We are," Doom said, slowly rising to his feet, his tone light but his stance shifting into readiness. "Doesn't mean we don't *feel* it. And trust me—if I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have let you take point."

You blinked. "You let me take point?"

He gave a low chuckle, finally glancing at you. "Don't tell General Tiplar I said that."

The air changed. That subtle, pressing *something* that always whispered right before an ambush.

You both felt it.

No words were needed—Doom raised his fist, signaling a halt. You stepped back to back, instinct and training melding into one fluid motion.

Then came the blaster fire.

Four droids dropped from the rooftop above. Doom was already firing, smooth and precise. You ignited your saber, spinning low and cutting through two before they hit the ground.

The brief firefight was over in seconds. Doom kicked aside a still-sparking arm and looked over at you. "Nice form."

You shrugged. "You're not so bad yourself."

He stepped a little closer, his voice low now, more intimate beneath the helmet modulator. "Not often I get a mission like this. Usually, it's orders, droids, chaos. But right now, it's just you and me. Kind of... peaceful. You know?"

You met his gaze—well, the visor of his helmet—and tilted your head. "You finding peace in the middle of a battlefield, Commander?"

"Maybe," Doom said. "Maybe I just like the company."

Your chest fluttered before you could stop it.

The comm crackled: Tiplar calling for a regroup. The moment passed.

Doom rolled his shoulders, relaxed as ever. "Duty calls, General."

You nodded, but as you turned, he added, quietly, "Let's not wait for another mission to get a moment like that."

And Force help you, you kind of hoped the same.

---

The group reconvened outside a crumbling warehouse, the air thick with heat and the sharp scent of blaster residue. Doom gave you a short nod as you joined up with the others, slipping seamlessly back into his role as calm, capable commander. You did the same—lightsaber clipped to your belt, posture controlled, gaze forward.

But the warmth of that moment lingered like a fingerprint on your skin.

Tiplar stood ahead, arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching the regroup. Tiplee was further off, coordinating with a pair of troopers over comms. The twin Masters had always been in sync, but Tiplar—calculated and observant—noticed *everything*.

She stepped closer as you approached, her gaze flicking between you and Doom.

"You two took longer than expected," she said coolly, eyes narrowing just a little.

"Cleared the sector, no resistance after the ambush," Doom replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "Had to be thorough."

"Hm," Tiplar hummed, then turned to you, tilting her head.

"Strange. For someone so thorough, you were walking awfully close."

Your breath caught for a second—not enough for anyone but a Jedi Master to notice.

"I go where the danger is," you replied, lifting your chin slightly. "That's my job."

Tiplar didn't smile. "Danger comes in many forms."

There was a pause. Doom glanced your way, unreadable behind the visor. You could almost *feel* the amused tension in him. Like he knew exactly what Tiplar was implying—and liked it.

But Tiplar wasn't done.

"You may think you're being subtle," she said, quiet now, only for your ears. "But attachment has a way of showing itself in battle. Don't mistake chemistry for connection."

You wanted to defend yourself. To say it was nothing. But you didn't. Because a small, traitorous part of you *wanted* there to be something there. Something real. Something worth hiding.

She stepped back, expression unreadable.

"Let's move. War waits for no one."

As the squad moved out, Doom fell in beside you again, keeping a careful distance this time.

"She said something, didn't she?" he murmured under his breath, voice pitched low.

You exhaled through your nose. "Just Jedi things."

A beat. Then his voice, dry and quietly amused:

"So... should I stop walking so close, or is that part of the Jedi code you're willing to bend?"

You didn't look at him. But your lips curved into a small, dangerous smile.

"Careful, Commander. You keep talking like that, I *will* start walking closer."

He chuckled. "Noted, General."

And with that, you disappeared into the haze of war once more—together, but not quite allowed to be.

---

The mission was a success. Mostly.

The city had been secured, the Separatist hold broken. Casualties were minimal—by war standards. Commander Doom's squadron had fought with unshakable precision, and you... you had done your duty.

Still, something in the air had shifted. Not in the battlefield, but between you and the Jedi Generals.

They called you to a private meeting the evening before departure, just after sundown. The makeshift command center was quiet, walls humming softly with power, light from the twin moons spilling through the cracks in the tarp-covered window.

Tiplar stood with her arms folded, stern, unreadable. Tiplee offered a small nod in greeting, but her expression was tinged with something softer. Regret, maybe.

"You know why you're here," Tiplar began without preamble.

You said nothing. There was no point pretending. You straightened, hands behind your back like a soldier awaiting reprimand.

"Your connection with Commander Doom," Tiplar said, "has not gone unnoticed. Nor has it gone unspoken."

Your throat tightened, but still, you remained silent.

"We are not unfeeling," Tiplee said gently, stepping closer. "We know the bond between comrades in war. But what we saw—what we *felt*—was something more."

"She's right," Tiplar cut in. "We saw it. And so did your squad. It's not just a bond forged in battle. It's attachment. Emotional compromise. And it's a direct violation of the Jedi Code."

You swallowed hard. "Nothing happened."

"It doesn't need to," Tiplar said. "You should know better. The potential alone is enough. You cannot serve two masters—your duty and your heart."

Tiplee stepped in again, her voice softer. "We believe in your strength. In your discipline. This doesn't make you weak, but it does make your path... complicated."

Silence fell between the three of you. Heavy. Inevitable.

Tiplar spoke last.

"This will be the last and only time you reinforce Doom Squadron under our command. You'll return to your assigned sector tomorrow. No formal reprimand will be filed. But this ends here."

You nodded once, jaw tight. "Understood, Master."

As you turned to leave, Tiplee reached out, gently touching your arm.

"You care for him," she said, not as an accusation, but as truth. "And he cares for you. I hope, in another life—one without war, without codes—you both find peace."

You didn't trust your voice, so you nodded.

---

You found Doom later, standing watch at the edge of the encampment. Moonlight painted his armor silver, his helmet tucked under one arm.

"They talked to you," he said. Not a question.

You looked at him, memorizing every line of his face in the dim light. "Yeah."

He nodded, jaw ticking. "I figured. The way Tiplar looked at me during debrief? I've seen droids with more warmth."

You gave a breath of laughter. But it didn't reach your eyes.

"This is the last time," you said. "I won't be reassigned to your missions again."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Orders?"

You nodded. "The Code."

Doom sighed, running a gloved hand over his buzzed hair. "Can't say I'm surprised. Can't say I like it either."

You stepped closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of him.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "Back when it was just us. I liked the company."

Your voice was barely a whisper. "So did I."

For a moment, the war vanished. The Code. The ranks. The weight.

It was just two souls caught in the space between duty and desire.

And then you stepped back.

No kiss. No promise. Just understanding.

"Goodbye, Commander."

He gave you a crooked, sad smile—the same one he wore before a mission that might go south.

"Until the next war, General."

You didn't look back.

Because if you did, you might not leave.

And the Jedi weren't allowed to stay where their heart was.

---

*Post - Order 66*

The Outer Rim had gone silent.

Not just from war, but from *everything*.

The Jedi were gone. Hunted. Betrayed. Burned out of history by the very men who once followed them into battle.

But not all of them.

And not *him*.

Commander Doom stood alone in the shade of a half-collapsed homestead, a blaster slung low at his hip, no armor, just worn fatigues and a heavy coat that flapped in the wind. The land was dry and dead, forgotten by the Empire. Which made it perfect for hiding someone who used to be a Jedi.

He'd been waiting for hours, unsure if the coordinates he'd been given were real, or a ghost. Maybe that was all that was left of you now—an echo.

But then, across the cracked dirt, you appeared.

Your robes were shredded, your face gaunt and bruised, a long scar cutting across your cheek and jaw. You limped. You looked... wrecked. Like survival had cost you more than life itself.

But your eyes were still yours.

Doom stared for a long time. Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

"I didn't follow it," he said softly. "The chip. I tore it out before the purge. I—felt something. Something was wrong. I didn't shoot. I *couldn't*."

You blinked, like you were still seeing a dream.

"They all turned on us," you said, your voice hollow. "I watched them kill. Everyone. My friends. My old master. My Padawan..."

Doom's throat worked. He reached out, slow, careful. "I didn't know. I didn't know you had a Padawan."

"I didn't, for long." You looked down. "They never had a chance."

A pause.

"I should've stayed away from you," you added bitterly. "Maybe then... maybe I would've kept the Code. Maybe I wouldn't feel so *ruined*."

Doom stepped closer until he was right in front of you. His voice was low, rough. "The Code didn't save you."

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

"The Jedi Code is dead," he continued. "So are the Generals. The Republic. The Order. But we're not. You're not."

You looked like you wanted to believe him.

"I've got land," he said. "Not much. But it's quiet. Safe. I've been building. A place that doesn't need war, or orders, or Codes. Just... life. Peace."

He paused, his voice thick. "It's yours too, if you want it."

You stared at him. For a long time. Then longer still.

And then your shoulders crumpled—like years of weight finally gave way. Doom caught you as you stumbled forward, arms wrapping around you without hesitation.

You didn't speak. You didn't cry. You just *breathed*—his scent, his warmth, the impossible relief of *not being alone*.

And that was enough.o

---

Later, he brought you tea in mismatched mugs. You sat together on the porch of a half-built home, watching the wind move through the dead trees. You didn't speak of the war. Or the dead. Or what came next.

You just sat beside each other, two broken things daring to imagine healing.

---

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

Tech x Mechanic Reader

Summary: After the war, you reprogrammed a troop of abandoned B1 battle droids to serve with kindness—not violence. When Clone Force 99 shows up for a supply run, Tech questions your methods, and you challenge his logic.

You found them half-dead in the sand. Twenty B1 battle droids, dumped in a sun-scorched wreck outside the outpost, like bones picked clean by time and war. Most folks would've scavenged the parts, maybe sold off a few limbs if the servos were still functional.

But you? You were a little lonely, a little dangerous, and very, *very* good with code.

Rewiring them took weeks. You erased what the Separatists left behind, built your own parameters from scratch, and gave them something they'd never had before: choice.

You taught them to wave. To carry groceries. To call you "Friend" instead of "Master."

And when people flinched at the sight of battle droids strolling through town, you dipped your brush in paint. Mint green, lavender, sunflower yellow. You gave them smiley faces, heart decals, flower crowns made from leftover wire. You made them soft. Funny. Endearing.

They were still capable of violence—so were you—but they only used it when you gave the order.

Which wasn't often.

---

Clone Force 99 didn't arrive with blasters drawn, but the tension clung to them like dust. The mission was simple: a supply pickup for Cid. In and out. But this planet made Wrecker's nose wrinkle, and Echo kept his blaster low and ready.

Hunter spotted the droid first—lavender chassis, daisies painted across its plating, an old satchel slung over one shoulder as it meandered through the marketplace humming something vaguely cheerful.

"Is that... a B1?" Echo asked, narrowing his eyes.

"It appears to be carrying coolant," Tech said, scanning with his datapad. "And whistling."

Wrecker let out a low chuckle. "Guess the war *really* is over."

"Something's off," Hunter murmured. "Let's follow it."

They kept their distance as the droid turned off the main strip and waddled down a side alley, past a half-crumbling sign that read *THE FIXER'S NEST* in flickering neon.

The shop was a bunker of welded panels and salvaged Separatist tech. Outside, another B1—bright pink with a lopsided sun painted on its chest—was sweeping the doorstep and chatting to a GNK droid.

"Friend says no sand in the workshop," it explained, very seriously. "Sand gets in the gears. Sand *hurts feelings*."

The Bad Batch exchanged a look.

Hunter stepped forward and tapped twice on the doorframe.

You didn't even look up from where you were elbow-deep in a deconstructed astromech.

"You're late," you said, voice calm. "Tell Cid her coolant's in the crate by the wall. So's the power cells, bolts, and the weird candy she likes."

There was a pause.

"We didn't say we were here for Cid," Echo said slowly.

Now you looked up—smirk sharp, eyes sharper.

"Didn't have to. You've got that *'we work for someone mean, grumpy and morally grey'* vibe. Plus, you match the order details she sent me yesterday."

Wrecker moved to the crate and peeked inside. "Yep. All here."

"Of course it is," you muttered. "I run a business, not a guessing game."

Tech, meanwhile, was still staring at the droids—two were dusting the shelves with actual feather dusters, and another had just handed you a datapad while humming.

"These are B1 units," he said, voice laced with something between awe and concern. "Fully functional. Active. Painted."

You stood, wiping your hands on a rag. "I call that one Sprinkles."

"They're dangerous," he said immediately. "You realize they could revert to their original programming at any time—"

"Not mine," you cut in. "I rewrote them myself. Erased every combat subroutine. They're coded to help, protect, and be as non-threatening as a bowl of soup."

Tech stepped forward, clearly bristling. "Their hardware alone makes them capable of violence. You cannot override thousands of lines of military protocol with flower decals and whimsy."

"No," you said coolly, "but I can override them with skill, precision, and an understanding of droid psychology that clearly surpasses yours."

Hunter winced. Echo muttered something under his breath. Wrecker made the universal *oooooh, burn* face.

Tech, however, pushed up his goggles like you'd challenged him to a duel. "I would very much like to inspect your code."

You arched a brow. "What, no dinner first?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

You grinned. "Don't worry, Professor. I'll even let you use the comfy chair."

Sprinkles chirped and handed Tech a cup of caf with perfect comedic timing.

"Welcome, new Friend!" it said cheerfully.

Tech took the cup automatically, staring down at it like it might explode.

You leaned on the counter and gave him a slow once-over. "You gonna tell me how unsafe I am again, or are you here to learn something?"

He met your gaze, thoughtful now. Curious. "...Both."

You smiled, victorious.

---

Tech hadn't stopped talking for fifteen minutes straight.

Not that you minded. His cadence was quick, his mind quicker, and his goggles fogged slightly whenever he got excited. Which, it turned out, was often—especially when discussing battle droid memory cores, sub-routine overrides, and how you managed to build a loyalty system based on *empathy* instead of authority.

"You replaced their original fail-safe with a social dependency loop," he said, practically glowing. "That's... innovative. Risky. But brilliant."

"I try," you said, leaning against your workbench. "It helps that they trust me. Most people don't trust anything unless they can control it. Droids aren't any different."

Tech nodded slowly, examining the code you'd opened for him on your terminal. "You used a behavioral reinforcement system. Repetition and reward. This is similar to clone trooper training methodology—except applied to machines."

You gave him a sly look. "Are you comparing yourself to a B1?"

"I am acknowledging structural parallels in behavioral learning patterns," he replied, completely straight-faced.

You grinned. "That's what I said."

Tech paused, frowning slightly. "You are... amused by me."

"Observant, aren't you?" You stepped closer, brushing your shoulder against his as you leaned in to point at a line of code. "This part here—subtle failsafe. If they ever encounter an override attempt from an external signal, it loops them back to me."

He blinked, eyes darting from the screen to your face. "That is... impressively cautious."

"I've been told I'm full of surprises."

He didn't respond—just squinted closer at the screen.

You sighed, lips twitching. "Nothing? Not even a blush? Stars, you *are* all business."

Before he could answer (or continue missing your very obvious flirting), a loud crash echoed from the street outside, followed by the unmistakable hiss of a thermal disruptor and the annoyed squawk of one of your droids.

You were already moving.

Outside, a low-rent bounty hunter—tatty armor, one glowing eye, and an attitude that outpaced his ability—was holding one of your B1s at blaster point.

"Move, scrapheap, or I'll scrap you myself," he snarled.

The droid blinked. "Friend said no yelling. Friend also said no blasters unless you bring candy."

"*Candy?*"

You stepped into the street like a storm cloud in boots.

"Is there a reason you're threatening my droid, or are you just bored and stupid?"

The bounty hunter turned to you, smug. "This thing walked in front of my speeder. I don't care how shiny you paint 'em—B1s are still clanker trash. I'm just doing the galaxy a favor."

You gave a slow whistle.

Three more droids stepped out from alleyways and rooftops, all armed with repurposed but deactivated blasters—they didn't need live ammo to intimidate. One even had a frying pan.

The bounty hunter backed up a step.

You raised a hand.

"Engage," you said simply.

They moved like a synchronized swarm. Two pinned his arms while the others knocked the blaster from his hands and dismantled his boots with surgical precision. The frying pan droid stood back and provided color commentary.

"Friend says don't be mean! Friend says fix your attitude!"

The bounty hunter was on the ground and begging within seconds.

You stepped forward, crouched down, and grabbed him by the collar.

"You threaten one of mine again, and I'll let them finish what they started. You hear me?"

He nodded frantically.

"Good." You turned to your droids. "Escort him to the edge of town. Gently."

They saluted with cartoonish enthusiasm and dragged him off, half-hopping as they went.

You stood, dusted your hands, and turned back to find Tech watching with an unreadable expression.

"Well?" you said, folding your arms.

"That was... efficient," he admitted. "But highly aggressive."

You raised a brow. "They followed my orders exactly. Didn't fire a shot. Didn't kill. Didn't even insult his boots. I programmed them to protect what's mine, not wage war."

"But the capability—"

"*Exists.*" You cut in. "Just like yours does. Just like mine. The question isn't what they *can* do. It's what they *choose* to do. And what I program them to choose."

Tech looked at you then—really looked at you. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Understanding. Respect.

Maybe even admiration.

"They're not like the others," he said, finally.

You smirked. "Neither am I."

He hesitated, adjusting his goggles. "Would you... allow me to assist you in refining their motor skills protocols? I have a few ideas."

You leaned on the workbench again, grinning. "You wanna help me teach battle droids ballet?"

Tech blinked. "Not... precisely."

"Come on, Tech," you said, voice low and teasing. "Live a little."

He didn't answer, but he did roll up his sleeves and pull out a datapad, already scribbling new subroutine formulas with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You might not have cracked the flirtation firewall yet—but the code was definitely compiling.

_-~-_

Read more works

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

"it's all in your head" correct! unfortunately I am also in there

Cadet Echo, to Fives: It's okay to be sad, sometimes we need to let our feelings out, just let yourself be sad.

99: Oh that's so lovely, well done. Why is he crying?

Echo: I hit him.

Some things I made

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader

Summary: Domino Squad is a disaster, and you're the trainer stuck trying to fix them. They're cocky, chaotic, and hanging by a thread—especially Fives. But somewhere between the bruises, barking orders, and late-night drills, something starts to change. Maybe even you.

———

Kamino always smelled like wet metal and too much polish. The kind of place that made your trigger finger itch just to remind yourself you were still alive.

You stood alone in the empty training room, arms crossed, helmet hooked on your hip, waiting.

Fifteen minutes. You weren't used to waiting. Especially not for kids.

Domino Squad. Shak Ti's special case. Her voice still echoed in your ear from the briefing: "They have potential... but they lack unity. I believe a different kind of instructor might help."

You weren't sure if she meant your experience training commandos... or the fact that you had the patience of a womp rat with a blaster wound.

The door finally hissed open, and five clone cadets filtered in—already mid-argument.

"I told you she'd be here," one snapped.

"No, you said hangar, genius."

"I said rec room, actually."

You turned slowly to face them, expression unreadable.

"You're late."

They froze like kids caught slicing into a security terminal.

One of them—broad-shouldered, short hair, an attitude problem already radiating off him—stepped forward. "Ma'am, we were told to meet you in the hangar."

You stared him down. "Why the hell would I meet you in the hangar for live combat drills? That's where people go to leave. Not get their shebs handed to them."

Another chimed in, confused. "CT-782 told us the mess hall."

The tall one groaned. "I never said that!"

"Did too!"

"I said we should check the mess hall—"

"Why would she train us in a cafeteria?!"

They were full-on bickering now. Voices overlapping, fingers pointing, logic disappearing with every word.

You just stared. Shak Ti hadn't been exaggerating.

These kids were a walking tactical disaster.

You let them go another three seconds before barking, "Enough!"

Silence.

You stepped forward, boots echoing against the durasteel floor.

"You think this is funny? Cute? You think this is how squads survive out there in the field? Getting your coordinates mixed and your shebs blown off because nobody can get their story straight?"

They said nothing. At least they had the sense to look guilty.

You exhaled through your nose, less angry now. More tired.

"Alright. Names. One by one. And don't kriffing lie."

The one who'd spoken first crossed his arms. "CT-782. Hevy."

You gave him a look. Accurate. He was the one with the mess hall theory.

The next was shorter, more nervous. "CT-4040. Cutup."

You nodded once.

Then came a cadet with a perpetually sour expression. "CT-00-2010. Droidbait."

"Unfortunate name," you muttered.

He shrugged. "I didn't pick it."

Then came the silent one—stiff posture, emotion locked down like a vault. "CT-1409. Echo."

You raised a brow. "Because you repeat yourself?"

"Because I follow orders," he replied, a little too sharp.

You liked him already.

And finally... the fifth cadet. His armor was slightly looser, hair a little unruly, grin already forming.

"CT-5555. Fives."

You blinked. "Seriously?"

He gave you a cheeky salute. "I take training very seriously, ma'am."

You folded your arms. "And yet you still ended up fifteen minutes late to a scheduled ass-kicking."

His grin widened. "Better late than dead."

Force help me, you thought. This one's going to be a handful.

But as the squad fell into a loose formation, shoulders brushing, complaints subsiding—you saw it. The spark. They were disorganized, sure. Rough around the edges. But there was something under all that chaos.

Especially with that one.

Fives.

You didn't smile.

Not yet.

But you already knew you'd have your eye on him.

---

The simulation room smelled like ozone and bruised pride.

Smoke curled from a spent training turret. The floor was littered with foam stun bolts. And Domino Squad? Lying in a tangled heap of limbs, groaning and stunned after getting their collective asses handed to them. Again.

You stood over them, blaster still warm in your hand, utterly unimpressed.

"You know," you said, holstering your weapon, "the point of the exercise was *not* to see how many of you could trip over each other while a single assailant takes you all out in under two minutes."

Cutup coughed. "It was under two minutes?"

"I'm generous. It was forty-two seconds."

Hevy swore softly.

Fives pushed himself up onto one elbow, panting. "Okay, so—hear me out—we *let* you win. Morale-boosting strategy."

You turned slowly. "You let me what?"

He gave you that same lopsided grin from yesterday, hair mussed, lip split. "Had to make sure your ego was intact. Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings."

"Oh," you said sweetly. "Is that what this is? You playing nice?"

Fives dragged himself to his feet, still grinning. "Wouldn't want to upset someone who looks that good while kicking my ass."

There it was. The line.

The others groaned behind him.

Echo muttered, "Maker, Fives, not again."

You stepped into his space. Fives barely flinched, even with you nose to nose.

"You know what's funny?" you said, eyes locked on his.

"Me, I'm hilarious," he offered.

You slammed the butt of your blaster into the back of his knee. He dropped like a sack of supplies, flat on his back with a surprised grunt.

You knelt beside him, elbow resting on your knee, casual. "Commandos don't flirt during training."

He blinked up at you. "Maybe they should."

You bit back a laugh.

It was infuriating. It was charming. It was a problem.

You stood, stepping over him to address the squad.

"You've got potential," you said flatly. "But potential doesn't mean anything if you can't get your heads out of your own shebs long enough to function like a unit. Commandos are sharp. Focused. They move like a single weapon."

Droidbait raised a hand from the floor. "So... we're more like a broken vibroblade?"

You stared down at him. "Right now? You're a butter knife."

A few of them snorted.

You rolled your shoulders, then hit the reset on the simulation. The room flickered. Walls shifted. Obstacles reformed.

"Again."

"Now?" Echo asked, winded.

"Yes, now. You think clankers are gonna give you a breather 'cause you're winded? Again."

The lights flickered red, and the first wave of simulated droids poured in.

---

The squad filed out of the training room, grumbling and limping, drenched in sweat and ego damage. You stayed behind, checking the scoring logs. You didn't look up when footsteps returned behind you.

"Back for round four?" you asked.

Fives leaned against the doorway, arms folded, nursing a fresh bruise on his jaw.

"Thought you might want some company while you reviewed our failure."

You arched a brow. "That's sweet. But I prefer my pity parties without commentary."

He grinned. "Not pity. Just... curiosity."

You turned toward him fully, arms crossed now. "About what?"

He shrugged. "Why you took this assignment. You're a bounty hunter. You train clone commandos. So what are you doing babysitting a bunch of squad rejects?"

You stared at him for a long beat.

"I don't babysit," you said finally. "I break bad habits. Yours just happen to be louder and dumber than most."

His grin faltered—just for a second.

But then he stepped closer. Not quite in your space, but almost.

"You think we've got no shot, huh?"

"I think you've got no discipline. No unity. No idea how to shut up and listen. You've got heart, sure. Fire. But fire without direction burns out fast."

Fives looked at you differently then. The grin softened. The smartass faded, just a little.

"And me?" he asked, quieter.

You blinked.

"What about you?"

He shrugged again, casual and reckless. "Where do *I* fall on your little critique list?"

You stepped closer, leaned in with a smirk of your own.

"You? You're the most dangerous one of all."

His eyebrows lifted. "Oh yeah?"

"Because you've got the spark. But you'd throw your life away in a second for someone who doesn't even like you yet."

Fives opened his mouth to reply, but you were already walking out past him.

"Be better tomorrow, cadet," you called.

He turned to watch you go, smirking despite himself.

"Oh, I will."

---

The lights were low in the training dome. It was well past curfew. The Kaminoan facility echoed with rain and distant alarms. Most cadets were asleep—except Domino Squad.

And you.

The moment you'd walked into the barracks and barked, *"Up. Now. You've got five minutes,"* they knew better than to ask questions.

Cutup groaned as he jogged alongside you toward the dome. "You realize some of us like sleeping, right?"

"You can sleep when you're competent," you shot back.

"Guess I'll be dead first," Droidbait muttered.

Fives, ever the golden retriever with a blaster, nudged Hevy. "Come on. This'll be good."

"You say that every time," Echo said, deadpan. "And every time, you eat dirt."

"Yeah," Fives grinned. "But at least I look good doing it."

You rolled your eyes but hid the smile tugging at your mouth as you keyed in the sim code. The floor shifted. A close-quarters layout, reduced visibility, enemy droids loaded for full-speed pursuit. No stuns. They had to think. Move fast. Adapt.

"Alright," you said. "You've improved. Slightly. So now we make it harder."

Droidbait groaned. "I liked it better when you just yelled at us."

"You're welcome."

You turned to Fives as he checked his blaster, already flashing you that boyish, too-easy smile. "So what's the challenge this time, boss? Try not to fall in love with you mid-firefight?"

You tilted your head. "That happen to you often, cadet?"

He winked. "Only with the deadly ones."

Your smirk was slow and wicked. "Careful, pretty boy. That flirting'll get you shot."

"Oh, I'm into danger."

"Good," you purred. "I'll make it hurt."

That got a low *ooooh* from the squad.

Fives faltered—just for a second. It was enough.

The droid in the corner of the sim fired. Fives barely turned in time before the stun bolt caught him square in the chest and sent him sprawling to the floor with a *thud.*

You crossed your arms, standing over him with a grin. "Lesson number one: distractions on the battlefield get you *killed.*"

Cutup leaned over him. "Damn, man. She really *floored* you."

"Shut up," Fives wheezed.

You turned back to the rest of them. "Get up. Formation. Now."

As they fell into line, Echo muttered under his breath, "This feels like bullying."

"You all volunteered to be here," you called over your shoulder. "This is mercy."

Fives finally staggered upright, cheeks flushed—maybe from the stun, maybe not.

He jogged to catch up, falling in step beside you.

"I'm still your favorite," he said under his breath.

"You're on a very long list, cadet."

He grinned. "But I'm climbing."

You just smirked and let him believe it.

---

The squad had been dismissed and were off licking their wounds (and egos). But you were still in the dome, reviewing footage, adjusting the next sim's layout.

You didn't look up when the door hissed open.

"You don't sleep either, huh?"

Fives.

He walked in slow, still in training gear, bruised, towel slung around his neck like some cocky prizefighter.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. "Thought I'd come get a private lesson."

You raised a brow. "Need help falling on your face again?"

"Thought I'd try doing it *on purpose* this time," he shot back, stepping up beside you.

You shook your head, amused despite yourself.

The silence stretched for a moment—comfortable. Weirdly so.

Then he asked, quieter, "Do you think we're gonna make it?"

You looked over at him, surprised.

He wasn't grinning anymore. Not really.

"I mean," he added, "Domino Squad. We screw everything up. Shak Ti thinks we're hopeless. Our last trainer quit after two weeks. You're the only one who hasn't given up on us yet."

You watched him for a beat.

"You want the honest answer?"

He nodded.

"You will. But not because of some miracle. Not because someone fixes you. You'll make it because you stop trying to be five separate heroes and start fighting like one team."

He looked at you like you'd said something *important.*

Then, because it was Fives: "Also probably because I look so good in armor."

You rolled your eyes. "And you were *so* close to having a character moment."

He chuckled, easy and low. "I like you."

You turned back to the screen, not smiling, but not not-smiling either.

"I know."

---

You stood with arms crossed in the control room above the Citadel, staring down at the training ground. The room was cold, sterile—just like the expressions on the two bounty hunter instructors beside you.

Bric scowled. "They're not ready."

El-Les sighed, gentler, but still resigned. "Too fractured. They'll fall apart under pressure."

You clenched your jaw. "They've improved."

"Not enough."

Down below, Domino Squad prepped for the exam. They looked... okay. Not perfect. Not polished. But their footing was better. Their eyes sharper. Even Hevy wasn't muttering complaints under his breath. You'd drilled them to exhaustion over the past week.

They had heart.

But heart only got you so far.

---

It started strong.

Tight formation, decent communication. Droid targets were taken down efficiently, if a bit loud. But then the turret fired.

Hevy went off plan.

Droidbait hesitated.

Cutup tripped.

Echo tried to rally them—but it was too late.

Fives shouted over the chaos. "Fall back, *together!*" but no one was listening anymore.

The blast sent them sprawling. Timer hit red.

"Simulation failed," the droid voice droned.

Silence.

You looked down at them through the glass, jaw clenched.

Below, the boys didn't even argue. They just stood there, stunned.

Disappointed.

Shak Ti's voice was calm, as always, from beside you. "They're not without merit."

Bric scoffed. "They're without skill."

You bristled. "They're not without *potential.*"

But it didn't matter. The test was failed. Domino Squad walked off the field with heavy steps and heavier hearts.

---

You found them later, back in their barracks, silent for once.

"I've seen worse squads," you said, leaning against the wall.

Echo didn't look up. "You've trained worse squads?"

"No," you admitted. "But I've seen them. You want pity, or you want another shot?"

Fives finally looked at you. "They're not gonna let us retake it."

You tossed a datapad onto the table. "Shak Ti overruled Bric. Said you were worth the gamble."

They all stared.

Hevy slowly blinked. "...You serious?"

You gave him a sharp nod. "Final shot. Pass, and you graduate. Fail, and I'm not gonna waste my time making your funerals look nice."

Fives grinned, eyes gleaming. "You do care."

You shoved a practice baton into his chest. "I care about not wasting good talent. Let's go, squad. Again."

---

You watched from the same control room, this time with arms folded, jaw tense, heart stubbornly in your throat.

Domino Squad hit the field. Silent. Steady.

They moved like a unit.

When Hevy took the high ground, Echo and Cutup covered the flank. Fives ran point, calling out shots, focused, fast, precise.

When the turrets came, no one panicked. When Droidbait hesitated, Fives yanked him out of the way without missing a beat.

They didn't fall apart.

They didn't fall at all.

The simulation ended with the squad fully intact, the objective secured, and the droid voice confirming: "Simulation complete. Pass."

Bric said nothing. El-Les smiled.

You? You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

---

You met them outside the dome, arms crossed again—but this time your eyes betrayed you.

Pride. Real pride.

They were grinning, sweaty, bruised, but *standing taller* than they ever had.

"Well?" you said. "You gonna thank me, or what?"

Cutup smirked. "Thank you for the emotional trauma?"

Hevy laughed. "Wouldn't be the same without it."

You looked at Fives. He looked back, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them.

And then, without thinking, you stepped in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

A beat.

Then two.

The entire squad: *"OOOOHHHHHHH—"*

Fives flushed crimson, frozen in place. "Did—Did anyone else feel the room spin or—?"

You smirked, stepping back. "Don't let it go to your head, pretty boy. You're still just a cadet."

He blinked. "A cadet who *just graduated.*"

You held his gaze a moment longer, something unsaid between you.

Then you turned. "Until we meet again."

"Wait—" he called after you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He smiled, still a little dazed. "You're gonna miss me."

You grinned. "I already do."

And then you were gone, leaving Domino Squad behind to bask in their victory.

And Fives?

Well, he touched his cheek for a suspiciously long time that day.

———

Part 2

A/N

For more clones please check out my Wattpad account or my material list

Only happy Tech memories today on this blog.

Edit Masterlist

Fives has an important message for you!

Fives fans vs. Fox fans discourse is so lame. Just kiss and makeup PLEASE

once again i love how star wars takes place in a massive galaxy with thousands of planets and billions of people, and yet every bounty hunter knows each other personally

No lie, reading these chapters has made me fall back in love with the clones and inspired me to write fanfics about them again

Liar Liar (Part 7/?)

Part 7 - The Truth // <<< Part Six

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female!Reader

🫧 word count: 4.5k

🫧Chapter Summary: With questions and gossip spiralling out of control, Fox takes action and takes you on a date to break the news. However, it doesn't go exactly to plan.

🫧Chapter Warnings: safe for work, flirty texts, flirting, reader wearing a red dress, heavy angst, crying, heartbreak, trust issues, comfort, accidental confessions.

    "Hound, can I have a word?" It was the next day, and during your lunch break, you spotted Hound lingering by the counter, balancing a tray of food while waiting for the next available seat. The moment you saw him, the urge to speak to him flared up, overriding your initial plan to just grab something to eat and return to your desk.

Excusing yourself, you wove through the crowd of officers and troopers, brushing past shoulders until you reached him just before he could sit down.

The Sergeant blinked in surprise at your sudden appearance—though even more at the clear irritation in your tone. That alone was enough to catch his attention. You weren’t usually one to sound so bothered.

Adjusting his grip on his tray, he arched a brow. “Everything alright?”

You ignored the question and tilted your head, gesturing for him to follow. Hound hesitated briefly but ultimately sighed and followed you out of earshot of the bustling mess hall.

Once you were in a quiet enough spot, you turned to face him, arms crossed. “Want to tell me why Thire and Stone think me and Commander Fox are a ‘thing’?”

His mouth opened, then promptly closed. He awkwardly glanced to the side, shifting on his feet like a guilty cadet caught sneaking extra rations. “Yeah… about that… that’s, uh, my error.”

“Yeah, it is, ” you echoed sharply. “Why would you say something like that? What even made you think that in the first place?”

He let out an uncomfortable chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was just an observation.”

“An observation ?” You huffed, throwing your hands in the air. “Hound, me and Fox barely speak. ”

“I know, I know,” he said quickly, shifting his tray from one hand to the other, “I just… I don’t know, I thought I noticed something.”

You gave him a flat stare. “Like what?”

He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “Like the way he looks at you.”

Your brows shot up. “The way he looks at me?”

“Forget I said anything,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.”

You sighed, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Well, does Fox know about this ridiculous gossip?”

Hound frowned. “Of course not.”

“Good. And I don’t want him to know.”

The last thing you needed was for Commander Fox to hear about this. The man already carried the weight of Coruscant’s security on his shoulders—he did not need to be burdened with some absurd rumor about the two of you.

But then, a thought struck you.

You lowered your hand, eyes narrowing slightly as a memory resurfaced—Fox and Hound, standing in the hangar yesterday. It had looked… tense. Almost heated.

Frowning, you tilted your head. “That reminds me, what was that about yesterday?”

Hound stiffened, lips pressing into a firm line. “What was what about?”

“The conversation you had with Fox in the hangar.” You studied him carefully. “Looked serious. ”

There was conflict in his gaze. Hesitation. But after a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Nothing worth worrying about. A patrol went wrong. That’s all.”

You watched him closely, trying to gauge whether or not that was the whole truth.

But eventually, you nodded. “Alright,” you said, relieved that at least it wasn’t about you.

Hound exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Sorry about the gossip. I really didn’t mean for it to spread.”

You rolled your eyes, but the irritation had mostly faded. “Just… maybe keep your ‘ observations’ to yourself next time.” You mutter, using air quotations.

He held up his hands. “Duly noted.”

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

Fox was a kriffing mess.

The situation with you was spiralling out of control—a beautiful disaster he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He had tangled himself in a lie so foolish, so reckless , it made his stomach churn. But the way you spoke to him, the way you laughed, the way you flirted with Whisky … Stars, he had never wanted anything more.

And then, there was that officer .

Fox had seen the way the man looked at you in the hangar. It was painfully obvious—squared shoulders, a little too eager, the way his eyes lingered when you smiled. Kriff, it almost hurt.  

It shouldn’t have affected him. It had no right to affect him. But it did. A hot coil of something ugly, possessive, wrapped around his ribs at the sight. Another man looking at you the way he did.

And then there was Hound.

Fox clenched his jaw as his mind replayed the words from the hangar.

"You haven’t told her? I swear, Fox, if you don’t in the next few days, I will. She deserves better.”

He hated how involved Hound was in this. Hated that he was right .

He needed to tell you the truth. But how selfish would it be if he stretched this out just a little longer?

Even now, hidden in a dimly lit storage closet—far away from the constant questions about Rik Waldar , away from his brothers, away from you —he found himself rereading your messages from last night. Stars, he was smitten.

And from your replies, so were you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply through his nose. “No. Stop it, Fox,” he muttered under his breath.

Yet, later that night, when the barracks had gone quiet and all his brothers were sleeping, he still found himself sneaking back to his office. Just to sit there, datapad in hand, waiting for your next message.

And tonight was no exception.

So, any pretty girls at the new base?

A smirk tugged at his lips at your message. Were you the jealous type?

None as pretty as you.

It didn’t take long for you to respond.

Ugh. You are smooth. Ever been told that before?

Once or twice. Why? Is it working?

He leaned back in his chair, waiting, knowing you’d take a moment to compose yourself. Sure enough, a minute later you reply.

Maybe. But I already like you, so you don’t have to try that hard.

Fox’s heart stopped. For a brief second, he forgot how to breathe. His hand tightened around the datapad, reading the words over and over again.

You already liked him.

Shit.

His fingers hovered over the keys, mind racing with what to say and how to respond without giving away too much. But before he could, another message came through.

Hound said something weird to me today, by the way.

His stomach twisted.

Weird how?

Apparently, he thinks I have a thing for Commander Fox.

Fox stiffened, eyes locked onto the screen, pulse thrumming in his ears.

Do you?

Your reply came fast. Too fast.

Pfft. Not a chance. He’s uptight and irritable all the time. It’s exhausting just being near him. He even walked me back to the station the other day and I felt so awkward.

Fox felt that one like a punch to the gut.

Damn. You really didn’t like him. Not as Fox, anyway.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his tone casual.

What if he’s just misunderstood?

Then he should try being less of an arse. Not my problem.

Fox exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping his fingers against the desk before taking a big gulp of caf. Stars, maybe he should have let you go on a caf run. That machine really is terrible. Anyway, he wasn’t sure why he asked what came next—maybe because, despite everything, he wanted to hear your answer: Is it just the attitude? Or are looks a factor too?

A pause. Then—

Dunno. Never seen his face, so I couldn’t say.

Fox stared at your message for a long moment. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but he still found himself typing.

Do looks matter?

Not really. But it’s nice to put a face to a name.

He runs a hand over his face, groaning softly into it. Right, he had to get this over and done with. 

Meanwhile back at your place, you lay sprawled out on your stomach, datapad clutched between your hands, grinning so hard it almost hurt.

Do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?

The words had sent your heart into a fluttering mess, your feet instinctively kicking the air behind you as your mind instantly leapt to one question: What the hell am I going to wear?

Your fingers flew over the keyboard as you typed out a response, still biting back a smile.

Not going to ditch me this time?

His reply was immediate.

I promise.

You exhaled softly, rolling onto your back as your eyes flickered toward your wardrobe. You weren’t sure what kind of date Whisky had in mind, but that didn’t stop you from mentally sorting through every outfit you owned, already imagining what he’d like.

What kind of date did you have in mind?

One where I wine and dine you.

Your grin grew as you typed back.

I hope there’s dessert.

There will be.

Stars . If he kept this up, you were going to be insufferable tomorrow.

But as your excitement buzzed, a nagging thought tugged at the back of your mind. The hangar.

That moment when he had rushed off like something urgent was happening; only for you to later find out that there hadn’t been an issue at all. No escaped prisoner, no commotion. And then there was the thing he had been meaning to tell you.

You chewed your lip before hesitantly typing,

Will you tell me what you wanted to? Back in the meadow?

There was a slight pause before he replied.

Yes, I will. Please don’t worry. It will be okay.

You really hoped so.

Your stomach twisted slightly at the possibilities. He’d assured you there was no other woman, so that ruled out one terrifying thought. But what if it was something worse? Was he ill? Was there something serious he wasn’t telling you?

You grimaced, quickly pushing the thought aside before you could spiral.

Instead, you let your fingers brush over the keys, heart lightening as you typed,

You know, you really make me happy.

His response came quickly.

Good. Because you make me happy too.

That warm, giddy feeling spread through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you let your fingers hover before typing something a little more… bold.

If the date goes well… maybe I’ll reward you.

There was a pause for a small moment. You feared maybe you were too bold but then:

Yeah? And what kind of reward are we talking about?

You grinned wickedly, rolling onto your side, fingers teasing the screen as you debated just how far you wanted to push him.

Oh, you know. Something worth being good for.

This time, the pause was longer.

Then, finally—

You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.

And you laughed, fully, out loud, feeling your cheeks heat at the thought of Whisky, wherever he was, probably losing his mind right now.

But what you didn’t know was that Fox was losing his mind.

Fox leaned back in his chair, his head tipping against the wall as he let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose. His datapad rested against his stomach, his free hand dragging down his face in frustration.

Or maybe desperation.

Because, stars, you were killing him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. And it was his fault.

The way you flirted with him—unknowingly flirting with Fox —had him spiraling into dangerous waters. He felt warm, restless, an ache settling low in his stomach as his body reacted far too eagerly to the teasing words on the screen.

And that last message?

"Something worth being good for." He repeats in a whisper. His jaw clenched as he exhaled sharply, the heat of it crawling down his spine. He needed to stop this. He needed to stop before he said something incredibly stupid. 

I have to go.

Your response was instant.

So soon?

Yeah. Before I say something I shouldn’t.

Fox ran a hand through his hair, trying to will away the heat still simmering under his skin. Yep, he was certainly turned on right now.

Meet me tomorrow at 1900, west sector entrance. Dress nice.

Oh? Dress nice? Are you taking me somewhere fancy, Whisky?

Fox smirked, fingers gliding smoothly over the screen.

You’ll see. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.

He was just about to shut off the datapad when a new message came through.

Wait!

His thumb hovered over the screen. He exhaled slowly, waiting, heart thudding just a little faster than it should.

I miss seeing you.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest as he leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning.

Seeing me? Sweetheart, how do you think I feel? I can’t even see your beautiful face.

Smooth. He had to give himself credit—he was good at this. The easy flirting, the charm, the teasing. It was second nature by now.

But the moment your next message appeared, the confidence wavered.

Do you want to see me?

His breath hitched. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as warmth spread in his chest…and a little lower.

That was flirty. And enticing.

His hand flexed against his thigh before quickly tapping out a response, keeping it light.

See you, how?

The three dots appeared for what felt like forever and a day until:

Don’t be thinking naughty thoughts, Whisky. Only my face.

Fox let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Kriff. That was a relief. Not that he would have gone through with it if it had been something more, but still… He wasn’t sure how much self-control he had left after tonight’s teasing.

Then, a new message. A file attachment. Fox swallowed thickly as his thumb hovered for half a second before tapping it open.

And stars above—

His breath stalled in his throat.

It was just a picture of your face, nothing more, nothing scandalous—just you in bed, your head resting on your pillow, strands of hair messy around your face, lips parted ever so slightly, eyes soft and warm.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

He blinked, his chest tightening with something he didn’t want to name. Instead, his fingers moved on instinct.

You’re perfect.

And with that, he shut off the datapad, tossing it onto his desk before dragging his hands down his face with a long, suffering groan.

Tomorrow was going to kill him.

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

1900 hours. Dressed to impress. West Sector. Gift in back pocket.

Fox paced, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his white button-up crisp against his toned frame. The sleeves were neatly rolled up, a careful balance of refined and relaxed, but the way he kept shifting his weight gave away his nerves.

He had been replaying this moment for hours. What to say. How to act. How not to mess this up. All because he had accepted a note from you at 79’s.

"What was I thinking?" He muttered under his breath.

“Hey, handsome.”

Fox turned so fast he nearly stumbled, eyes widening.

And kriff, he was glad he did.

There you stood, bathed in the golden glow of Coruscant’s streetlights, dressed in deep red—the colours of the Guard. The dress hugged your figure in a way that made his throat go dry, and your heels only added to the effortless confidence you carried.

For a moment, he could only stare.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

The smile you gave him in return? Yeah, he was in trouble.

“Oh, stop it,” you teased, stepping closer, hands tucked behind your back. “You look very dashing, Whisky .”

He exhaled a soft chuckle, rubbing his hands together as if that would stop the heat creeping up his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured. Clearing his throat, he extended an arm. “Shall we?”

You took it without hesitation, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow, the warmth of your touch searing through the fabric of his sleeve. Your perfume drifted close—light, sweet, and enough to scramble his thoughts.

As he flagged down a cab, you glanced at him curiously when he rattled off an address.

“Somewhere special?”

Fox smirked. “Somewhere deserving of you.”

Your stomach flipped in excitement.

The ride was short, but that didn’t stop him from slipping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. It was easy, effortless—like this had always been a habit between you. Soft conversation flowed between the two of you, words dipped in laughter and teasing as the city lights blurred outside the window.

When you arrived, your breath caught.

Fox helped you out of the cab, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as he guided you forward. The restaurant was breathtaking. Twinkling fairy lights draped across wooden beams, casting a golden glow over the space. Trellises overflowed with soft blossoms, their fragrance mingling with the cool evening air. A fountain gurgled softly in the center of the courtyard, its quiet song blending with the hum of conversation.

He had gone all out.

Fox pulled out your chair, waiting for you to settle before taking his own.

“Well, Whisky ,” you giggled, resting your arms on the table, “you’re full of surprises.”

He smirked, pouring you both a glass of wine from a bottle swiftly delivered by a server. “You think so?”

“I know so.” You raised your glass, tapping it lightly against his before taking a sip. “How many girls have you brought here?”

His brow lifted slightly. “Would you believe me if I said none?”

You narrowed your eyes, playful. “I don’t know. You are a smooth talker.”

Fox chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced down at the menu. You watched him for a moment, admiring the way the dim lighting softened his features, how the corners of his mouth twitched when he was focused.

Then, something shifted.

His shoulders tensed, fingers tightening around the menu, his usual air of confidence faltering ever so slightly.

Your smile faded, just a touch. “Hey,” you said softly, reaching across the table to place your hand over his. “You okay?”

Fox blinked, snapping back to the moment. He looked at your hand—warm, steady, grounding—before clearing his throat and reaching for his drink.

“Y-yeah,” he said, voice not quite as smooth as before. He took a long sip, setting the glass down carefully. “Sorry. Just… nervous.”

You squeezed his hand gently before pulling back, offering him a reassuring smile. “It’s just me, Whisky. Nobody else.”

His jaw tightened for a moment, like he was biting back words.

You were. He wasn’t.

Then, he exhaled slowly and sat up straighter. “I know,” he murmured. “And I’m lucky you are.”

The tension melted just as quickly as it had come, and soon enough, conversation flowed again. The wine disappeared steadily, the appetisers arrived, and between bites, you found yourself giggling at his dry humour, your foot grazing his leg beneath the table.

“Careful,” Fox murmured, smirking against the rim of his glass.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Careful of what?”

His smirk deepened. “You know exactly what.”

“Mm. Do I?” You dragged the tip of your shoe just a little higher up his calf, watching the way his fingers twitched against his glass.

Fox exhaled sharply, setting his drink down with deliberate care.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, voice lower now.

You bit back a smile, taking a slow sip of wine. “Then I hope you’re fireproof.”

His fingers drummed against the table, gaze locked onto yours—dark, unreadable, utterly consumed. Then, with a quick glance around, as if double-checking your privacy, he reached into his back pocket.

“Before I forget…” he started, voice softer now, something almost uncertain laced within it. “I should give you your gift.”

You sat up a little straighter, warmth rushing to your cheeks as he placed a small, square box in front of you.

Your fingers brushed over the lid, heartbeat picking up. “A gift?”

Fox rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering to yours before he nodded. “It’s nothing huge, but…” He opened the box, revealing a delicate bracelet inside—a single red gem dangling from the thin band.

“Oh, Whisky,” you breathed, a grin appearing as you carefully lifted it from the box. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the weight of it cool against your skin. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

The tension in his shoulders eased at the sincerity in your voice. “Beautiful,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over your wrist as he latched it on for you, “like you.”

It was easy to get lost in this, lost in him.

For a little while, nothing else mattered.

For a little while, everything was perfect.

And then, in an instant, it wasn’t.

Your eyes drift over Fox’s shoulder, catching sight of a familiar figure. “Oh, hey! It’s Pia. You okay if I go say hi?”

Fox glanced back too, spotting Pia by the reception desk. She hadn't seen either of you yet, focused on whatever she was waiting for. “Sure,” he said lightly. “Just don’t go running off on me.”

You humoured him with a smile, brushing a hand over his shoulder as you passed.

“Pia?”

She turned at the sound of your voice, her face lighting up instantly. “Hey, you!” She pulled you into a quick hug, then leaned back, eyeing you with approval. “Damn, girl, you look sexy.”

You laughed, giving her a mock twirl. “Doing my best. I’m on a date.”

“Oh, same! Though mine’s late.” She rolled her eyes but grinned anyway. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You nodded back toward your table. Pia’s gaze followed, her brows lifting slightly.

“Well, well,” she mused, chuckling. “Didn’t think the Commander had it in him.”

Your smile remains but sudden confusion surfaces.

“Hm?”

Pia glanced at you, still grinning. “I mean, I saw you two all cosy at 79’s. Figured you had a thing for him.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Sure, but Whisky isn’t a Commander .”

Something shifted in Pia’s expression.

She looked back at Fox still sitting there, unaware, completely at ease. Then back at you.

“…Whisky?”

A cold unease settled over you. “Yeah.”

Pia’s lips parted, her arms crossing over her chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Whisky ,” she said carefully. “And that? That isn’t one.”

Your stomach turned. “What are you saying?”

She hesitated, then exhaled. “That’s Fox. ”

The world around you dulled into nothing. Your mouth opened, but no words came. “Say that again.”

Pia’s confidence wavered, her grin long gone. “Love… I told you who he was that night.” Her brows knit together. “I thought you knew .”

No.

No, she hadn’t told you. She had been about to, but then a patron had called for her, and the moment had slipped away. You had never questioned it. Had never thought to.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

Your head shook, a sickening drop in your stomach. “He… he told me his name was Whisky.”

Pia shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and the man you thought you knew. “Wait—m-maybe it is,” she fumbled, grasping for something, anything to take back what she had just said. “I mean, he’s a clone, right? They all look the same, maybe—”

Her desperate excuse fell apart the second the next voice cut through the restaurant.

“ Fox! What are you doing here?”

Your blood ran cold.

Pia spun first, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The voice belonged to Thire. He was walking straight toward your table, waving like it was nothing.

Fox stood quickly, his entire body stiff, hand raising in a useless attempt to silence his brother.

It was too late.

You felt him look at you.

Your eyes locked onto his, and in that moment, your heart shattered.

Everything you had built, every moment, every word— a lie.

A sharp breath lodged in your throat. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The weight in your chest threatened to crush you, and all you could do was turn on your heel and walk.

No— run.

Pia called your name, but you barely heard her. The restaurant blurred past, the cool air of the street hitting your face as you pushed through the doors. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the noise of passing speeders and distant chatter.

Somewhere behind you, voices rose in argument—Pia’s unmistakable fury, sharp and cutting.

And then—

“ Wait! ”

Your breath hitched, legs faltering as you came to an abrupt stop.

Footsteps. Heels against pavement. Pia.

She caught up, panting slightly, hands gripping your wrists the second she reached you.

“I don’t understand,” you choked, a sob clawing its way to the surface. Your hands covered your mouth, shaking. “Why would he do this?”

Pia’s own frustration simmered beneath her concern, her jaw tight. “I don’t know, love.” She squeezed your hands. “I don’t have a clue what was going through his mind.”

The tears came too fast, hot and relentless. You tried to wipe them away, but it was useless. The pain of it, the humiliation —it burned like fire beneath your skin.

Pia didn’t hesitate. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you as you broke. “D-did he want to hurt me?” Your voice was barely there, raw and shaking. “I don’t— I don’t get it. ”

She exhaled a slow, miserable sigh, resting her chin atop your head. “I… I couldn’t tell you.”

But you could tell her.

And oh, did you have answers. “He never liked me,” you whispered, hiccuping between sobs. “Fox—he was always rude to me. It’s like he wanted to play with me.”

A look flickered across Pia’s face. One you couldn’t read.

“Would he do that?” she asked, voice hesitant. “Really?”

You pulled back slightly, pressing a trembling hand over your chest, trying to steady your breath. “W-why lie about who he was? He always talked about Fox—Fox this, Fox that.” Your stomach twisted. “Was he just—just trying to figure out what I didn’t like about him? Was this some kind of—of sick joke?”

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

Your mind raced in circles, spinning, grasping for answers you didn’t have. “Am I a bad person?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Pia didn’t hesitate. “No.” She shook her head, voice firm. “You’re a kind-hearted person, and some idiot wanted to test that.”

It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

Because none of it changed the truth.

“Oh—oh, stars. ” A fresh wave of dread crashed over you. “Thire! He’s going to tell everyone . ” Your breath came faster, panic swelling. “I can’t—I can’t —”

“Shh.” Pia took a deep breath, rubbing your arms in soothing circles. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t say a thing.” She reached into her bag, fishing out her key fob and pressing it into your trembling hands. “Go back to my place. I’ll be right behind you. You remember where I live?”

Your fingers curled around the fob, mind swimming. You nodded shakily. “O-okay. I think so. What are you doing?”

Pia scoffs. Tying her hair up, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“Giving Fox another piece of my mind before he comes looking for you.”

🫧 Next Part Coming Soon

🫧 Or Stay Up To Date On AO3 🦊

🫧 Go Back to the Liar List Masterlist here

Please REBLOG to support your creators 🩵

Tags: @forcesavetheclones @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon n @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tentakelspektakel @stellarbit @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @greaser-wolf @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @cw80831 @knightprincess s @crosshairlovebot t @the-bad-batch-baroness @dreamie411 @griffedeloup p @501st104th212th99s @clonecyare88 @namechange-mykidfoundmyblog @mitth-eli-vanto @cloneflo99

Decided to try writing fan fiction again, let’s see how long it last this time ahaha

new quiz y'all! worked on this until 4 am lol. reblog and tell me, what kind of supervillain are you?

rip anakin skywalker you would have hated dune