Star Wars Wolffe - Blog Posts
yall don’t know how bad i need him
Hiya babes! Hope you’re doing well! Just outta say I absolutely adore your writing and always brings a smile to my face when you post!!
I was hoping you could do an angst fic where it’s the boys reactions to you jumping in front of them taking a hit/bolt. You can choose the clone group! Xxx
Thank you so much — seriously, your kind words mean the world to me!! I’m so glad my writing can bring a little light to your day 💛
I hope you don’t mind that I decided to go with the Wolf pack for this one. I hope you enjoy 🫶
⸻
“For the Pack”
Reader x 104th Battalion (Wolffe, Sinker, Boost)
⸻
You don’t think. You just move. That’s what instinct does when family is in danger.
The air was thick with heat and cordite, the jungle humid enough to choke on. Blasterfire lit the treeline in wild flashes—red bolts cutting through the green like angry stars. You pressed forward with your saber raised, breath tight in your chest, the Force buzzing like a live wire beneath your skin.
This wasn’t supposed to be a heavy engagement. Just a scouting mission. Routine.
But nothing about war ever stays routine for long.
“Wolffe, move it! You’re exposed!” you shouted, watching him duck behind cover just as two more shots chewed bark over his head.
“Copy that,” Wolffe growled, popping off a few retaliatory blasts. “Boost! Sinker! Sweep the right flank and flush that nest!”
“Already on it!” Boost called from somewhere in the brush.
“We’re getting pinned down out here!” Sinker added, tone sharp but controlled.
You moved closer to Wolffe, saber up, covering his retreat as he repositioned behind the half-blown trunk of a felled tree. The rest of the battalion had spread out, covering the ridgeline, trying to locate the sniper.
That’s when it hit you—the feeling.
The Force spiked.
Time slowed.
A heartbeat ahead of the moment, you felt it: danger, aimed at someone you couldn’t let go.
Wolffe was turning. He wasn’t going to make it in time.
You didn’t think. You just moved.
A leap. A cry. A single instant of instinct and fear and absolute certainty.
And then the bolt hit you square in the back.
Wolffe didn’t register what happened right away. One moment he was turning to call out an order, the next there was a flash of blue, the hum of a saber, and a sickening crack of a body hitting the dirt.
“—[Y/N]?!”
You were lying on your side, smoke rising from your robes, your saber a few meters away, deactivated.
You weren’t moving.
Sinker screamed something wordless over comms. Boost shouted your name.
“MEDIC!” Wolffe was already moving. “Get me a medic now!”
He slid to his knees beside you, hands already tearing open the fabric around the wound, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just doing. There was too much blood. Too much heat coming off your skin. You were smaller than him, younger, not armored like they were. You were a Jedi, yeah, but also just a kid compared to the rest of them.
His kid. Their kid.
And you’d taken a shot meant for him.
⸻
Hours Later you were in bacta now. Still alive. Barely.
The medics said it was touch and go. The bolt had burned through muscle and clipped something vital. You’d coded once during evac, but they brought you back. Your saber had been returned to Plo Koon, its emitter dented from where it had slammed into the ground.
Wolffe sat in the corner of the medbay, helmet off, armor streaked with dried blood—your blood. He hadn’t moved in two hours.
“Why the hell would she do that?” Sinker muttered, pacing with his helmet tucked under one arm. He was flushed, angry. “We wear armor for a reason. We train for this. She’s a Jedi, not a clone. She’s not supposed to—”
“Be willing to die for us?” Boost cut in, voice tired. “Guess she missed that memo.”
Sinker let out a long, low sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re the ones who throw ourselves in front of people. That’s the job. That’s our job.”
Plo Koon stood at your bedside, one hand lightly resting on the glass of the tank. He’d been silent for most of it, his calm presence a strange contrast to the chaos.
“She has always seen you as more than soldiers,” he said gently. “You are her brothers. Her family.”
Wolffe finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “She’s part of the pack. And the pack protects its own.”
“But she nearly died protecting you, Commander,” Boost said. “What does that make us?”
“Alive,” Wolffe answered. “That’s what it makes us. And when she wakes up, she’s going to be reminded that we never leave one of our own behind.”
Sinker stopped pacing, jaw clenched.
“She’s not gonna get off easy for this.”
“Oh, hell no,” Boost muttered. “Soon as she’s conscious, I’m yelling at her.”
“Not before me,” Wolffe said, standing finally. “I’ve got seniority.”
They tried to joke—tried to banter—but it didn’t land. Not yet.
⸻
Your vision was blurry. Everything felt heavy. And sore. So sore.
“Hey—hey! She’s waking up!”
Voices. Familiar. Warm.
You blinked hard. One blurry helmet. Then two. Then a third face appeared—scarred, grim, but so full of relief it almost didn’t look like Wolffe.
“About damn time,” he muttered. “Thought we were gonna have to start arguing over who got to carry your sorry ass out of here.”
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaky whisper: “Pack…”
Boost leaned in closer. “Yeah. We’re here.”
Sinker had a hand pressed to your arm, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
You smiled weakly. “Didn’t think about it.”
“No kidding,” Wolffe said, arms crossed now. “You jump in front of another bolt like that and we’re stapling your robes to the floor.”
Plo Koon stepped forward, voice kind and firm. “Rest now, little one. You have done more than enough. The pack is safe. Because of you.”
You let your eyes fall shut again, not from pain this time—but because you knew they were watching over you.
Always would.
“The Butcher and The Wolf”pt.2
Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader
R4 trilled while plugging data‑spikes into the sleek shuttle’s nav‑computer; TC polished the boarding ramp as though senators would rate its shine. Inside, [Y/N] sealed a crate of festival gifts—kyber‑laced lanterns, citrus‑spiced tihaar—when the hangar doors parted.
In strode Master Plo Coon and Kenobi, with his most innocent smile. Behind them Commander Cody and an impeccably straight‑backed Commander Wolffe.
Kenobi surveyed the scene, eyes twinkling. “My lady, I trust Coruscant treated you… memorably?”
Plo’s mask inclined. “Yes, I understand you’ve already formed a—shall we say—effective working rapport with our best security personnel.”
TC’s head swiveled. “If you refer to last night’s flawless briefing, Masters, I assure you my presentation notes were—”
“—copied from my schematics,” R4 beeped smugly.
Kenobi chuckled. “Quite. Though some reports suggest the princess herself gathered more… field intelligence than anticipated.”
Wolffe’s helmet visor dipped a millimeter; only Cody saw the pained grimace. He murmured, “Steady, vod, you’ve faced droid armies—Jedi teasing won’t kill you.”
[Y/N] kept a serene smile. “Coruscant was enlightening, Master Kenobi. Your commanders are… thorough.”
“Thorough,” Kenobi echoed, barely suppressing a grin. “An admirable quality.”
Plo produced a data‑chip. “Your Highness, these are revised escort protocols for the festival. The Council looks forward to cooperating.”
Cody added, “Wolfpack leads the clone detachment. We’ll rendezvous in orbit over Karthuna.” He patted Wolffe’s pauldron. “Commander is eager to ensure everything runs smoothly.”
Wolffe managed, “Honored to serve, Princess.” Translation: please let the floor swallow me.
R4 gave a warbling laugh. TC translated dryly, “R4 suggests the commander already has extensive knowledge of our customs—particularly nightlife.”
Kenobi coughed into his sleeve; even Plo’s mask seemed to smile.
[Y/N] ascended the ramp, pausing beside Wolffe. Low enough for only him: “Try not to judge anyone before second breakfast, Commander.”
He answered just as quietly, “Next time, title first, drinks second.”
Her wink was pure mischief. “Where’s the fun in that?”
With diplomatic farewells exchanged, the Jedi departed, Cody dragging a still‑smirking Kenobi. Wolffe lingered as engines warmed, visor reflecting the princess who had upended his meticulously ordered world.
R4’s hatch closed, TC waved primly, and the shuttle lifted skyward—toward open borders, a five‑day festival, and a reunion sure to test the Wolf’s composure more than any battlefield.
⸻
Commander Wolffe had survived orbital bombardments, trench sieges, and General Grievous’s cackling—but nothing tested endurance like the embassy’s protocol droid at full lecture speed.
TC strode the aisle between jump‑seats where Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker buckled in.
“…and the Festival of Dawning begins with a kuur‑vaan procession. That translates roughly as ‘dance of a thousand sparks,’ involving micro‑kyber filaments that ignite in sequence—quite breathtaking, provided you wear appropriate eye shielding. Now, the correct greeting is ‘Gal’shara’ with palms outward—never inward, or you imply the listener lacks honor. Also, avoid offering your left hand—historically used for bloodletting rituals dating back—”
Sinker slumped. “Commander, permission to eject myself through the air‑lock.”
Boost whispered, “Could be worse—could be a Senate speech.”
TC continued, undeterred. “—and if you’re offered sapphire tihaar, remember it’s an apology drink, not casual refreshment. Accepting without cause is tantamount to admitting fault. Speaking of fault, did you know the northern fault‑line—”
Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Droid, compile this in a datapad. My men will study quietly.”
“Oh, certainly, Commander. I have already prepared a 312‑page primer, complete with holo‑graphs.”
Sinker mouthed three‑hundred‑twelve?! Boost mimed choking.
⸻
[Y/N] sat cross‑legged in her cabin, R4 projecting a secure blue holo of King Talren—silver‑bearded, stern eyes softened only for his daughter.
“Little Dawn,” he greeted, using her childhood nickname, “I won’t waste time. Loyalist scouts uncovered three insurgent cells. Extremists insist reopening our borders is betrayal; some whisper of Separatist aid.”
A map flared beside him—red sigils in mountain passes.
“I need those cells silenced before the festival opens,” the king said. “You know the terrain. Take whatever force is required, but keep off‑worlders uninvolved. This must look like an internal matter.”
[Y/N] bowed her head. “It will be done, Father.”
The holo faded. R4 beeped a query.
“Prep infiltration loadouts,” she answered. “Low‑flash sabers, sonic mines, and two squads of Shadow Guard on standby. We strike first nightfall.”
R4 warbled approval, projecting tactical overlays. She added waypoints, carving silent routes Wolffe’s clones would never notice.
⸻
Later, passing Wolffe in the corridor, [Y/N] offered a casual nod. He paused, as if sensing undercurrents, but protocol kept him silent.
Behind him TC called, “Commander, I neglected to mention Karthunese dining order—if the Princess serves you last, it’s actually a sign of high esteem—”
Wolffe muttered a prayer for battlefield blasterfire to drown out etiquette lessons.
In her quarters, [Y/N] traced insurgent sigils on the holo with a gloved fingertip, resolve hardening. Opening Karthuna’s doors to the galaxy meant showing strength the old way—quiet, decisive, unseen.
And if the Wolf and his troopers never learned how the festival stayed peaceful, all the better.
⸻
The twin suns of Karthuna cast copper light over the obsidian‑paved sky‑dock as the Republic cruiser settled with a hiss of repulsors. King Talren stood flanked by honor guards whose sun‑metal armor threw brilliant flares into the air. Behind him waited the planetary senator, Senator Vessar, and the ever‑skeptical Governor of Interior Works, Governor Rhun.
The ramp dropped. Out strode Masters Plo Coon and Kenobi, Chancellor Palpatine in ceremonial crimson, a cluster of senators, and the clone detachment led by Commanders Cody and Wolffe flanked by Boost and Sinker.
Talren bowed with a warrior’s economy. “Karthuna welcomes the Republic. May the Force greet you as friend and guest.”
A respectful murmur answered. Yet even before introductions concluded, his daughter slipped to his side, murmured, “Urgent Shadow Guard matter, Father,” and—still in civilian vest and braid—beelined for a sand‑silver speeder.
Wolffe’s visor tracked her, but protocol held him. Engines howled; the speeder vanished down a cliff‑side lift‑tube toward the high passes.
Talren inhaled—the first lie ready on his tongue.
⸻
Kenobi stepped forward, large smile in place. “Your Majesty, we look forward to your famous Festival of Dawning.”
“As do we all,” Talren replied, steering the party toward the citadel’s balcony overlooking the festival valley—far from launch bays or military comms.
Chancellor Palpatine clasped gloved hands. “Your daughter leads the festivities, does she not? I had hoped to congratulate her.”
“She prepares a…surprise presentation,” Talren said smoothly. “Artists’ temperaments, Chancellor.”
Governor Rhun muttered just loud enough, “More like a warrior itching for mischief.”
Senator Vessar chimed in, tone dripping dry humor, “I assure our off‑world partners the princess habitually vanishes moments before debuting something spectacular—or spectacularly dangerous.”
Talren fixed them both with a steel‑edged smile that promised discussion later.
Plo Coon shifted his weight, Kel‑Dor mask unreadable. “Your Highness, Clone Commander Wolffe will require coordination with your security captain.”
“Of course.” Talren gestured toward the fortress doors. “Commander, my staff will relay schematics over luncheon. Meanwhile, allow me to show the Chancellor our kyber‑terraced gardens—quite safe, I assure you.”
Wolffe’s unspoken protest died behind the visor; duty bound, he followed Cody toward a briefing alcove where TC awaited with yet another data‑slab. Talren breathed easier: one crisis delayed, if not averted.
As the king guided the diplomats through colonnades, Governor Rhun leaned in: “You risk interstellar incident if the princess sparks bloodshed while the Republic picnics outside our walls.”
Talren’s voice stayed velvet, danger beneath. “Better insurgent blood in the mountains than senator blood in the streets.”
Senator Vessar added, half‑teasing, “If she returns with soot on her boots, I shall schedule extra press holos to reframe it as heroic cultural demonstration.”
Kenobi caught the whisper, grin curving. “Your court seems…spirited, Majesty.”
Talren allowed the tiniest exhale of amusement. “Karthuna has waited fifteen years to step back onto the galactic stage, General. We intend to give a performance worth the ticket.”
Above them, fireworks crews tested micro‑sparklers; bright hisses masked the distant roar of a speeder blazing toward insurgent territory.
In a quiet moment against the balcony rail, Talren gazed over valley tents blooming for festival week, mind split between choreography of diplomats and the razor‑work his daughter undertook beyond those peaks.
He whispered to the wind, “Return swift, Little Dawn.”
⸻
By mid‑afternoon the princess was still missing.
Commander Wolffe stood on the citadel parapet overlooking the valley’s bustling festival city, visor fixed on the distant scar of mountains her speeder had taken.
Local Sun‑Guard Captain Arven stepped up, spearhaft tapping stone.
“Enjoying the view, off‑worlder?”
“I’d enjoy it more if your crown heir were within com‑range,” Wolffe replied. “Transmit her last coordinates.”
“Princess has classified authority.”
Wolffe’s servo‑joint clicked as his gauntlet clenched. “My mandate is to protect every Republic dignitary on this rock—including her.”
Arven smirked. “Karthuna protected itself centuries before troopers in white armor needed it. Stand down, Commander.”
Cody’s voice crackled through Wolffe’s comlink: “Easy, vod. Diplomacy first.”
Wolffe never took his eye from the peaks. Diplomacy ends when the VIP bleeds, he thought—and weighed the odds of “borrowing” a gunship.
New LAATs screamed in, disgorging Jedi and clones.
Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano with the 501st, assigned to guard Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo and a cadre of Core‑World legislators.
Masters Mace Windu and Ki‑Adi‑Mundi arrived with Commanders Ponds and Bacara respectively, doubling ground strength.
Skywalker clapped Wolffe’s pauldron. “Heard your princess pulled a disappearing act—sounds like my kind of trouble.”
“Not helping, General,” Wolffe growled, though Ahsoka’s sympathetic grin eased his temper a notch.
Senators debarked in a flurry of aides, holo‑recorders, and fashion impractical for mountain air. Festival staff hustled to reroute them toward reception halls—distraction, Talren hoped, until his daughter returned.
Master Yoda, leaning on his gimer stick, sought King Talren atop a sun‑warmed terrace strewn with kyber wind‑chimes. The diminutive Jedi regarded the monarch’s sun‑metal cuirass and the twin‑bladed saber at his hip.
“Strong in the Force, your people are,” Yoda began. “Yet light and dark you name not. Curious, this is.”
Talren inclined his head. “Master, on Karthuna we are taught: there is no dawn without night. Deny darkness, and daylight loses meaning. Balance is not the absence of shadow, but its harmony with light.”
“Hmmm.” Yoda’s ears twitched thoughtfully. “Unnatural, you say, to void one side?”
“As unnatural as silencing half a heartbeat,” Talren answered. “We do not fear the shadow; we fear imbalance.”
Wind‑chimes chimed like distant sabers. Yoda closed his eyes, absorbing the resonance.
“Much to learn, even I have,” he murmured. “And much to guard, we both must.”
Talren’s gaze drifted to the mountains. “Agreed, Master Yoda. Balance must sometimes be defended by hidden blades.”
⸻
Sunset torched the valley when a sand‑silver speeder roared through the citadel gates. Clone guards scrambled aside as [Y/N] leapt off, still in dust‑streaked vest and combat shorts. She vaulted a barricade, sprinting for the grand foyer.
“Hey—civilian access is restricted!” bellowed Commander Fox, Crimson Guard staff lowered across her path.
She halted, breath steady despite the climb. “I live here, thanks.”
Before Fox could run ID, Chancellor Palpatine emerged from a delegation knot, eyes narrowing with fox‑like curiosity.
“My dear, racing through secure halls in such…practical attire—is something amiss?”
[Y/N] offered a flawless court bow that contrasted sharply with her grime‑spattered boots. “Merely last‑minute festival preparations, Chancellor. Please excuse me; I must dress for the gala.”
Palpatine’s smile sliced thin. “Ah, duty never rests. I look forward to your presentation this evening.”
Fox straightened as realization dawned. “Wait—you’re—”
She winked. “Classified, Commander.” Then slipped past, leaving red armor and red robes equally bemused.
In her chamber, TC fussed with brocade gowns while R4 powered a sonic shower.
“Your Highness, the schedule is punishing: welcome gala at nineteen‑hundred, holo‑address at twenty‑two, and saber exhibition by dawn.”
“Then we’d better look lethal and lovely,” [Y/N] said, toweling off. She chose a floor‑length gown of midnight silk that clung to sculpted muscle, high slits revealing thigh holsters for compact hilts. Sun‑metal pauldrons mirrored her crown, but the gown’s sleeveless cut displayed the lattice of scars down both arms—plasma burns, shrapnel lines, duelist nicks—each a story she refused to hide.
TC clipped the circlet into her damp hair. “Might I suggest gloves to soften the, ah, impression?”
She flexed scarred fingers. “No. Let the galaxy see what Karthuna’s balance looks like.”
R4 projected her entrance route. She studied it, then smiled. “Time to charm senators, silence rumors, and—perhaps—make a wolf squirm.”
⸻
A fanfare of crystal horns cut through conversation. Doors parted, revealing Princess [Y/N] radiant in midnight silk and sun‑metal crown, scars on her bare arms glinting like silver filigree. Senators gasped—half at the regality, half at the unapologetic battle‑marks.
Master Kenobi murmured to Skywalker, “Grace and menace in equal measure—definitely your type, Anakin.”
Skywalker smirked. “She’d have me for breakfast.”
Padmé Amidala complimented the gown’s craftsmanship; [Y/N] returned praise for Naboo’s relief programs, steering talk away from rumored insurgents.
Master Windu approached her, he attempted to discuss security perimeters; the princess assured him Karthuna’s Shadow Guard had “every shadow covered.”
Across the room, Governor Rhun whispered to holoreporters, stoking stories of her “reckless mountain excursion.” TC hovered, intercepting leading questions with cutting etiquette lessons.
Commander Wolffe, helmet clipped to belt, stood near a terrace arch with Cody and Plo Coon. When [Y/N] approached, conversation faltered like a blaster misfire.
She offered a delicate curtsy—mischief in her eyes. “Commander, I trust the briefing notes were…illuminating?”
“They were extensive,” Wolffe said evenly. “Yet somehow omitted your talent for disappearing.”
“Ah, but every good security test includes an unscheduled drill.” She stepped closer, voice just for him: “You passed—eventually.”
The faintest flush darkened Wolffe’s neck. “Next time give me a comm frequency, not a cliff to chase.”
[Y/N] arched a brow. “And deny you the exercise?” Her fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron as she glided past. “Meet me on the terrace at midnight—strictly business, of course.”
Wolffe exhaled—half growl, half laugh—as Cody elbowed him, grinning. “Careful, vod. That one dances with both halves of the Force.”
Strings struck up Karthuna’s dawn‑waltz. Jedi mingled with diplomats while clone troopers ringed the hall’s perimeter. Suspicion, politics, and bright music braided in the air—yet for a heartbeat, harmony held.
In the high galleries, R4 scanned faces, feeding the princess data on a Separatist envoy concealed among trade delegates—tonight’s real threat.
Midnight loomed, and outside the terrace doors, mountain winds whispered of balance, blades, and a wolf answering a princess’s call.
⸻
Princess [Y/N] leaned against the balustrade, moon‑silver kissing the scars on her shoulders. Commander Wolffe stood close, arms folded—attempt at stoic ruined by her playful tug on the strap of his pauldron.
“Still on duty, Commander?” she teased.
“Always.”
“So devoted,” she murmured, fingers ghosting along the seam where synth‑skin met armor. “Makes a woman wonder how else that focus might—”
A scarlet bolt sizzled through the ballroom windows. Shouts. Glass rained like crystal hail.
Inside, Governor Rhun lay sprawled behind an overturned buffet, cloak smoking at the shoulder. Clone guards returned fire toward upper galleries; a masked shooter vaulted onto a chandelier cable and vanished in a flash‑grenade’s glare.
Skywalker, Ahsoka, Windu ignited sabers; Cody’s troopers fanned out. Wolffe ushered [Y/N] through the shattered doors into the throne corridor, senators scrambling behind.
⸻
Heavy doors slammed. Present: King Talren, Chancellor Palpatine, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kenobi, Commanders Cody, Wolffe, Ponds, Bacara, Senator Padmé, and a handful of shaken delegates. Rhun, arm bacta‑wrapped, was dragged in by medics.
Tension whipped like live wire.
[Y/N] broke the silence, voice flat: “Pity the shooter missed.”
Gasps; Wolffe’s helmet snapped toward her.
Rhun snarled. “Should’ve been you that got shot!”
She advanced, eyes blazing. “I opposed reopening our borders. Tonight proves me right. We invited every power broker in the war to one valley—painted a target the size of a moon.”
King Talren’s tone cut ice. “Peace requires risk.”
“Blind risk courts massacre,” she shot back. “Insurgents in our mountains, Separatist agents in our ballroom—now assassins under our roof.”
Palpatine interjected silkily, “Surely, Princess, the Republic can strengthen your security.”
“More soldiers won’t erase the bull’s‑eye you represent, Chancellor.”
Mace Windu’s gaze narrowed. “You suggest isolation while the galaxy burns?”
“I suggest survival,” she answered.
Arguments flared—senators citing diplomacy, clones citing protocol. Wolffe stepped between factions, voice drill‑sergeant sharp: “Focus. Assassin is still loose. Mandates later, lockdown now.”
Plo Coon, calm amid storm, nodded approval.
King Talren exhaled. “Commander Wolffe, you have joint authority with my Shadow Guard. Hunt the shooter.”
Wolffe met [Y/N]’s gaze—heat of earlier flirtation replaced by razor respect. “Princess—coming?”
She clicked twin sabers to her belt. “Lead the way, Commander.”
Rhun blanched; Padmé exchanged a knowing look with Kenobi—battle partners born.
The moment the throne‑room doors slammed behind them, [Y/N] was already moving—midnight gown gathered in one fist, the other dropping her double sabers into waiting palms.
Wolffe fell in at her shoulder, DC‑17 raised. The marble corridor echoed with their synchronized footfalls.
“Shadow Guard breach tunnel’s this way,” she hissed, sweeping aside a wall‑tapestry to reveal a spiral stair cut straight into obsidian.
He nodded once. “After you, Princess.”
The air grew cooler, alive with a faint crystalline hum. Iridescent kyber veins glowed within the stone, casting violet and jade shadows across their path.
Wolffe switched his helmet lamp to low‑band; [Y/N] didn’t bother—her people’s Force‑attuned sight caught every shimmer.
A blaster scorch on the stair railing.
“Fresh,” she murmured.
“Means we’re close,” Wolffe replied, pulse settling into the calm that preceded battle.
The stair disgorged them into a vast cavern—kyber pillars rising like frozen lightning. At the far end, the assassin’s silhouette leapt between crystal spires, cloak tattered by security bolts.
Wolffe’s comm clicked twice—Boost and Sinker sealing exits above.
“Corner him,” Wolffe ordered.
“Alive,” [Y/N] added. “I want intel before he bleeds out.”
They split wordlessly: Wolffe low along a mineral ridge, [Y/N] sprinting the high ledge, gown whipping behind like a war‑banner.
The assassin spun, twin WESTARs barking scarlet. Wolffe dove, bolts sparking off crystal as [Y/N] sprang from above, sabers igniting.
A vibro‑dagger flicked from the assassin’s wrist—met by Wolffe’s gauntlet, beskad plating deflecting the strike. He slammed the butt of his pistol into the assailant’s ribs.
“Yield,” the commander growled.
A hissed curse the killer smashed a detonator against the pillar. Kyber screamed as fractures spider‑webbed, light flaring.
[Y/N] threw Wolffe back with a Force‑shove and thrust both sabers into the crystal, channeling energy away in a surge of blinding radiance. The explosion muted to a concussive thump; shards rained harmlessly.
When vision cleared, the assassin lay dazed, binders already clamping on under Wolffe’s practiced hands.
“Who hired you?” the princess demanded.
The prisoner spat blood, defiant. “Karthuna’s own who crave true freedom—and the Confederacy rewards such courage.”
Wolffe’s visor tipped toward [Y/N]. Confirmation.
⸻
Governor Rhun’s voice boomed across the ballroom remnant—holocams hovering:
“This outrage proves openness invites anarchy! I petition immediate curfew, martial oversight by local forces, and expulsion of unnecessary off‑world elements!”
Several senators, rattled, murmured agreement. Separatist sympathizers whispered through the crowd, feeding fear.
Master Windu folded his arms. “Governor, the assassin wielded Separatist tech. Cooperation with the Republic, not isolation, thwarts such threats.”
Rhun’s smile was razor‑thin. “Yet my princess would see me dead; perhaps the Council should examine internal loyalties first.”
King Talren’s reply was cut short by the distant rumble of kyber—catacomb fight vibrations reaching high halls. Panic rippled anew.
Wolffe and [Y/N] emerged, armor and gown dusted in crystal powder, prisoner in tow. Gasps rippled through assembled officials.
“Governor Rhun,” [Y/N] announced, voice carrying. “Your assassin failed. And he’s confessed to Separatist backing—backing that feeds on fear you happily sow.”
Rhun’s complexion drained.
Palpatine stepped forward, tone silken. “A grave accusation, Princess. Proof?”
Wolffe activated the assassin’s cracked vambrace: a holo‑sigil of the Techno Union flickered. That, plus recorded confession from his helmet‑cam, filled the air in chilling blue.
Yoda’s ears drooped, sad but certain. “Darkness invited not by borders, but hearts seeking power, yes.”
Arguments flared, but now the tide shifted: senators demanding inquiry into Rhun’s dealings, Jedi reinforcing joint patrols, clones and Sun‑Guard sharing data rather than territory. The assassin was led away.
In the aftershock, [Y/N] turned to Wolffe, adrenaline still bright in her eyes.
“You kept up,” she said softly.
“You lit up half a mountain,” he retorted, relief threading the words.
A grin tugged her lips. “Balance, Commander—little light, little dark.”
His chuckle surprised them both. “Next time, maybe just a dance.”
She offered her arm—scarred, unhidden. He took it, escorting her back into the fractured ballroom where a new balance—uneasy, hard‑won—waited to be forged.
Previous Part
“The Butcher and The Wolf” Pt.1
Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader
Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.
A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.
The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”
Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.
Karthuna: quick file
• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.
• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.
• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.
• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.
• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.
The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”
Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.
Psych‑profile excerpt
“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.
Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’
Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”
Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”
“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”
Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”
⸻
79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.
Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.
“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.
“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”
“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”
“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.
The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.
She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”
Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”
“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.
Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.
Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Credits to spice‑cakes.”
“She hasn’t told him?”
“Not a word.”
Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”
Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”
They clasped forearms on it.
The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.
When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.
“I don’t dance,” he protested.
“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”
She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.
At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.
“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”
He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”
“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”
Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”
“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”
⸻
Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.
“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”
Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”
As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”
“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.
“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.
⸻
Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.
She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”
His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”
Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.
⸻
Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.
A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.
The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.
“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.
The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”
[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”
“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”
Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.
“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”
[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”
“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”
A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”
“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”
She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”
He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.
Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.
TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”
A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”
She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”
TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”
“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”
The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.
[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”
TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”
“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”
⸻
Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.
—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.
TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.
“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”
R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.
At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.
“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.
Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”
Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.
“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.
Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.
Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”
Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.
“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”
Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.
Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.
The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.
Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”
⸻
Next Part
Hello! I gotta say I love how you write the banter between the clones and it honestly is so funny and cute. Could I get a Fox or Wolfe x reader where maybe he goes to wear something that he doesn’t know reveals a few marks from you the previous night and his brother notices and tease him? That’s the main request but I’d love if you’d add anything else plot wise to make it more full and complete Xx
“Battle Scars”
Wolffe x Reader
Wolffe didn’t go out often. Boost and Sinker practically had to drag him to 79’s that night, not because he hated it, but because he hated the noise, the chaos, the unwanted attention.
But mostly?
He just preferred being alone with you.
Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for everyone else—Sinker had shouted something about “you owe us after ditching two poker nights in a row,” and now he was stomping toward the bar in a casual black shirt (one you may or may not have helped him out of the night before), grumbling like a man headed to execution.
He hadn’t noticed that the neckline sat just a little wide across the collarbone. Or that a certain faint purple mark was blooming just below the edge of the collar on the left side. Or that there were more—not too obvious, but definitely visible if you were looking.
And Boost and Sinker? They were looking.
“Kriff, Wolffe,” Sinker said, the moment they’d taken a booth and ordered drinks. “You finally let off some steam, huh?”
Wolffe blinked, raising a brow. “What?”
Boost leaned in with a sh*t-eating grin. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I can see the bruise on your neck from here.”
Wolffe stiffened. “It’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Sinker cut in. “That’s either a love bite or you got in a fight with a Nexu.”
Boost sipped his drink, eyes glinting. “And judging by the one just peeking above your collar? Our dear commander got wrecked.”
Wolffe growled, yanking his collar up slightly. “Shut it.”
“Who’s the lucky one?” Sinker asked, already leaning across the table like he was digging for state secrets.
“None of your damn business,” Wolffe muttered.
“That means it’s definitely someone we know,” Boost said with delight.
“Is it one of the medics?” Sinker mused.
“Maybe that intel officer with the legs?”
“I bet it’s—wait.” Boost froze, grinned wider. “It’s that civvie he always walks to the transport bay, isn’t it? The one with the nice voice—what was her name again?”
Wolffe looked like he was calculating murder odds.
“[Y/N]!” Sinker snapped his fingers. “She’s always smiling at you. Maker, I knew it.”
Wolffe stayed dead silent, drinking his beer with the expression of a man who would rather fight General Grievous shirtless than have this conversation.
“Wolffe,” Boost said slowly, “you sly di’kut. You’ve been holding out.”
“You’re smiling,” Sinker said, pointing. “Look at him, he’s smiling. That’s a post-blissful-night smile.”
“I am not smiling.”
“You are,” Boost confirmed, nodding sagely. “You look like a man who got thoroughly appreciated. Several times.”
“You know what,” Sinker said, raising his glass, “I’m just proud. Our boy’s finally unclenched.”
Wolffe muttered, “I will kill both of you.”
⸻
It was well past midnight when you heard a familiar knock—two short, one long—on your door.
You opened it to find Wolffe standing there, looking deliciously rumpled. His black shirt was half-untucked, collar slightly askew, his hair a little mussed, and that glare in his eye… the one that always meant either someone pissed him off, or he was thinking about you.
He stepped in without a word, the door hissing shut behind him. You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall, hiding your grin.
“Well, hello to you too, Commander.”
Wolffe stopped in front of you, eyes narrowing.
“You,” he said lowly, voice rough with exhaustion and a hint of that familiar gravel. “Left marks.”
You blinked innocently. “Did I?”
He arched a brow. “Sinker counted three. Boost said one looked like it bit back.”
You tried—really tried—not to laugh. “I told you not to wear that shirt.”
“It was the only clean one,” he growled.
You shrugged with mock innocence. “Not my fault your brothers have eyes.”
Wolffe stepped in closer. His voice dropped, heated now. “They wouldn’t shut up.”
“Poor you,” you cooed, lifting your hand to his collar and gently tugging it further aside to admire your handiwork. “But if it’s any consolation…”
You leaned in, lips brushing just under his ear.
“I’d be very happy to leave more.”
Wolffe stilled for a moment. Then you felt the sharp exhale of his breath, the way his hands suddenly found your hips, firm and possessive.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
You smirked. “Not tonight.”
His mouth was on yours before you could get another word out, rough and hungry and just the right kind of desperate. You didn’t mind. You’d apologize for the marks never.
And judging by the way he walked you backward toward the bedroom?
Neither would he.