Laravel

Tbb Wolffe - Blog Posts

6 months ago

a flight risk with a fear of falling

Commander Wolffe depicted in the series the clone wars. He is wearing his white and gray Wolfpack armor, full kit with exception to his helmet. He wears a confident expression, short brown hair cropped and slicked back. He is tall and broad with brown eyes and a small goatee. In the background, other clone troopers surround him, standing at attention and wearing their helmets with T-shaped visors

pairing: commander Wolffe / fem reader

Word count: two.4K

Tags/warnings: mostly fluff and hurt/comfort, but suggestive at times. Sketchy fair rides, fear of falling summary: you and Wolffe attend a local fair. You have a great time, all goes well, until you’re stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel and are pretty convinced that you’re about to fall and die. Notes: reader is implied to be visually impaired here. However, of course, that does not mean you won’t enjoy if you’re not. This was just based off of a real life experience I had, and I couldn’t imagine writing it and the fear I felt without blindness being incorporated into it. Title is based off of the lyrics of mine by Taylor Swift.

You aren’t afraid of heights.

And really, you think, it would be silly for you to be, considering how little vision you have to look down at the world as it whizzes beneath you as you fly by. 

You and Wolffe had eagerly scrambled to get on the roller coasters with the highest peaks with barely a second thought, been on the drop zone more than once in a row, and the whole time, you had only been screaming with delight and adrenaline fuelled anticipation, your commander only rolling his eyes fondly, unable to conceal the upward curve of his lips or the crinkle of amusement between his eyes as they gleam, bearing witness to your unbridled display of excitement with quiet satisfaction. 

“As much as I love watching you becoming a little speed demon, meshla,” he says lowly, tucking you beneath his arm as you stumble, slightly woozy and breathless after your most recent ride, “maybe we should take a break from these.” 

He indicates the line of brightly coloured roller coasters that stretch in front of you, loud Carnival Style music blaring from many of them, accompanied by the ambiance of constant shrieks as they speed above.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t love me if I threw up all over your new boots?” You ask with a pout, letting your head drop against his chest with a sigh.

“That’s not what I said,” he chides, gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “But do you really want to share a speeder with me on the way home if I smell like that?” he gives you a slight poke, and you wrinkle your nose with a shake of your head.

“Fiine,” you say with a dramatic roll of your eyes. “Boost told me that a wolf plushy is up as a prize at one of the games. We should try and win it, to show some pride for the Wolfpack, you know?.” 

His lips pull into a slight smirk as he gazes down at you. “Aren’t you actually suggesting that I should waste our precious tokens on a game that is probably a scam to try and win it for you?” he huffs, folding his arms across his chest as he gives you a playful scowl with a raised eyebrow. “Because no offense, but I don’t think your skill set lies in aiming rings at bottles, meshla,” he remarks, brushing a slight kiss against the tip of your nose.

Your pout transforms into a full on grin. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” you confirm, completely unashamedly, with an enthusiastic nod. “You win the game, and I’ll be your personal cheerleader.”

“Hm,” Wolffe tilts his head, considering. “That would be more tempting if you were wearing the outfit,” he says, voice dropping, fingers lazily trailing down your side, idly making their path to your waist.

Your breath catches and you smack his arm playfully. “I don’t have a cheerleader outfit,” you announce, with a toss of your hair, placing a hand on your hip

You raise yourself up onto your tiptoes, leaning in and letting your own voice drop suggestively with a teasing smirk. “But, if you win the game, I’ll make sure that the night ends with my outfit scattered on the floor.” 

There’s a moment of dead silence, tension crackling in the air as Wolffe’s eyes rake over your form, both hands reaching out to settle against your hips.

Then, he unexpectedly hoists you up into his arms, causing you to squeak with surprise, steadying your self by grasping at his shoulders as your eyes dance. 

“Teasing little thing,” he hums, breath inches away from your ear as he speaks, making you shiver. “I’ll do it, then. But you better be prepared for us to lose all of our tokens on this, sweetheart.”

*

When he does actually manage to win, you’re pleasantly surprised. 

Not because you had any doubt in him, of course. But because you genuinely believed that all of the fair games were scams. Wolffe is ceaseless in his determination, though, as evidenced by the very limited amount of tokens you have left. He lines up each shot with as much precision as you imagine he does on the battlefield, his natural confidence in his abilities riling up the games supervisors, as with their increasing befuddlement, they try to make it harder for him, especially, in the end, when his confidence is proven to be not unfounded in the slightest.

“Here you are, ner cyar,” he says, easy smile on his lips as he passes you the very large, gray wolf stuffed animal.

“Thank you,” you say excitedly, wrapping your arms around the plushy and jumping up to give Wolffe a chaste kiss.

Your lips pull into a smirk, holding up the stuffed animal with pride. “Looks like I’ve got a new favourite cuddle buddy, Wolffe,” you tease. “You were great, but, I think I just found your replacement,” you chuckle, and are abruptly cut off when swiftly, Wolffe reaches out, effortlessly plucking the wolf from your arms and holding him high above your head.

“Don’t even joke about that, meshla,” he warns, tauntingly dangling him just out of your reach as you desperately try to grab for him. “Uh uh,” he tsks, look of mock disapproval settling over his features as he holds the plushy above your head by his ear. “You take that back first, and I’ll give him back to you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Lucky for you, the stuffed wolf won’t be able to replace you as the big spoon. So please, can I have him back?” 

“Good,” he says, smug smile on his face. Gently, he drops the stuffed animal, taking care to make sure that he lands in your arms without incident.

“We still have a few tokens,” you report, counting over the admittedly meagre supply. “We should go on the ferris wheel.” 

“I hope you’re not trying to put off us going home so that I don’t get as much time to partake in the other part of the winnings you promised me,” he quips, tilting his head quizzically.

“Of course not,” you defend, holding up the last ride tokens. “I just don’t want these to go to waste. Besides, I’ve never been on one before.”

Wolffe gives you a grin, suddenly mischievous, pulling your arm through his and bending his elbow almost out of habit, so that he can guide you.

“I haven’t either,” he admits, beginning to walk. “Let’s fix that for both of us.”

*

You are not afraid of heights. 

This, you are now reminding yourself, quite  sternly as the ferris wheel lifts you higher and higher by degree.

And maybe, you rationalize, that is still true. Because though watching the world blurring out of focus below you with your already limited vision is, unsettling, to say the least. It’s really the Ferris wheel itself, with one support bar around your waist being the only thing that stops you from plummeting face first Back down to the Earth below.

Being blind can alter or throw off your sense of balance and centre of gravity, and although this isn’t something you’re reminded of often, this is one of the times where it hits you full on, how unsteady you are, how close to teetering and falling all the way down you feel, even if, logically, you know the odds of that happening are small. You can’t convince your brain of that, so you freeze up completely, thinking that if you don’t move, that if you don’t even breathe, it’ll make it easier.

It doesn’t.

“What’s wrong?”

Wolffe is watching you, eyes intent, observant. At first, you’re not entirely sure as to what has tipped him off to your impending sense of doom. But then, looking down, finding that your hand has locked itself around his with an iron grip, you suppose it’s quite obvious. What’s more, your other arm is tightly wrapped around the stuffed wolf he won for you at the ring toss, your face hiding against its soft fur, eyes squeezed shut.

At your lack of response, he shifts, wanting to get a better look at you. Unfortunately, though, this causes the cart you’re into jostle, and even though the movement is slight and fleeting, you still let out a noise of distress, eyes going wide.

“Are you, scared of heights?” He asks, voice slightly incredulous and tentative.

You shake your head vehemently in denial. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s, I.”

You’re cut off as the wheel begins to move again, pulling you closer to the top before stopping. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think that the sun must be about to set, and it must be a nice view, for those who can appreciate it. For those who don’t feel like they’re about to die right now. 

“It’s not how high we are, Wolffe,” you try to explain, hating the way that your voice comes out in more of a whimper as you stare down at the ground. “It’s just I just feel like I’m going to fall. It it would be so easy,” you point with a shaking hand at the support bar, distrustful. “And what if something goes wrong and I...” you trail off, eyes blurring with unshed tears, to your utter mortification.

“It it’s not like the roller coasters, Wolffe,” you try to explain, clutching at the stuffed animal in your lap with anxiety. “On those, I didn’t have time to think about falling.”

All sense of logic and rationality has fled your mind like birds, leaving you feeling unstable, each heartbeat that pounds within the cage of your chest convincing you further that the slightest breeze is going to push you off, send you falling down off this precarious ride and to your certain demise. 

A single tear tracks its way down your cheek and carefully, Wolffe raises a hand to gently wipe it away. “Oh, ner cyar,” he breathes, movements slow and deliberate as he reaches out towards you, keeping it cautious, predictable, so that you know exactly what he’s doing. “C’mere,” he coos at you softly, arm reaching around you to easily pull you to him.

His other hand delicately smooths over your hair, before settling to cradle the back of your head, securely tucking you against his chest.

Miraculously, the feeling of his body, protective as it curls around you, Creating a safe cocoon for you to nestle in, Immediately begins to ease the all consuming fear inside your bones. Somehow, you feel less unsteady, isolated, and on the verge of falling as soon as he’s safely tucked you in his arms.

“Do you think I’m gonna let you fall, ad’ika?” He asks, voice a low rumble as he looks down at you, the stuffed animal comfortably wedged between the both of you.

The feeling of his strong arms holding you securely against his broad chest, the way his heart is beating steadily against your ear, is much more reassuring than the seemingly flimsy support bar, and your intrusive thoughts. In spite of yourself, you find your muscles beginning to unwind, melting into him as one of his hands, large and warm, caresses over your back, pressing firm, grounding circles in between your shoulder blades.

“N no,” you say, unable to conceal the slight tremor that runs through you as the ferris wheel moves again. “B but what if.”

“Shh, meshla, focus,” he gently Chides, redirecting you’re over thinking mind back to him, giving one of your shoulders a slight squeeze of encouragement. “I want you to close your eyes, and breathe, and all you have to do is focus on me, alright? Nothing else, just you and me, right here,” he continues, voice a calm, steady stream.

You give him a small, shaky nod, before turning your face against his chest, relieved when you can no longer see the world growing smaller when you’re tucked against him like this. Slowly, hesitantly, you let your eyes close, and you’re surprised and relieved to find that the impending sense of dread is beginning to fade.

You’re rewarded with Wolffe lowering, a slight dip of his chin, peppering several kisses to the top of your head as he holds you tightly. “Good girl,” he praises, voice a quiet breath against your ear.

The ferris wheel begins to move again and before you’re given time to think about it, he speaks, derailing the panicked thoughts that begin to stir.

“Your hair is so pretty,” he remarks, slowly running his fingers through the strands. “And so soft,” he murmurs, dropping another kiss to your head. “How do you get it to be like that?” 

Somehow, your lips pull into a small smile. “With a lot of work,” you mumble with a slight laugh and shrug.

“And?” He prods, lightly poking you in the side. “I want details, meshla. Give me your full routine, with the products you use. Give me a step-by-step guide.” 

You know that he probably doesn’t actually care. You know he’s making you talk to distract you from the movements of the ferris wheel around you. In spite of that, though, you give in, beginning to speak and explain exactly how you maintain your hair. 

To his credit, he seems to be listening attentively to everything you’re saying, eyes never leaving you as you speak, always prompting you with questions when you seem to not know what else to say. 

Before you know it, the wheel has brought your cart to the ground, and an attendant is releasing the support bar from around the both of you, allowing you to get down. 

Wolffe clambers out first, getting down to offer you a hand, helping you down off the attraction. Taking one look at the expression on your face, he wordlessly holds out his elbow, beginning to guide you both towards the fairgrounds exit.

“Are you that eager to get us home so that you can claim your winnings?” You ask teasingly as he pulls you behind him with long, purposeful strides.

He stops, turns to face you and catches your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to look at him as he idly runs a calloused thumb over your bottom lip, causing goosebumps to rise on your upper arms.

“Hm,” he says, expression contemplative as his other hand grazes down your side, experimentally dipping beneath the material of your top to trace teasing circles against your hip.

“Truth be told, meshla,” he muses, the low baritone of his voice slightly husky with desire. “I think you’re the one who deserves rewarding tonight.”

Your face breaks into a smile, even as you arch against his touch, with your breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you start to say, finding you have to swallow several times as a blush creeps into your cheeks before you can respond properly.

“I certainly won


Tags
2 weeks ago

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.


Tags
2 weeks ago

“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


Tags
2 weeks ago

“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


Tags
2 weeks ago

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.


Tags
3 weeks ago

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

104th Material List🐺🩶☑️🌚

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

Wolf Pack

“For The Pack” 🏡

Commander Wolffe

- x Jedi Reader (order 66)❤️

- x “Village Crazy” reader❤️

- x Jedi Reader ❤️

- x Reader (79’s)❤️

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

- x reader “Command and Consequence”❤️

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

- x Fem!Reader “still yours”❤️

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

- x Reader “Tactical Complications”❤️

- “Battle Scars” ❤️/🌶️

- “The Butcher and The Wolf” ❤️ multiple parts

Overall Material List


Tags
1 month ago

Hey! I’m from Australia(Melbourne) too!! I had a request for a Wollfe X Fem!Reader where he has to rescue her but it’s like disneys Hercules where Meg says “I’m a damsel and I’m in distress, I can handle this” and it’s a bunch of cute banter and flirting and maybe some spice thrown in? Love your work! Xx

Hey lovely! Thank you for your request, I hope the below is somewhat what you were hoping for!

“Tactical Complications”

Commander Wolffe x Reader

Blaster bolts screamed overhead, debris rained from the shattered rooftop, and your heels—gorgeous, custom, Senate-issue—were now coated in soot.

Typical.

You were pinned behind the shattered remains of what used to be a speeder—now a flaming, sparking coffin. Your blaster was out of charge, your dress had a tear the size of a hyperspace route down the side, and your thigh throbbed from where shrapnel had bit deep.

So no, this wasn’t ideal.

But it wasn’t your first disaster either.

“You’re going to regret this,” you muttered to the squad of droids advancing with heavy steps. “Because I’m very well-connected, and also—” you raised the empty blaster like it was worth something, “—kind of terrifying when cornered.”

The droids didn’t seem impressed.

And then—

Blasterfire. Sharp, clean, precise.

Heads popped. Limbs flew. The last droid barely had time to turn before its chest caved inward from a single, well-placed bolt.

Smoke curled in the air as silence fell.

You didn’t look surprised when he stepped into view—tall, armored, and absolutely furious.

Commander Wolffe.

“You took your time,” you called, voice dry. “I was two seconds from charming them into an alliance.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you—soot-smudged, limping, bleeding—like you were a glitch in his mission log he couldn’t delete.

“You’re injured.”

“You’re observant.”

He stormed toward you, ignoring your sass, and crouched beside your leg. “Hold still.”

“Careful,” you breathed, as his fingers brushed your bare thigh to check the wound. “You keep touching me like that, people might talk.”

“You’re bleeding through your sarcasm,” he said coolly. “Try being quiet for five seconds.”

You leaned closer, voice low. “That sounded suspiciously like a request.”

He looked up at you then, helmet off, one brow twitching with something like restraint. His hands were steady. His jaw—tight.

“You disobeyed direct evacuation orders,” he muttered, wrapping a field bandage tight. “And you think I’m the one being reckless.”

“I had intel,” you shot back. “I stayed to gather it. The mission mattered.”

“You nearly got vaped.”

“Please. I’ve had worse nights in the Senate.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just for a second. A crack in the façade.

“I should drag you out of here by your pretty little neck,” he muttered.

“Pretty?” you echoed, pretending to swoon. “Wolffe, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He lifted you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You hissed through your teeth at the movement, clutching his pauldron.

“You don’t have to carry me.”

“I’m not arguing with a senator who thinks she’s immortal.”

You stared up at him as the evac ship loomed in view. “You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.”

You smirked. “And yet, you still came for me.”

His grip tightened.

“I always come for what’s mine.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you again, didn’t say another word. But you felt it—that heat simmering under all his armor, all his rules.

And you knew next time… he wouldn’t be so professional.


Tags
1 month ago

“Brothers in the Making” pt.3

Command Squad x Reader

The fortress was carved straight into the mountainside — dark metal and cold stone, its towers punching through the mist like jagged teeth. Separatist banners snapped in the wind, and scout droids buzzed along the perimeter like angry insects.

You crouched with Obi-Wan behind a ridge just above the valley floor. The cadets were lined up beside you, low and quiet, eyes locked on the compound.

Anakin was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

“Alright,” you whispered, tapping your datapad. “I count four main patrol paths. One blind spot. Minimal aerial surveillance.”

Kenobi nodded. “We can use the cliffside tunnel. I’ve seen this kind of layout before — there’s usually an access vent leading into the communications wing.”

You turned to your boys. “No heroics. Stay behind cover, stick to the plan, and no loud noises. Got it?”

They all nodded.

Except for Bacara, who raised a hand like he had a question.

You narrowed your eyes. “If this is about blowing something up—”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“No loud noises.”

“Fine.”

Just as you leaned in to start your descent, a distant buzz and then a crash echoed from the other side of the fortress wall.

Everyone froze.

Obi-Wan sighed deeply. “That wasn’t us, was it?”

You didn’t answer — because right then, Anakin skidded down the slope, cloak half-burnt, covered in dust and grinning like an idiot.

“Hey!” he called, too loud. “Good news! I found a side entrance—”

A siren wailed.

Turrets rotated.

Searchlights snapped to life and started scanning the cliffs.

You turned, face blank. “Did you trigger an alarm?”

Anakin pointed behind him. “Technically? The droid did.”

Rex, next to you, groaned into his gloves. “We’re all gonna die.”

Kenobi was already getting up, lightsaber in hand, perfectly composed as chaos exploded below.

“Plans change,” he muttered. “We improvise.”

“Oh yes,” you said flatly, drawing your blaster. “Let’s all just improvise our way into a heavily armed Separatist base. That’s definitely how I planned to spend my day.”

He gave you a look as you both started moving down the slope.

“You know,” Obi-Wan said over the rising noise, “I never thought I’d see the day you would be the voice of reason.”

You ducked behind a boulder, covering the cadets as they followed in. “Yeah, well, someone has to be the adult while your Padawan’s off starting a land war with a power converter.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You could always take him. Add him to your little army of foundlings.”

You gave him a flat look. “I already have five too many.”

Behind you, Fox tripped over his own boots and nearly bowled into Cody.

Kenobi raised an eyebrow.

You added: “And they bite.”

————

Inside the base, it was colder than the mountain winds outside — all durasteel corridors and flickering lights, the buzz of power conduits echoing through the walls like a warning.

You crouched behind a support pillar as another pair of droid sentries clanked past. The group had slipped in through the broken emergency access hatch Anakin had accidentally discovered — half of it still smoldering from whatever he'd done to override the lock.

You turned to Obi-Wan in a sharp whisper. “Splitting up is a terrible idea.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your foundlings run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“It’s efficient,” he replied calmly, peering around the corner. “You and I retrieve the senator’s daughter. Anakin and your cadets run a perimeter diversion.”

“They’re kids.”

“Your kids,” he said smoothly. “And as you’ve reminded me — foundlings are expected to fight.”

You clenched your jaw. “They’re not ready for this.”

He met your eyes. “Neither were we, once.”

That stopped you cold.

He lowered his voice, just a touch. “They need the experience. He needs the responsibility.”

You looked across the corridor — to where Anakin was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to give the cadets some kind of whispered briefing. Bacara was clearly ignoring him. Wolffe already had a stun grenade in hand.

You exhaled through your nose. “If they die—”

“They won’t.”

You gave him one last glare, then looked back at the boys. “If anything goes wrong, scream.”

Fox raised a hand. “Like—?”

“I will hear you. I will end whoever hurt you. Just scream.”

The cadets nodded, suddenly a lot more serious.

Anakin gave a quick salute. “We’ll meet you back at the east exit.”

Obi-Wan glanced at you. “Shall we?”

You rolled your eyes and moved out, both of you slipping into the shadowed hallway like water down a blade.

———

Your part of the mission was quick and clean. Every step was coordinated — you swept forward through dark halls while Obi-Wan silently disabled security systems, his movements graceful and lethal.

You’d never worked with a Jedi like this before — and you had to admit, it was… oddly satisfying.

No words were wasted. He moved, you moved. You dropped a droid with a blaster shot, he caught its partner’s blaster arm mid-swing and twisted it clean off. The two of you cleared the detention block in under four minutes.

“Cell 14,” Obi-Wan said, checking the datapad he pulled from a guard’s belt.

You were already unlocking the panel.

Inside, the senator’s daughter was scared but unharmed — pale, dressed in rich fabric, bound at the wrists.

“I’ve got her,” you said, pulling her close and cutting the ties.

She stared up at you. “Who are you?”

You gave her a faint smile. “Someone your mother owes a drink.”

———

Elsewhere, it was less smooth.

Anakin’s plan — and you used the word plan very loosely — had apparently included sneaking into the droid depot and causing a “small, contained distraction.”

That turned into blowing up a weapons rack, stealing a tank, and getting stuck in a three-way chase down the hallway with spider droids, sirens, and Wolffe yelling, “I SAID I WASN’T GONNA BLOW ANYTHING UP, BUT THEN HE HANDED ME A DETONATOR—”

“I thought it was a flashlight!” Anakin shouted back.

Rex was clutching the controls of the tank like his life depended on it. Bacara was on top of the thing firing wildly and screaming gleefully. Cody and Fox were halfway hanging out of the hatch, shouting directions and laughing hysterically.

“THIS IS NOT STEALTH!” Fox screamed.

“I’M DISTRACTING THEM!” Bacara grinned. “DISTRACTION MISSION SUCCESSFUL!”

“DEFINITELY not ready,” you muttered, back with Obi-Wan as you made your way to the rendezvous.

You could hear the tank before you even saw them.

Obi-Wan glanced sideways at you with a completely straight face. “Would now be a bad time to say you were right?”

You stared at the smoke trail in the distance. “I hate you.”

———

The escape was… a mess.

They made it out, of course. Somehow.

With a half-destroyed tank rolling in front of the group as cover, explosions at their backs, and Anakin cheering like they’d just won a podrace, the cadets had sprinted across the canyon with blaster bolts chasing their heels.

You’d covered the senator’s daughter with your own body the whole way.

Kenobi had deflected shot after shot, graceful and impassive, the calm center of a storm.

Once they’d finally cleared the base and reconnected with the ship, you spent the first ten minutes pacing the ramp with your helmet tucked under your arm, muttering curses in three different languages.

Then, after a full headcount and emergency takeoff, you finally collapsed into a seat in the main hold.

Everyone was quiet.

Even Anakin.

The cadets sat in a circle, scratched and bruised, letting adrenaline drain from their systems. You watched them from your spot, arms crossed, boots heavy on the floor.

Cody was staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

Fox hadn’t said a word.

Bacara was still grinning, but it was thinner now.

You leaned forward, voice low. “You all did good.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to you.

“Not perfect. Not clean. But good,” you said, and your voice softened, just a touch. “You followed orders. You adapted. You survived.”

Wolffe swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor.

You stood, stepping forward, and placed a hand on the back of Cody’s neck — warm and grounding.

“You saw war today. The real thing. Not just drills. Not just training. And you all made it out.”

There was silence again.

Then Bacara mumbled, “Even if Skywalker tried to kill us all.”

“I heard that,” Anakin called from the cockpit.

“Good.”

You turned toward the boys again. “Rest up. You earned it.”

As they started to settle into sleep wherever they could — curled in corners of the hold, some using their packs as pillows — you moved quietly to the front of the ship.

Kenobi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the stars pass through the viewports.

“You think they’re alright?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He glanced at you. “They will be.”

You tilted your head. “So. What happened to your ship, exactly?”

He didn’t blink. “Mysterious failure.”

“Uh huh.”

“Sabotage, maybe.”

“Right.”

“Couldn’t possibly have been someone crash landing our ship.”

You sighed. “You Jedi are the worst.”

“I get that a lot.”

———

You hated the smell of Coruscant. Too clean. Too bright. Like chrome and false smiles.

But the senator’s estate was quiet, at least. High above the clouds, the landing platform was bordered by hanging gardens and silent droids, the building towering like a temple to wealth and secrecy.

You disembarked with the senator’s daughter at your side — safe, whole, and grateful.

The senator met you personally, eyes shining with relief. They pulled you into a tight embrace and whispered, “I owe you everything.”

Then they looked at your five cadets, lined up neatly and looking everywhere but directly at the senator.

“These boys…” the senator said slowly. “Are they—?”

You cut in smoothly. “Foundlings. Mine.”

A pause.

The senator raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. They’re… sharp. Disciplined.”

“Lucky genes,” you said, smiling coolly.

Behind you, Fox was mouthing don’t say anything at Wolffe, who was visibly biting his tongue.

The senator looked thoughtful. “You know… there may be a place for them in security, when the time is right. We could find funding. Official channels.”

Your blood went cold.

But you smiled anyway.

“I’ll think about it.”

The senator nodded, clearly meaning well — but clearly dangerous.

You filed it away. Another warning.

They were not ready to be seen.

Not yet.

That night, back on the ship, the boys sat on the floor around you again, waiting for your orders.

But you just looked at them — really looked at them.

Wolffe’s bruise under his eye. Rex’s busted knuckles. Bacara’s scraped cheek. Cody’s silence. Fox’s slumped shoulders.

You said nothing at first.

Then, softly: “You did good.”

Five sets of eyes flicked up.

You gave them a small nod. “Get some rest. More training tomorrow.”

“Yes, buir,” they all said at once.

And you didn’t correct them.

Not this time.

————

Kamino had never felt this quiet.

Rain still lashed against the glass corridors. The white lights still hummed. Clones still trained, marched, sparred. But the air carried a tension now — tight and sterile, like the Kaminoans were watching every step.

Because they were.

The cadets noticed it first.

Extra cameras in the mess hall.

Silent observers hovering near the training chambers.

One of the newer units mentioned being taken aside and scanned after sparring.

And then, there was the way the five field cadets were treated.

Rex, Cody, Bacara, Fox, and Wolffe.

They were whispered about now — envied, doubted, even resented.

Rex heard a pair of cadets muttering behind his back in the armory.

“Think they’re better than us.”

“Just ‘cause they left Kamino.”

Bacara caught a shove in the hallway.

Fox started training harder, angrier.

You noticed it — how they stuck close together now. A small, tight unit. Good for war. Bad for brothers.

You were in the middle of correcting Bacara’s form during a sparring drill when you saw Jango watching from the overlook.

He didn’t call out to you. Just tilted his head, a silent signal.

You followed.

He was leaning against the wall in a private corridor, arms crossed.

“They’re pissed,” he said, voice low and steady.

You didn’t need to ask who.

“The Kaminoans?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t like you taking your cadets off-world. Especially not without their approval. You rattled their control.”

You leaned your back against the wall, arms folded. “That was your idea.”

He huffed a short breath of amusement. “They’re already talking about locking down field excursions. Increased isolation protocols.”

Your jaw tensed. “They’re kids. Not droids.”

“They’re property,” he said bitterly. “According to Kamino.”

You looked down at the floor, teeth clenched.

“They’re more than that,” you muttered.

He gave you a look. “Then you better teach them to act like it. Before this place eats them alive.”

————

Later that day, it happened.

Two cadets shoved Fox after a sparring match. Said he thought he was too good for the rest of them now.

Fox didn’t fight back.

But Wolffe did.

Cody pulled him off before it escalated, but not before everyone saw.

The whole training floor went dead silent.

You walked into the middle of it.

And no one said a word.

You turned, looking around at all of them — rows of half-grown clones, armor scuffed, breath caught.

“Line up.”

They did.

All of them. Even the ones still panting from the fight.

You stood in front of them, helmet tucked under your arm, rain streaking down the windows behind you.

“I’ve been too soft on you.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

You raised your voice.

“I wanted you to feel like brothers. I wanted you to find your names. To find yourselves. But that doesn’t mean forgetting what you are.”

You started to pace, slow and sharp.

“You are soldiers. You are Mandalorian-trained. You are disciplined. And above all — you are loyal.”

A pause.

“Not to me. To each other.”

They watched you like they were trying to breathe your words in.

“This?” You pointed at the dried blood on Wolffe’s lip. “This jealousy? This division? It’s not strength. It’s weakness. And weakness gets you killed.”

You stopped walking, facing them head-on.

“I don’t care who went off-world. I don’t care who hasn’t earned a name yet. You are brothers. And from today on, the training gets harder. The drills get longer. The expectations rise.”

A long, steady beat.

“Earn your place. Earn your name. Earn each other.”

No one moved.

No one dared.

You dropped your voice just enough.

“This is your warning. Tomorrow — the real training begins.”

You turned on your heel and walked out.

Behind you, they stood taller.

Silent.

Together.

————

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter


Tags
1 month ago

“Hit Me (Like You Mean It)”

Commander Wolffe xBounty Hunter!Reader

The cantina on Vradros IV reeked of sweat, desperation, and synth-spice. Which is to say, it smelled exactly like a place Wolffe would pick for a “quiet recon op.”

You leaned against the bar, twirling your drink with one hand, your blaster slung low on your hip like a challenge. You felt him before you saw him—Commander Wolffe moved like a ghost in armor, all steel and unspoken tension.

“You missed our meeting,” he said, voice low and gruff behind that half-scorched vocabulator.

You smirked. “I was busy. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a life.”

“You don’t.” He paused. “Just seems like yours always conveniently conflicts with mine.”

You turned, sipping your drink lazily. “Aw. You miss me, Commander?”

Wolffe didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to. “You’re a pain in my shebs.”

“And yet,” you drawled, “here you are.”

He looked tired. No—past tired. He looked hollowed out, like someone who’d been running on fumes since the war ended, and no one remembered to tell him he could stop.

You tilted your head. “You sleep at all?”

“Enough.”

“Eat?”

“When I remember.”

“Touch anyone lately?”

That got his attention.

His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and startled—but not offended. Never offended. Not with you.

“That’s a hell of a question.”

You shrugged. “It’s a hell of a galaxy.”

He was quiet for a beat, jaw tight.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You gonna hit me, or just keep talking?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You’ve been itching for a fight since I walked in.”

“No, you’ve been begging for one.” You looked him up and down. “Why?”

“Maybe I deserve it.”

“Oh, don’t get all martyr on me, Commander.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s really going on?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, every inch of him coiled and unreadable.

And then he said, almost too quiet: “I just want to feel something.”

Ah.

There it was.

The crack in the armor.

Not in his phrasing—Wolffe would never be that direct—but in the weight behind the words. You’d seen it before. In soldiers who lost brothers. In children who never got hugged enough. In yourself, sometimes, when the nights were long and the stars too loud.

“Fine,” you said, stepping in close. “You wanna get hit?”

He nodded once, stiff.

You swung. Not hard—but enough to snap his head to the side.

The cantina didn’t even blink. No one cared. It was that kind of place.

Wolffe exhaled, slow and shaky. Turned his head back toward you.

And smiled.

A real one. Lopsided. Crooked. Full of pain and something almost like relief.

You grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him down to your level. “Next time you need to be touched, maybe try asking, instead of playing wounded karking bantha.”

He leaned in, voice rough. “Would you say yes?”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw. Like striking flint to stone.

His hands came to your waist, holding on like he didn’t trust the ground to stay solid. You felt the tremor in him—not fear. Not hesitation. Just need.

You pulled back, just enough to murmur against his mouth: “Touch-starved bastard.”

He looked at you like you’d reached inside him and flipped a switch he forgot existed. “I deserved that punch.”

“You’ll deserve the next one too.”

He smirked. “Looking forward to it.”


Tags
Loading...
End of content
No more pages to load
Explore Tumblr Blog
Search Through Tumblr Tags