Jango Fett X Reader
Jango Fett x Reader
Summary: Pre-Attack of the Clones leading up to the first battle of Geonosis. inspired by “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin as I feel this song is very Jango and Boba coded.
______
Rain never stopped on Kamino.
It drummed a rhythm on the windows of the training facility—sharp, persistent, lonely. You stood by the glass, arms crossed, eyes scanning the endless gray. Somewhere outside. Another bounty. Another absence. Another silent goodbye.
“Back soon,” he always said, planting a kiss against your temple with a touch too light to anchor anything real. You used to argue—beg him to stay, to train, to raise the boy he brought into the world. But you learned quick: Jango Fett was a man of war, not of roots.
He was strapping on his vambraces when he noticed you watching him.
“Don’t start,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was gruff, frayed from too many missions and too little sleep.
You didn’t move. “He asked if you were coming to training tomorrow. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Jango paused, only for a second, before clicking the final strap into place. “Tell him the truth. I’m working.”
You stepped forward. “You could take one day off. Just one. He looks up to you—he waits for you. When you’re not here, he starts acting like you. Staring out windows, keeping things inside. Like father, like son.”
His jaw twitched. “I didn’t bring him here for you to turn into his mother.”
The words hit like a slug round.
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not trying to replace anyone, Jango. But you leave him here alone. What do you expect me to do? Pretend I don’t care?”
He finally looked at you. Those eyes, dark and calculating, softened only for seconds at a time. This wasn’t one of them.
“I expect you to train the clones. That’s the job. Not to start playing house.”
“I didn’t fall in love with you for the job,” you said, quieter now. “And I didn’t stay on Kamino because I like watching kids grow up as soldiers. I stayed for you. For him.”
Jango adjusted the strap on his blaster. “He’s not yours.”
“I know.”
You did know. You weren’t trying to be his mother. Not really. You just wanted him to have one—someone who remembered to ask if he’d eaten, who noticed when he had nightmares, who held him when he tried not to cry. Someone who didn’t just see a legacy in him.
Jango stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, too soft for someone always on edge. It almost made you forget everything else.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“You always say that,” you whispered.
But he was already turning away.
Slave I rose through the Kamino rain and vanished into cloud cover.
You didn’t cry. You just went back inside and checked Boba’s room. He was asleep, curled up with one of his father’s old gloves tucked under his pillow like a security blanket.
You didn’t belong in their family. You knew that. But in Jango’s absence, you became something Boba needed. A voice when silence was heavy. A shield when pain crept too close. Not a mother—but a presence.
Even if Jango never wanted you to be.
So you stayed behind. For Boba.
He was quiet, sharp, and already wearing boots two sizes too big—trying to fill his father’s shoes before he even hit puberty. You weren’t his mother, not by blood, not by name, but someone had to care enough to keep him human. To make sure he didn’t disappear behind armor and legacy.
You cooked for him. Taught him hand-to-hand when Jango was gone. Helped him with clone drills, even when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m not like them.” You tried to make him laugh. He rarely did.
One night, while putting away gear, he asked, “You gonna leave too?”
You paused. “No, Boba. Not unless I have to.”
“Dad says people always leave. That it’s part of the job.”
You crouched beside him, met his eyes. “He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s just scared to stay.”
⸻
Geonosis burned red.
Jango’s signal cut out too fast. Too sudden. You heard Mace Windu’s name in the comms, and something inside you fractured. Still, you led your squad—your clones—into the fight. They needed you. They trusted you. Jango didn’t.
When the battle ended, smoke still rising from the arena, you ran to the landing zone—knew exactly where the Slave I would be.
And there he was.
Boba, small and shaking, helmet too big in his arms. He looked up, eyes glassy but sharp.
“You’re with them,” he hissed, his voice more venom than grief. “You helped them.”
You stepped forward. “I didn’t know he’d—Boba, please. This isn’t what I wanted.”
“You’re a traitor.”
He turned, walking toward the ship, the ramp already lowering.
“You can’t do this alone,” you warned. “The galaxy isn’t kind. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I’ve got his armor. His ship. That’s all I need. I don’t need you anymore”
You reached for him—but he was already walking up the ramp, shoulders square like his father’s, jaw clenched with fury too big for his body.
You didn’t follow.
⸻
Years passed.
The Empire rose. You faded into shadows. The clones you once trained died in unfamiliar systems, stripped of names and purpose. You lived quiet, took jobs on the fringe—nothing that put you on anyone’s radar.
Until you crossed paths again.
Carbon scoring lit the walls of an abandoned outpost. A bounty had gone sour. You moved through smoke with the ease of memory—blaster in hand, breath steady. And then he stepped into view.
The armor was repainted, darker, scarred, refined. The stance, identical. The voice, modulated but unmistakable.
“You always did show up where you weren’t wanted,” Boba said.
You stared. He was taller now, broader. His face—Jango’s face, down to the line of his brow.
“I didn’t know it was you,” you murmured.
“Wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”
You lowered your weapon first. “You’re good.”
He gave a single nod. “Learned from the best.”
A beat.
“You look just like him,” you said quietly.
“Yeah. No surprise there”
There was no warmth in his words. Just steel. Just the ghost of a boy you tried to protect.
“Was that what you wanted? To become him?”
Boba stared at you for a long time. Then: “I didn’t have a choice. He left me everything… and nothing.”
You stepped closer, heart tight. “I tried, Boba. I tried to give you more than that.”
“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
He walked past you. Didn’t look back.
As he disappeared into the dusk, all you could think of is how he turned out just like him. His boy was just like him.
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“Crossfire” pt.2
Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex
The transmission came through encrypted—priority red. Only one man used that level for you.
Palpatine.
You were already on a job halfway across the mid rim, credits in hand, target bleeding out behind you. But the moment his message came through, you abandoned everything. You didn’t hesitate.
Meet me at the Jedi Temple. Do not be late. – S.P.
⸻
You’d walked into war zones with less tension in your shoulders.
The Temple was beautiful in the way ancient weapons are—elegant, polished, deadly. You moved past towering statues and sacred halls, every Jedi you passed giving you the same look: mistrust. Unease.
Good. Let them squirm.
As the war room doors slid open with a soft hiss, all eyes turned to you.
You stepped in slow, measured, the weight of a dozen stares pressing down your spine like a blade. The room was war incarnate—strategy, power, command. And it watched you with silent judgment.
Standing at the forefront:
General Obi-Wan Kenobi, composed as ever, hands folded, a silent storm behind his eyes.
Beside him, Commander Cody, helmet under arm, chin set, already assessing you like a battlefield.
General Anakin Skywalker, lounging in that casual defiance he wore like armor, flanked by Captain Rex, who stood just a little too stiffly for comfort.
Then there was Master Mace Windu, an immovable pillar at the center of it all. His commander, Ponds, stood at his side—stoic, calm, the kind of soldier who watched everything and said little.
Further down, Master Kit Fisto offered a diplomatic nod, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. His clone, Commander Monk, mirrored him: collected, but his fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his vambrace like he already expected things to go sideways.
And finally, Aayla Secura, calm and unreadable, with Commander Bly behind her—silent, stern, and entirely unimpressed.
At the center of the room, waiting with a smug patience, stood Chancellor Palpatine.
He turned toward you with a grandfather’s smile—one that always felt like it was hiding teeth. “My friends,” he said, “allow me to introduce someone who has served the Republic with discretion and remarkable skill.”
You stood taller, letting your eyes sweep across the room.
“This bounty hunter has been a valuable ally to my office for some time. Her knowledge of Separatist operations is unmatched, and her methods…” His smile deepened. “…are effective.”
You caught the way Cody’s jaw tightened. Rex’s brow furrowed. Bly looked like he’d rather shoot you than shake your hand. Even Windu’s expression soured like something had curdled in the Force.
“She will accompany you on the invasion of Teth, and she has been assigned a special task—one that is not up for discussion.”
He let the weight of that hang for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing toward the table.
“Now, shall we begin?”
⸻
Rex found you first.
He’d been trailing behind Skywalker, but as soon as the war meeting ended, he broke off and caught up to you in a quiet corridor overlooking the city below.
“You’ve got some nerve,” he said without greeting.
You turned slowly, raising a brow. “Missed you too, Captain.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “What the hell is going on? Since when are you chummy with the Chancellor?”
You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
You stared at him for a moment. That familiar crease in his brow. The way he clenched his jaw when he was confused or angry—usually both. He still looked good in his armor. Still looked at you like he wanted to pull you close and shake you at the same time.
“I do what I’m paid for,” you said quietly. “Same as you.”
“This is different. He trusts you. They’re being told to trust you. And you’ve burned every side you’ve ever stood on.”
You didn’t answer.
And that’s when Skywalker appeared behind him.
“If the Chancellor trusts her,” Anakin said, arms crossed, “then so do I.”
Rex’s mouth parted, confused.
You looked between them. Skywalker’s gaze wasn’t warm—it wasn’t trusting, not really. It was calculated. He was watching how Rex would respond. How you would react. Testing.
“Well,” you said after a beat, “that’s one of us.”
Skywalker smirked, then walked off without another word.
You and Rex stood in silence.
“I’m not the enemy, Rex,” you said softly.
He looked at you for a long time.
“I just don’t know who you are anymore.”
And then he walked away.
⸻
Teth was chaos.
The invasion was in full swing—blaster fire lighting up the canyons, LAATs screaming across the sky, droids collapsing by the dozen under the Jedi-led assault. You were technically assigned to General Secura’s squad—but “assigned” was a loose term. In truth, you were never meant to stay.
Not according to the Chancellor.
Your objective wasn’t battle.
It was extraction.
One target. A child. The son of a Separatist senator. Rumors whispered of his gifts—how things floated when he was upset, how animals followed him like shadows, how he dreamed of things that hadn’t happened yet.
Force-sensitive.
Palpatine wanted him. And the war on Teth was just the perfect smoke screen to get in and get out unseen.
You were already dressed for infiltration—slim-cut armor under your usual gear, hair pulled back, weapons light but sharp. You slipped into one of the forward camps to “check in” before vanishing into the deeper jungle. Just long enough to draw attention—and spark some tension.
⸻
You strolled into the republic outpost with a slow sway in your hips, sweat glistening at your collarbone, a bit of battlefield grit clinging to your boots. The clones were mid-prep, chatter low and urgent.
Commander Monk caught your eye first—leaning against a crate, half-armored, running diagnostics on a vibroblade. He looked up when you approached, a slow smirk forming as he straightened.
“Well,” he said, voice smooth and lazy. “They didn’t say you’d be this pretty.”
You tilted your head, smirking. “They say a lot of things. Some of them are even true.”
He stepped closer, eyes flicking from your face to your hips. “Tell me—are you here to help with the front lines, or just give the troops something nice to look at before they die?”
You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ghost across his jaw. “What if I said both?”
Behind you, Commander Cody passed by with a datapad, slowing just slightly as he caught your voice. His expression was unreadable, but the sideways glance he shot Monk was cold.
A few steps behind him, Rex came into view, muttering something to a trooper. When his eyes landed on you—and how close you were to Monk—his jaw tensed so tight you could hear his teeth grind.
You grinned to yourself.
“Anyway,” you said, pulling back from Monk, “I’m off. Try not to miss me too much.”
He raised a brow. “Can’t make any promises.”
You winked—and slipped out of camp like a ghost.
The child’s location was buried deep within a fortified compound—a Separatist safehouse tucked into the cliffs. He was guarded, but not like a military asset. More like a precious heir.
You got in easy.
You always did.
The boy couldn’t have been more than eight. Pale-skinned, solemn-eyed, with dark curls and quiet power that made the hairs on your arms rise. When you reached for him, he didn’t flinch. Just asked:
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” you said gently. “I’m getting you out of here.”
He didn’t resist.
He followed.
You stole a sleek Separatist craft on your way out—just one of a dozen abandoned during the Republic’s assault. Before long, you were rising through Teth’s atmosphere, the battle shrinking beneath you like a dying ember.
You didn’t check in with the Jedi.
Didn’t respond to transmissions.
Just disappeared.
⸻
The rendezvous was barren, wind-swept rock. Palpatine’s shuttle waited like a dark bird, wings hunched, engines humming.
You stepped off your stolen ship, the boy at your side, hand in yours.
Palpatine stood waiting. Hooded. Smiling faintly.
“It is done,” you said.
He gestured. Two guards took the child—gently, but without warmth. The boy looked back at you once, uncertain. You gave him the softest nod you could manage.
When the guards disappeared with him into the shadows, you turned to the Chancellor.
“What do you want with him?”
Silence.
You stepped forward. “You said I’d be paid. You didn’t say I’d be complicit in whatever that was.”
Palpatine’s smile thinned. “You’ve done a great service to the Republic. I advise you not to question what you don’t understand.”
You held his gaze.
And then turned and walked away.
⸻
The battle was won.
The Separatist forces had scattered like ashes in a storm. Teth’s jungle was a smoking mess of twisted metal, scorched bark, and the distant whine of injured ships groaning through the atmosphere.
But despite the victory, the war room was tense. Too tense.
Because one particular wildcard had vanished.
“She was last seen in Sector Eight,” Rex said, tapping a red blinking point on the holomap. “Near the outer ridge, just after we pushed through the southern lines.”
“She gave some excuse about ‘scouting ahead,’” Cody added, arms crossed tight over his chest. “But no one’s heard from her since. No comms. No visual confirmation.”
Skywalker paced. “You think she ran?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Rex said, jaw clenched. “She was being vague the whole campaign. Smiling like she had a secret.”
Obi-Wan raised a brow, ever calm. “She always has a secret.”
Across the table, Master Windu’s expression was carved from stone. “And the Chancellor insisted she be included in this operation?”
“Yes,” Kenobi confirmed, voice edged. “Personally. Claimed she could be trusted. That her presence would be an asset.”
“She hasn’t just disappeared,” said Aayla, frowning. “She vanished—mid-campaign. No distress signal, no call for evac, no trace.”
Mace’s voice was low and hard. “I don’t like it.”
From the shadows near the edge of the tent, Commander Monk muttered, “I liked it just fine until she ghosted.”
Rex gave him a sharp look. “You’re saying she planned it?”
“I’m saying someone who moves like that doesn’t just wander off.”
Skywalker crossed his arms, uneasy. “She’s not exactly known for sticking to orders.”
Cody shook his head, expression grim. “She’s not one of us. She was never one of us. She does what she’s paid to do.”
“And who’s paying her now?” Mace asked.
Silence.
They all glanced at each other.
And that silence was louder than the gunfire outside.
Later that night Rex stood at the edge of the jungle, helmet off, listening to the forest hiss and settle. His grip tightened on the comm link in his hand—static was all it offered.
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” he muttered.
Behind him, Cody walked up, quiet as always.
“She didn’t have to.”
Rex sighed. “She was talking to Monk before she left. Laughing. Flirting.”
“You jealous?”
Rex didn’t answer.
Cody gave a humorless chuckle. “We both know she was never going to stay.”
Rex’s jaw flexed. “I still want to know what she took with her.”
“Me too,” Cody murmured. “Me too.”
They stood there in silence, staring out at the smoke, wondering where the hell you’d gone—and what kind of game you were playing now.
Because disappearing without a trace was one thing.
Disappearing under the nose of two Jedi Generals, four clone commanders, and an entire battalion?
That meant you weren’t just clever.
You were dangerous.
⸻
The light was soft. Too soft.
The war had made the Jedi wary of stillness, and yet the Council chambers were quiet, every breath measured as Windu finished reviewing the final report.
“She vanished mid-operation,” he said, tapping the datapad. “Left her assigned sector without clearance. Never checked in. The child of a high-ranking Separatist senator was confirmed missing within the same timeframe.”
Obi-Wan nodded, arms folded in his robes. “I’ve already confirmed with Republic Intelligence. The senator’s entire estate was found abandoned two days after our withdrawal from Teth.”
“She was never meant to be embedded in that sector,” Aayla added, sharp. “She insisted on being close to the front. Claimed she worked best that way.”
Kit Fisto let out a low hum. “And yet she slipped past Jedi, clones, and Separatist scanners. Not many could pull that off.”
“She’s not just some bounty hunter,” Windu said. “And it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”
Anakin looked up from where he sat near the window, frowning. “You think she’s a spy?”
“I think she’s dangerous,” Windu said. “Too close to the Chancellor. Too good at disappearing.”
Master Yoda’s eyes opened slowly. “Warn the Chancellor, we must. Dangerous this could become.”
⸻
The office was dimly lit when the Jedi arrived, cloaks still dusted with the desert wind from Teth.
Palpatine greeted them with his usual gentle smile, hands folded, tone gracious. “Masters. What can I do for you?”
Windu stepped forward. “This is about your… associate. The bounty hunter.”
Palpatine raised a brow. “Ah. Her. Yes. A most resourceful ally.”
“She disappeared during a mission we allowed her to join,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “And the child of a Separatist senator vanished at the same time.”
“And she has yet to report to anyone,” Windu added. “Not to the Jedi. Not to the Republic.”
“She reported to me,” Palpatine replied smoothly. “She was carrying out a parallel task under my authority. And she completed it. Efficiently.”
Windu’s voice darkened. “Why were we not informed?”
The Chancellor’s expression didn’t change. “Because the mission was delicate. Sensitive. And because I am well within my rights to employ allies of the Republic when circumstances require.”
“She cannot be trusted,” Windu pressed. “And if she continues to operate under Republic protection—”
“She served the Republic,” Palpatine interrupted, voice suddenly steely beneath the velvet. “She followed orders. She succeeded where others failed. And I personally look forward to working with her again.”
A beat of silence.
“I’d advise you to show her the respect she’s earned.”
The Jedi exchanged tight looks. None spoke.
But in that silence, something changed.
⸻
The music thrummed low, the scent of Corellian whiskey and fried rations thick in the air. Clones lounged around battered metal tables, laughter and banter bouncing off the walls as holo-screens flickered with highlights from the latest front.
Rex sat with a few of his men near the back—Fives, Jesse, and Kix, boots up, drinks half-empty, a rare moment of peace carved from chaos.
Then the bar doors slid open, and everything changed.
You stepped inside like you owned the place—black gloves, low-slung blaster, a smirk like a secret, and just enough sway in your step to turn every head. And you wanted it that way.
“Well, well…” you purred, eyes locking with Rex. “Still alive, Captain?”
Rex blinked, caught between surprise and irritation. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”
“I missed you,” you said sweetly, sliding into the booth uninvited. “Didn’t you miss me?”
Jesse let out a low whistle.
“You ghost us mid-campaign, and now you wanna play friendly?” Rex muttered, jaw tight.
You tilted your head, reaching for one of the drinks at the table without asking. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Rex.”
“She’s dangerous,” Kix murmured under his breath, nudging Fives.
“She’s hot,” Fives corrected.
You winked at him.
Rex glared.
“You’re drawing attention,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I am the attention, sweetheart,” you replied, leaning in just a little too close. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
Then you stood just as suddenly, smoothing your jacket. “Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. You boys behave now.”
You turned on your heel and made for the door, leaving Rex simmering in the wake of too much perfume and not enough answers.
You stepped out into the cool evening air, only to come face to face with a familiar Jedi.
Kit Fisto.
He stood still, robes draped around him like calm waters, but his expression was taut. Watchful.
“Master Fisto,” you said lightly. “Didn’t peg you for the bar scene.”
“I wasn’t in the bar,” he replied evenly. “I was watching it.”
You raised a brow. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”
He ignored the jab. “You’ve been avoiding the Temple. Avoiding questions.”
“Busy girl,” you said. “Chancellor keeps me on a tight leash.”
Kit stepped closer. “You disappeared during an active campaign. Then reappeared on Coruscant with no debrief. And now you’re… fraternizing.”
You smirked. “With who, exactly?”
“The clones,” he said simply. “Rex. His men. I saw how you looked at them.”
“Maybe I like men in armor,” you replied, flippant.
“Or maybe,” Kit said, voice low and steady, “you’re gathering leverage. Getting too close. Making soldiers trust you.”
Your smile faded just a little.
He didn’t flinch.
“You’re not a Jedi,” he said. “You’re not bound by our code. But they are still our men. And I don’t know what game you’re playing with them, but I see through it.”
You stared at him for a beat, silence thick with tension.
Then you stepped close, eyes narrowed with challenge. “You don’t like me, that’s fine. But don’t mistake attraction for manipulation, Master Jedi. You should know better.”
Kit’s expression didn’t change. “Then prove me wrong.”
You lingered, lips twitching.
But then you were gone, slipping back into the shadows with a flutter of your coat—leaving only questions behind.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
“Caf Break”
Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader
Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.
One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.
You didn’t get many clones here.
Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.
Except one.
Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.
You didn’t know his name.
So you called him Greenie in your head.
And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.
Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.
He told himself it was logistical.
The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.
It made tactical sense.
But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.
Observing.
You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.
And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”
He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.
The next day, he came back.
And the next.
And today, too.
You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.
“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”
He paused.
“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.
You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
It became routine.
You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.
Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”
He tilted his head. “No.”
You laughed. “Figures.”
Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.
That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.
He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.
He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.
He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.
So he stayed quiet.
He came back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.
“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”
He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”
“You’re not on a mission right now.”
“I’m always on a mission.”
You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”
He hesitated.
“…Fixer.”
You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”
“…Yes.”
You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”
He nodded.
He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.
He knew too much. But not enough.
⸻
A few days later, the war came closer.
There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.
And he was there—immediately.
Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.
You looked up.
“…Fixer?”
He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.
“Status?”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.
You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”
There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.
“I’m glad.”
You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
“I know that, too.”
And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.
“Good,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond. Not verbally.
But he didn’t let go.
The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.
Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.
But then—
“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”
Boss.
Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.
He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.
You blinked. “Fixer—?”
But he was already backing away, rifle primed.
“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”
He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.
“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”
Fixer was gone.
⸻
Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.
A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.
Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.
“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”
“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”
Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”
Fixer nodded. “On it.”
“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”
Fixer didn’t respond.
Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”
Boss sighed. “Focus.”
“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”
“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.
“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”
There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.
Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.
“Contact,” he said coolly.
The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.
Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.
“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”
“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”
Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”
“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”
“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.
Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.
But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.
It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.
Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.
The blaster charge lit up red.
Fixer ducked—too slow.
The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.
“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.
“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”
“You good?” Scorch piped up.
“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.
But he wasn’t angry.
Not really.
He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.
You.
⸻
Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.
You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.
And worrying.
He had said he was always on a mission.
But now, you were his distraction.
And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.
Not yet.
But you planned to find out.
The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.
Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.
“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”
“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”
You frowned. “Then why is it black?”
“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”
He hesitated.
The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.
“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.
You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”
He nodded once.
Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”
“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”
You looked up. “By what?”
He paused.
“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.
The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.
Ding!
“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.
Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”
You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.
“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.
“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”
“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”
Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”
“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”
“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.
You tried very, very hard not to laugh.
Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”
“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”
“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”
“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.
Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.
“Sorry about them,” he said simply.
“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”
“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.
Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”
Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”
Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”
Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.
“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”
He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”
“Looking forward to it.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.
“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”
Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.
The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.
And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.
My darling I've said this before but you deserve so many more likes, every time i read one of your fics im genuinely expecting it to have thousands of likes on it and it usually has like 20? If i could like every single one of your works 100 times i would :)
Okay but imagine Rex's reactions to the reader wearing his helmet. Like, he walks in and the readers like 🧍♀️ and he's like 🧍♀️. And then everyone around them is confused bc why is this even happening in the first place (maybe its a prank? Idk 👉👈)
Also i know i said Rex but if you want to include any others please do lol i would love to see your interpretation of this with others
<3
Ahhh you’re the absolute sweetest—thank you so much for the kind words, seriously!! I couldn’t resist this prompt , so I went ahead and did the whole command batch’s reactions too.
⸻
CAPTAIN REX
He’d just finished a debrief. He was tired, armor scuffed, and brain fogged from a long string of missions. All he wanted was to collect his helmet and find a quiet place to decompress.
Instead, he opened the door to the barracks and found you standing in the middle of the room.
Wearing his helmet.
You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, arms at your sides, posture too stiff, visor pointed directly at the door like you’d been caught red-handed.
Rex froze mid-step. His eyes flicked to your body, then to the helmet, then back again. The room was dead silent.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
It felt like some kind of unspoken standoff.
When he finally found his voice, it came out neutral but clipped. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my helmet?”
You reached up and lifted it just slightly off your head, enough to reveal your eyes. “I was trying to understand what it’s like… carrying all this responsibility. All the weight. I figured the helmet was part of it.”
Rex blinked.
He should have been annoyed. His helmet was an extension of his identity, not something he usually let anyone touch, let alone wear. But something in your voice—sincere, tinged with dry humor—softened the moment.
He exhaled through his nose. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
You slid the helmet off entirely and held it to your chest. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that.”
Rex crossed the room and took it from your hands, eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary. “You can ask next time. I might still say no, but… you can ask.”
You gave him a faint smile. “Noted, Captain.”
Later, Rex would sit on the edge of his bunk, polishing the helmet with extra care, thinking about the way you’d stood there. How serious you’d looked. And how much more complicated everything felt now.
⸻
COMMANDER CODY
Cody wasn’t used to surprises. He didn’t like them.
So when he walked into the clone officer quarters and found you perched on his bunk—wearing his helmet and staring at the floor like some kind of haunted statue—his brain stalled for a moment.
You didn’t look up.
You didn’t say a word.
Cody stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—likely the same thing you were: how did this situation even come to exist?
Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”
You slowly lifted your head. “No. I just… wanted to know what it was like. To be you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “By wearing my helmet?”
You lifted it off, your hair a little mussed from the fit. “It felt… commanding. Intimidating. Also slightly claustrophobic.”
Cody crossed the room, took the helmet from your hands, and inspected it like you might’ve done something to compromise its integrity. “That’s about accurate.”
You stood. “Did I at least look cool?”
Cody gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind that rarely made it past his lips. “You looked like you were trying very hard to be me. But points for effort.”
He turned to go, helmet under one arm. As he walked out, he muttered, “Don’t tell Kenobi.”
You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
⸻
COMMANDER FOX
Fox was already in a foul mood. The Senate hearings had run late. A group of Senators had argued about appropriations for nearly three hours. The bureaucrats hadn’t approved the funding he needed, and to make things worse, someone had tried to hand him a fruit basket on the way out.
He just wanted to grab his datapad and leave.
Instead, he stepped into his office and stopped cold.
You were behind his desk, arms folded. His helmet was on your head, slightly crooked from the weight.
Fox did not say anything.
You didn’t, either.
You watched each other like two predators in a silent, high-stakes standoff.
Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this a joke?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Then explain.”
You pulled the helmet off and set it gently on the desk. “I wanted to see if it felt as heavy as it looks. Thought maybe I’d understand what it’s like… to be you.”
Fox blinked. His voice dropped lower. “That helmet’s been in more battles than most Senators have meetings.”
You met his gaze, dead serious. “Exactly. That’s why I put it on.”
He walked over and took the helmet in both hands. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of the desk between you, his gloved fingers tracing a scratch across the paint.
“You look good in red,” he said at last, so quietly you barely caught it.
Then he was gone.
You stood alone, trying not to think too hard about the heat blooming in your chest.
⸻
COMMANDER WOLFFE
You’d made the mistake of trying it out in the open—when Wolffe was still around.
You thought he was in a meeting. He wasn’t.
The moment he stepped into the hallway and saw you marching in a slow circle, wearing his helmet and muttering, “I don’t trust anyone. Not even my own shadow. Jedi are the worst,” it was already too late to escape.
You froze mid-step when you noticed him watching you.
Wolffe didn’t say a word.
You pivoted awkwardly. “I was… doing a character study.”
“You were mocking me.”
“Not entirely.”
He crossed his arms, expression hard, but his voice was lighter than you expected. “You’re lucky I like you.”
You pulled the helmet off. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got presence.”
Wolffe walked forward, took the helmet, and gave you a look somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You forgot the part where I sigh and glare at everything in sight.”
You nodded, solemn. “Next time, I’ll prepare better.”
He rolled his eyes, turned to leave, and muttered over his shoulder, “Next time, do it where I can’t see you.”
But he was smiling.
⸻
COMMANDER BLY
You were crouched on the floor of the gunship hangar when Bly found you.
You hadn’t meant for him to catch you. It was supposed to be a private moment—a little playful impersonation you were going to spring on him later.
But there you were, wearing his helmet, whispering dramatically into the echoing space of the hangar, “General Secura, I would die for you. I would let the whole world burn if you asked.”
You turned and saw him standing behind you.
There was no saving this.
“Hi,” you said, voice muffled behind the helmet.
Bly stared. “What… exactly are you doing?”
You straightened, taking off the helmet. “I was… immersing myself in your worldview. For empathy purposes.”
He squinted. “You were crawling around whispering to yourself in my voice.”
You nodded. “It’s called method acting.”
Bly took the helmet from you like it was fragile. “Next time, try asking.”
“Would you have let me?”
He paused. “…Probably not.”
“Then I regret nothing.”
Bly looked at the helmet, then at you. His expression was unreadable—but his voice was warmer when he said, “Try not to let General Secura catch you doing that. Or she will ask questions.”
⸻
COMMANDER THORN
You were caught mid-spin, dramatically turning to aim Thorn’s DC-17 blaster at an imaginary threat.
His helmet covered your face, tilted slightly sideways from the weight. You didn’t realize he’d walked into the room until you heard the low, unimpressed voice behind you.
“Unless you’re planning to fight off an uprising by yourself, I’d recommend not touching my gear.”
You froze.
Lowered the blaster.
Removed the helmet slowly.
“…Hi.”
Thorn’s arms were crossed, and though his tone was flat, his eyes glittered with amusement. “You could’ve just asked.”
“I figured you’d say no.”
“I would’ve. But at least I wouldn’t have walked in on… whatever that was.”
You held up the helmet like an offering. “Do I at least get points for form?”
Thorn stepped forward, plucked the helmet from your hands, and gave you a once-over that lingered slightly too long. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”
And then he walked off, still shaking his head, muttering, “Force help me, they’re getting bolder.”
⸻
COMMANDER NEYO
You weren’t even doing anything dramatic this time. Just sitting on a crate in the hangar bay, wearing Commander Neyo’s helmet with a calmness that probably made it weirder.
He entered mid-conversation with a deck officer and paused mid-sentence when he saw you.
Neyo’s reputation was infamous—no-nonsense, silent, rarely seen without his helmet. So when you tried it on just to see what the fuss was about, you didn’t expect him to walk in.
Now he was staring at you.
Expressionless.
Silent.
Unmoving.
You slowly lifted the helmet off. “Commander.”
“Where did you find it?”
“…In your locker.”
He blinked once. “You broke into my locker?”
“…Hypothetically.”
The deck officer excused himself quickly.
Neyo walked over, took the helmet without saying a word, and stared down at you for a long moment. Then, just as you were starting to sweat—
“I hope you didn’t try the voice modulator. It’s calibrated to my pitch.”
You blinked. “…So you’re not mad?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Then he walked away.
You didn’t know if you were about to get reported or flirted with. And somehow, that was very Neyo.
⸻
COMMANDER GREE
You’d barely slipped the helmet on when Gree stepped into the staging area, datapad in hand, ready to give a mission briefing.
He stopped. His gaze snapped up.
You, standing in the center of the room in his jungle-green helmet, stared back at him like a guilty cadet.
There was a long pause.
“Is that… my helmet?” he asked, like he needed verbal confirmation of what his eyes were clearly seeing.
You nodded slowly. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”
He tilted his head. “You know it’s loaded with recon tech calibrated to my ocular patterns?”
“…No.”
“Technically, that means it could backfire and scramble your brain if you activated it.”
“…I didn’t touch any buttons.”
Gree blinked, then grinned. “Good. I’d hate to scrape you off the floor. Again.”
You took the helmet off and passed it back. “That’s… oddly sweet.”
Gree shrugged. “Only because it’s you.”
The next day, he left a field helmet—not his own—on your bunk with a sticky note: “Test this one. Lower risk of neural frying.”
⸻
COMMANDER BACARA
You’d always known Bacara was a little intense.
So maybe wearing his helmet was a bad idea.
You didn’t expect him to walk into the armory while you were trying it on. You especially didn’t expect him to freeze mid-stride and go completely still—like a wolf spotting prey.
“Take it off,” he said, voice sharp.
You complied immediately.
“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you added quickly, holding it out with both hands. “Just curious.”
He took it from you in silence. His expression didn’t change. But his hands moved carefully, almost reverently.
“That helmet’s been through Geonosis,” he said quietly. “Through mud and fire. My brothers died wearing helmets just like it.”
You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He looked up. “I know. Just… don’t try it again. Not without asking.”
You gave a small nod. “I won’t.”
As he turned to leave, he paused. “You did look decent in it, though.”
He left before you could respond.
⸻
COMMANDER DOOM
You’d slipped Doom’s helmet on while helping reorganize the command tent. He wasn’t around—or so you thought.
You were mid-sentence in a very bad impression of his voice when you heard someone behind you.
“Is that how I sound to you?”
You turned, startled, and found Doom leaning against the tent flap with one brow raised.
You straightened awkwardly. “I was, uh, trying to get into your mindset.”
He snorted. “My mindset?”
“You know. Calm. Steady. Smiling in the face of doom—ironically.”
He walked over, arms folded, and tilted his head as you pulled the helmet off. “Did it work?”
“I think I’ve achieved inner peace.”
He chuckled. “Keep the helmet. It suits you.”
You stared.
“I’m joking,” he added, already walking away.
You weren’t so sure.
⸻
Hi! I was so happy to see you take requests!! I was wondering if you could do a Hunter X reader where she takes care of his hair? Plays with it and brushes it maybe then he confesses his love for her?
You write so beautifully and I would love to see any of your added flare! 💖
“Flower Tactics”
Hunter x Reader
You’d never admit it out loud, but you were obsessed with Hunter’s hair.
Not just in a “wow, that man is rugged and beautiful” kind of way—which he was, obviously—but in a “let me run my fingers through it and brush it until it shines like war-hardened silk” kind of way. It was therapeutic. Meditative. And, much to your delight, he let you do it.
Today, he sat cross-legged on a crate while you perched behind him on a bench, methodically brushing through his dark locks. His bandana was off, laying beside him, and he looked entirely too relaxed for a trained soldier.
“Y’know,” you mused as you carefully untangled a knot, “if you were any more relaxed, I’d think you were napping.”
“I might be,” Hunter replied, voice low and content. “Your fingers are dangerous. You could put a rancor to sleep with that touch.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both.”
You laughed and leaned forward slightly, tugging the brush down again. “So… you’re telling me I have tactical hair magic?”
“I’m saying if you ever turn on us, brushing me into unconsciousness would be an effective ambush.”
A beat passed.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said sweetly, and Hunter let out a low, amused chuckle.
“I like her,” Wrecker announced from across the Marauder’s hull. He was munching on something that definitely wasn’t a vegetable. “She’s got a whole plan to take you down, and you’re just sittin’ there like a sleepy tooka.”
“Only because you’re jealous I’ve got hair to brush,” Hunter quipped back.
Wrecker puffed out his chest dramatically. “You think if I glue some on, she’ll brush mine too?”
“No,” you replied immediately. “But I’ll draw flowers on your scalp.”
Tech sighed. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“Oh, I’m not encouraging,” you grinned. “I’m enabling. Very different.”
You reached into the little pouch at your side and pulled out a tiny cluster of wildflowers—yellow, blue, soft white. Carefully, you started weaving them into Hunter’s braid.
He noticed.
“…Are you putting flowers in my hair?” His voice held that dangerous edge, but you could hear the smile buried underneath.
“Absolutely.”
“I’m a soldier.”
“Even soldiers deserve to look cute.”
“Cute?” he asked, amused.
“Devastatingly cute,” you corrected, giving the braid a final tug. “There. Now you’re battle-ready and bouquet-chic.”
From the back, Echo groaned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”
“You’re just mad no one wants to flower-bomb your hair,” you teased.
“He doesn’t have any,” Omega piped up helpfully, skipping into the room. She stopped in front of Hunter and beamed. “You look so pretty!”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Pretty, huh?”
“You should let her do your hair every day,” Omega added slyly. “You smile more when she’s touching it.”
Hunter froze. So did you.
Wrecker burst into laughter so loud it shook the crate.
“Oof! She got you good!” he said, pointing at Hunter like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
You cleared your throat, cheeks warm. “Smart kid.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hunter muttered.
You blinked. “…What?”
Hunter turned, slowly, looking up at you with that intense expression that made your brain short-circuit. “I do smile more when you touch me.”
It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a joke.
He meant it.
Your breath caught in your throat. “That’s… dangerous information.”
“I trust you with it.” His gaze softened. “And maybe a little more than that.”
You stared at him, heart hammering. “Are you saying…?”
“I’m saying I love it when you brush my hair. I love it when you laugh. I love it when you drive the others crazy, and when you sneak me extra caf rations, and when you make even this ship feel like home.”
Wrecker snorted. “Finally.”
Echo made a gagging noise. Tech muttered, “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time.”
Omega clapped her hands and declared, “About time!”
Hunter smiled up at you through his flower-crowned braid. “So? What do you say?”
You bent down and kissed his forehead, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “I say… I’m going to need a lot more flowers.”
⸻
The ship had gone still.
No snark from Echo. No clanking from Wrecker. No light tinkering from Tech. Even Omega was tucked into her bunk, curled up with Lula like the galaxy couldn’t touch her.
And in the silence of that rare peace, Hunter sat on the edge of your bed with his back to you, braid still woven down his back, the tiny wildflowers now a little wilted from the heat of the day.
You stepped behind him quietly, holding the soft brush he always let you use. Always yours to borrow.
“Can I?” you asked gently, even though you both already knew the answer.
Hunter nodded once. “Please.”
So you started at the bottom—slowly, carefully loosening the braid, your fingers delicate. The petals came free one by one, falling onto the blanket like pieces of some strange memory.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
And you didn’t push him.
Instead, you moved gently through his hair, unwinding the tightness of the day. With each pass of your hands, his shoulders lowered, his breath slowed.
You didn’t need the words.
But you wanted them.
You loved him. You’d known it for a while now. And maybe you were scared that if you said it, it would break the fragile, perfect peace that this quiet moment gave you both.
But you didn’t have to say it first.
He did.
Softly. Barely above a whisper. Like it had been resting on his tongue all day, just waiting to be safe enough to speak.
“I love you.”
You froze—just for a breath. Then smiled so softly it ached in your chest.
“I know,” you whispered back, fingers brushing behind his ear. “I’ve known.”
He turned to look at you. Hair loose, shadowed eyes soft, vulnerability written in every line of his face.
“Then why haven’t you said it?”
You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Because I wanted you to say it first.”
Hunter huffed out a tiny laugh. “Tactical move.”
“Always,” you smiled.
He reached up and cupped your jaw gently, his touch feather-light. “I love you,” he repeated, more sure now. “Not just when you’re brushing my hair. Not just when you’re teasing the others. Always.”
You kissed him this time—slow and lingering, hands tangled in his now-loose hair, wild and soft between your fingers.
“I love you too,” you whispered into the space between your lips.
The flowers were gone. The braid undone.
But somehow, this moment felt even more whole.
this is the peak of my artistic career
“Pull the Trigger”
Scorch (RC-1262) x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Suggestive content
You shouldn’t have let him take the detonator.
But here you were—sprinting down a blackened corridor on a Separatist cruiser, the air behind you thick with smoke and laughter. His laughter.
“Scorch!” you shouted, coughing. “That was not what I meant when I said ‘make a distraction’!”
He turned, grinning under his helmet, shoulders relaxed like this was a holiday and not a mission gone sideways. “Come on, mesh’la. It worked, didn’t it?”
“You blew out two support beams and almost buried us alive!”
He jogged backward in front of you, still grinning. “Almost only counts in sabacc and thermal charges. You should know that by now.”
You skidded to a stop near a still-smoking hatch, chest heaving. The emergency lights flickered blood-red across the metal walls, shadows dancing. Scorch leaned one arm against the bulkhead, casually blocking your path like this was some kind of game. His visor tilted down toward you.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.
His voice lowered, suddenly rougher. “Because you’re flushed, panting, and glaring at me like you want to kill me or kiss me.”
Your lips parted. “And if I do both?”
“Then I really hope you start with the kissing.”
The heat between you wasn’t from the explosions anymore.
You stepped forward, crowding into his space, fingers curling into the edge of his armor. “You know you’re a menace, right?”
Scorch reached up, tugged his helmet off with one hand and dropped it with a careless clatter.
“I’m your menace,” he said.
And then his mouth was on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting.
His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you didn’t even try to hide the sound you made. It felt like falling into the middle of a detonation—chaotic and exhilarating and impossible to stop.
He tasted like heat and danger. The kind of kiss that burned.
You shoved him back against the wall and bit his bottom lip just enough to make him growl.
“You get off on this, don’t you?” you breathed. “The adrenaline. The explosions. Me pissed off and in your face.”
“I like the view,” he said, eyes dark and wild. “You in combat gear, cursing at me. Gets my blood pumping.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hands didn’t leave him. One of them slipped under a loosened strap on his chest plate. “You’re so full of it.”
“I’m full of something,” he muttered, voice low.
You kissed him again—harder this time. His hands found your hips, grounding you like a storm. You didn’t have time to undress, not here, not now—but Maker, you wanted to. And he knew it.
Instead, you just stayed locked together like that—gripping, kissing, devouring—until the hallway filled with smoke again and the comm crackled to life.
“Scorch, where the hell are you?” Sev’s voice snapped. “Extraction in four minutes.”
Scorch broke the kiss with a low groan and leaned his forehead against yours, breath hot on your skin.
“Guess we’ll have to finish this later, sweetheart.”
“Assuming you don’t blow us up first.”
He smirked. “Now where’s the fun in playing it safe?”
You grabbed your blaster and turned down the corridor. “You coming?”
He slipped his helmet back on, voice crackling through the filter. “Behind you, always.”
And as you ran, side by side toward the drop zone with the scent of smoke and something wilder still clinging to your lips, you knew this was how it would always be with him.
Fast. Fiery. Unpredictable.
A joyride with a lit fuse and no brakes.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Hello, hope this is an ok ask but I was wondering if you could Omega and Fem!Reader where the reader takes an omega on a mother-daughter outing? And the boys see just how much of having a mother figure in omegas life is beneficial? Maybe omega has some attempts of trying to set you up with one of her brothers so you have a reason to stay? Funny shenanigans ensue as omega tries to push her brothers toward you (and succeeds with one of them, your choice of who)
Hope this makes sense! ♥️
“Operation: Stay Forever”
The Bad Batch x Reader
Omega was practically vibrating with excitement as she tugged your hand through the streets of Pabu, her curls bouncing and her voice a mile a minute.
“We’re gonna get snacks, and go to the market, and you have to help me pick a new dress—Hunter says all mine are covered in grease stains but I think they’re just lived in—and maybe we can do something with my hair later! Do you know how to braid? Of course you do, you’re amazing!”
You couldn’t help but laugh, heart full. “I do know how to braid. You want one with beads or ribbons?”
Omega gasped like you’d just offered her the throne of Naboo.
“Beads. Obviously. Ribbons are for formal events. This is casual fabulosity.”
You smiled, following her into the plaza. “Of course. Casual fabulosity. My mistake.”
Hunter squinted as he watched the two of you walk away, Omega’s hand in yours, already talking your ear off.
“…She never talks that much to Tech.”
Wrecker laughed. “That’s ‘cause Tech tried to explain fabrics to her like he was listing battle specs. She just wanted to know if it was twirly.”
Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “She needed this.”
“She’s had us,” Crosshair said simply, though he looked less like he was arguing and more like he was observing.
Echo’s brow lifted. “She’s had four brothers and a droid. That’s not the same thing as having a mother figure.” He glanced at Hunter. “Which I keep telling you. For years.”
“Oh, come on,” Wrecker grinned. “You were basically the mom until she met [Y/N].”
Echo didn’t miss a beat. “And you were the big toddler I was babysitting.”
Hunter snorted. “Can’t argue there.”
⸻
Omega twirled in her new outfit—a bright tunic you’d helped her pick, complete with beads braided into her hair. You’d spent the last hour painting your nails and hers, sipping local fruit teas, and chatting about everything from your favorite foods to who the you thought the cutest clone was.
“So…” Omega said slowly, squinting up at you with faux innocence. “Do you like anyone?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You know. Like like.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Because I think one of my brothers likes you.”
You choked on your tea. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Well, it’s obvious. Everyone likes you. But I think Echo likes you. Or maybe Hunter.” She tapped her chin. “Definitely not Crosshair. He’s weird. He called feelings ‘tactical liabilities.’”
You laughed despite yourself. “That sounds about right.”
“But you could be the mom! Then you’d have to stay! I’ve decided.”
You raised a brow. “That why you’ve been dragging me by the hand all day like a trophy?”
“Yes,” she said proudly.
⸻
You returned to the Batch’s quarters just in time to find the guys lounging around post-dinner. Omega skipped ahead of you, proudly showing off her outfit and beads.
“Look what we did! She’s so good at braiding, and she picked this out, and—oh!” She turned, sly grin in place. “You know, she really likes men who are good with kids.”
Hunter arched a brow.
Echo narrowed his eyes.
Crosshair rolled his.
Wrecker leaned forward excitedly. “Ooooh. Is this one of those matchmaking things again?”
“Again?!” you hissed, turning to Omega.
Omega threw her hands up. “I’m just trying to help! She’s amazing, and you all need help with social cues.”
Echo blinked slowly. “I’m going to get blamed for this, aren’t I?”
Hunter sighed, rubbing his temple. “Omega—”
“I mean,” Omega went on innocently, “she is pretty, and Echo’s the responsible one, but maybe a bit too serious. Hunter, you’re too emotionally constipated—”
“Hey!”
“Crosshair’s a walking red flag—”
“Not inaccurate,” Echo muttered.
“—and Wrecker’s a brother to everyone. Which means Echo is the best option. Or maybe Hunter if he could manage one emotional conversation without running off into the jungle.”
Hunter looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices. “Omega, you’re grounded.”
“You can’t ground me. I have diplomatic immunity,” she beamed.
Wrecker burst out laughing.
You were crying with laughter now, face flushed. “I can’t believe you just called Crosshair a red flag.”
“She’s not wrong,” Crosshair said, leaning back with an almost-smile.
Echo, still composed, finally looked your way. “You’re really good with her.”
You smiled. “She’s easy to love.”
He paused. “Yeah. She is.”
Your eyes met. The moment hung—just long enough for Omega to wiggle her eyebrows dramatically in the background like a gremlin.
Echo sighed. “Omega, if you don’t stop matchmaking, I’m going to let Crosshair do your next math lesson.”
Her horror was immediate. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I would.”
Crosshair smiled slowly. “I’ll make flashcards.”
⸻
Later that night, you were helping Omega with her beads and hair.
“Did I mess it up?” she asked suddenly. “Trying to push things?”
You looked at her in the mirror and smiled softly.
“No. You just reminded me how lucky I am to be here.”
She smiled back, cheeks a little pink. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”
You pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Not unless Crosshair actually makes those flashcards.”
“Please don’t leave,” she said dramatically, “I’m not ready for that.”
Neither were you.
And honestly?
You weren’t going anywhere.
⸻
The next morning, you found Omega hunched over the small dining table with a data pad, scraps of paper, crayons, and a very serious expression. Wrecker walked by, glanced at the mess, and raised a brow.
“Whatcha doin’, kid?”
“Mission planning,” Omega said without looking up.
“For what, exactly?”
She tapped the screen with finality. “Operation Wedding Bells.”
Wrecker blinked. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
By midday, Hunter had found out.
Because Omega had tried to get his measurements.
“For the suit, obviously,” she said.
Hunter rubbed his temples like he had a migraine. “What suit?”
“For the wedding. Between Echo and [Y/N].”
You nearly dropped the tray of food you were carrying. “Omega.”
She held up the data pad and pointed to a crude drawing of a beach, some flowers, and what you assumed was Echo in some sort of tuxedo with his armor still on. “Do you want a sunset wedding or a moonlight one? I can make either happen. I’ve already got Crosshair assigned to security. And I told Tech that he could officiate.”
Echo stared at her blankly. “Why Tech?”
“He’s got that ‘wise old man’ vibe now.”
“I’m no older then the rest.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got the vibe.”
Hunter sighed. “You’re grounded.”
“You can’t ground me,” Omega said, standing up and striking a dramatic pose. “I’m planning a wedding.”
⸻
The sun was setting, warm orange light spilling over the ocean, casting long shadows across the sand.
You were sitting quietly, sipping a cool drink and letting the breeze brush across your skin, when Echo stepped out and joined you. He had something in his hands—a small, folded piece of paper, clearly drawn by Omega.
“She gave this to me,” he said, handing it to you.
You opened it.
It was another “wedding plan.” The two of you were stick figures holding hands, surrounded by a bunch of questionably drawn flowers, and what looked like Wrecker as a ring bearer. At the bottom, in bold handwriting, Omega had written:
“You’re already a family. This just makes it official.”
Your heart squeezed.
“She really wants you to stay,” Echo said softly, sitting beside you. “We all do.”
You glanced at him. “You too?”
He met your eyes, and there was something vulnerable there—an honesty he didn’t often allow himself to show.
“I think I’ve wanted that since the moment you helped her with that first braid. You made her feel… safe. And seen. That means everything to me.”
You smiled, heart thudding. “You know she called you the responsible one, right? Said you were the best option.”
A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. “Guess I’ve got her endorsement.”
You nudged his arm lightly. “I’d take it seriously. She’s planning outfits now.”
Echo chuckled, quiet and warm. “Of course she is.”
The silence between you stretched into something comfortable, like warmth curling around your chest.
“She’s not wrong though,” you said softly.
Echo turned to you, brows lifting just slightly. “About what?”
You looked at him then, really looked. At the man who had lost so much, given so much, and still stood tall—quiet, steadfast, kind.
“That you’re the best option.”
There was a beat. Then another.
He reached out, hesitating only for a second before his gloved fingers brushed yours.
“I’d like to prove her right.”
You didn’t need any more words than that.
Your fingers laced with his as the sun slipped below the horizon.
Back inside, Omega leaned over the data pad and added a final touch to the sketch.
A heart.
Right over where your stick figures stood, holding hands.
She beamed.
“Mission success.”
⸻
Captain Rex x Villager Reader
⸻
The mission went sideways—like most things involving General Skywalker.
The Republic cruiser got hit mid-orbit, forcing the 501st into a crash-landing they barely walked away from. Engines fried. Comms fried. Morale? Hanging on by a few snide remarks from Jesse and a sarcastic comment from Kix.
They hiked miles through jungle and shoreline until they stumbled across it: a sleepy little village tucked in a crescent of cliffs and coral. Sun-bleached stone homes. Palm trees bending in the breeze. Children with wide eyes and old souls.
And then... her.
The village welcomed them with food, drink, and curious smiles. The chief offered shelter. But Rex? Rex couldn't stop staring at the figure twirling barefoot on the sand.
You.
Clothes soaked to the knees, hair tangled with shells, a song on your lips and hands raised to the sky like you were conducting the clouds.
"Who's that?" Jesse muttered, nudging Rex.
One of the villagers chuckled. "That's her. Our ocean spirit. The crazy one."
"She always like this?" Kix asked.
"Always. She talks to the stars. Dances with the tide. Claims the Force whispers in her dreams."
"Right," Rex said flatly, trying very hard not to watch you pirouette through the foam.
⸻
You noticed him the second he stepped into the village.
Not because of the armor—everyone else had that.
But because of the weight on his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.
He was loud in his stillness. Something broken beneath all that discipline. And you... well, you liked broken things. They had better stories.
So naturally, you made it your mission to get under his skin.
The first time, you startled him by hanging upside down from a tree branch as he walked by. "You're a soldier, but you move like someone who wants peace," you said, grinning. "What a strange contradiction."
He blinked up at you. "What?"
You dropped beside him, barefoot and beaming. "You've got stars in your chest, Captain. Ever let 'em out?"
He stared.
Then turned to Jesse and muttered, "She's weirder up close."
⸻
You danced along the edges of his days.
Offered him woven seashell charms ("For luck."). Sang to him in the mornings ("For clarity."). Told him stories about planets that didn't exist, and beasts made of shadow and seafoam.
At first, he humored you. Called you "eccentric." Maybe a little unhinged.
But over time, when the others laughed—when Anakin smirked and Jesse nudged him—Rex stopped joining in. He started listening. Watching.
You'd talk to the ocean and hum lullabies to fish. You'd draw in the sand and claim it was from a vision. You'd call him "Captain Sunshine" and pretend not to notice how his lips twitched every time.
But the turning point?
It came the night you found him staring at the stars, quiet and heavy.
You sat beside him without asking.
"There's something about you," you said softly. "Like the Force wrapped a storm in armor."
Rex didn't speak. But his hand was still when you placed yours over it.
"You think I'm mad," you whispered, "but the truth is—I've just seen too much. And maybe... maybe I see you too."
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time, he didn't see "the village crazy."
He saw you.
⸻
From then on, he started lingering.
He'd listen to your stories.
He'd walk with you on the shore.
He'd steal glances when you danced in the moonlight—shirt soaked, hair wild, joy uncontained.
His men noticed.
So did Skywalker.
"You know she's probably kissed a krayt dragon or something, right?" Anakin teased one evening.
"She said it kissed her," Jesse corrected.
Rex only grunted. But later that night, when you sat beside him by the fire and handed him a shell—"It's for courage," you said—he didn't laugh.
He kept it.
Right there, tucked beneath his chest plate, next to his heart.
⸻
The moonlight filtered through the palm trees, casting silver streaks across the soft sand. The air was warm, a gentle breeze ruffling your hair as you sat with Rex on the quiet beach. His armor, normally so rigid and sharp, lay discarded in a pile beside him. His shoulders were relaxed—more than they had been in days.
For the first time, there was no mission. No enemy. Just the two of you, the waves, and the stars.
You were humming a tune that had no words—just the melody carried by the wind. You always sang when you felt alive. And tonight, you felt alive. There was something in the air, something that shifted between the two of you.
You glanced over at Rex, who had his gaze fixed on the horizon, his arms resting loosely on his knees.
"You know," you began, your voice quieter than usual, "I've been thinking."
He turned his head slightly to look at you, but didn't say anything. You could feel the weight of his attention on you, even without him speaking.
"You're always so serious," you continued, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "I think it's time I gave you a new name. Something that suits you better than 'Captain Sunshine.'"
He raised an eyebrow, but there was a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I told you to stop calling me that."
You grinned, leaning your head on your knees. "But it fits! You're always so bright, even when you try to be grumpy."
"I'm not grumpy," he muttered.
"Sure you're not," you teased. "How about 'Captain Gloomy' then?"
He laughed, a rare, deep sound that made your heart skip. But it was only for a moment before he grew quiet again.
"You know, I don't mind the nickname," Rex said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than usual. "I just..." He cleared his throat, then looked at you, his blue eyes soft under the moonlight. "I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of walking joke."
Your smile faded, replaced with a warmth that bubbled in your chest. You reached over and took his hand, resting it in your own.
"Rex," you said, your voice low and sincere. "I don't think you're a joke. And I don't call you 'Captain Sunshine' to make fun of you. It's because you shine, even when you don't know it. You've been through so much, but you still manage to have a light in you. It's... rare."
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then he squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken. Something neither of you were ready to say yet.
But for the first time in weeks, Rex didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned in, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence.
"Stop calling me 'Captain Sunshine,'" he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place. "Call me Rex."
You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of it. Rex. He wanted you to call him by his name. Not by rank. Not by some distant title. Just Rex.
And you smiled.
"Okay... Rex."
⸻
The next morning, the peaceful rhythm of village life was shattered.
You were on the shore, as usual—your feet in the water, your hands lifting to the sky as you hummed to the wind. But something was different today. The ocean felt... wrong. The waves rolled with a strange intensity, crashing against the rocks with too much force.
You stood still, listening to the sound of the water. The whispers came to you, as they often did. But this time, they were louder. Urgent.
Something's coming. Something dark.
A chill ran down your spine. You felt it deep in your bones. It wasn't the Force, not really. You couldn't wield it the way the Jedi could. But you felt it—this impending darkness. The kind of thing that stirred in your gut and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You rushed into the village, seeking out the chief. You found him in the square, talking to some of the villagers.
"Chief!" You grabbed his arm, your breath quickening. "The ocean is angry. Something is coming. You need to prepare."
The chief looked at you, brow furrowed. "You're rambling again. The ocean is just the ocean."
"But the water—" you began, your hands trembling. "The waves—there's something wrong! It's not just the ocean. It's everything."
He shook his head. "You've always been a little... eccentric. The villagers are afraid of you, but we've never had a problem. Don't stir up fear."
Your chest tightened. No one believed you. Again.
You turned away from him, running towards Rex, Skywalker, and the others, desperate to make them understand.
But even as you spoke to Rex, the worry clear in your voice, he shook his head, not fully understanding. "You're being cryptic again, [Y/N]. We can't just go around acting on every... feeling you have. We need to focus on finding a way off this planet."
"You don't understand," you said, grabbing his arm. "You have to listen to me, Rex. The Force... something's coming. I can feel it. We're not safe here."
Rex's gaze softened for a moment, but there was a stubbornness in him that wouldn't let go. "You're not crazy, but we can't just assume the worst. We're in a safe place."
As if on cue, the first explosion rocked the village.
⸻
The Separatists came from the cliffs, their droid army descending in waves.
The village, so peaceful just hours before, was now a battlefield. The village chief scrambled to rally the villagers, but it was clear they weren't prepared for what was happening. Panic spread like wildfire. Children screamed. Elders tried to hide.
Rex and the 501st were quick to action, weapons drawn, taking position around the village. But the fight was chaotic. Too chaotic. And despite his skill, Rex couldn't shake the feeling that you had been right.
That something was wrong. That something was coming.
And when he looked back to find you, his heart dropped. You weren't by the water anymore. You were in the center of it all—trying to calm the villagers, trying to do something, but you were alone.
You weren't a Jedi, but your connection to the planet and the Force—it had always been there. But now, it was stronger than ever.
But the village was under attack, and Rex—he would do anything to keep you safe. Anything.
⸻
The ground trembled beneath your feet as the first explosion reverberated across the beach, sending the villagers scattering in panic. You had felt it before, but now it was undeniable—the feeling that something was horribly wrong. The droid army had descended without warning, their cold, mechanical clanking filling the air as they stormed through the village.
Rex's sharp voice cut through the chaos. "Form up! Secure the perimeter!" His orders were precise, but even he couldn't ignore the panic that was building. The Separatists had come out of nowhere—this was no mere skirmish. This was an invasion.
You were in the thick of it, dodging through the scrambling villagers, trying to usher the children into the village huts. Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct telling you to run—run far away—but you couldn't. Not when you felt the waves of darkness closing in.
The Force was alive in you now—alive and screaming. You had never experienced anything like this before. There was something wrong about the way the droids moved. It was as if they had a plan—a deeper purpose. And in the center of it all, you could feel a dark presence, one that made your chest tighten with fear.
You tried to keep your cool, but it was hard. It was hard when you saw Rex, the man you had come to care for, pushing through the village with his brothers, cutting down droids left and right. You wanted to warn him, to tell him to stop, to listen to the warning bells ringing in your soul.
But you were just the village "crazy." What could you say? Who would listen?
⸻
Rex was fighting alongside the rest of the 501st, but his eyes never strayed far from you. He knew you weren't helpless—he knew that. But seeing you caught in the middle of the battle, guiding the villagers to safety, made his heart race in a way he couldn't explain. His usual stoic focus slipped, his movements sharper, more desperate as the battle intensified.
"[Y/N]!" he called out, pushing through a group of battle droids to reach you. "Get to cover!"
You didn't move, your eyes scanning the battlefield, your hands raised as if trying to push the tides themselves back. Your breath was shallow, your mind working overtime to sense the next wave of danger. You felt the air shift—they were coming. But they weren't the droids.
A blinding flash of blaster fire exploded nearby, and Rex's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you behind a nearby hut for cover.
"Stay down!" he shouted, crouching beside you, his voice fierce, desperate. He was holding onto you tightly—too tightly, almost as if he thought letting go would mean losing you.
You caught your breath, staring at him, your hand still on his arm as if grounding yourself. The connection was stronger than ever, but there was nothing you could do but feel.
"I—Rex..." You struggled to find words. "There's something else. Not just droids. Something darker."
He shook his head, his face set with determination. "You're not going through this alone. We're getting you out of here."
But it was too late.
The battle intensified. More droids came flooding into the village, backed by a squad of heavily armored battle droids. You felt it—the pull of the darkness, tightening its grip around your chest. The very air seemed to grow thick with danger.
The droids were growing stronger by the minute. The battle outside was escalating, and the villagers had nowhere to run. You felt the heavy presence of Skywalker's power drawing closer, but you couldn't bring yourself to move. Rex had his orders. He was focused on defending the villagers, but in the pit of your stomach, you knew—if something wasn't done, this battle would turn into something much worse.
But then, everything stopped.
The unmistakable sound of blaster fire and screeching engines tore through the air. Anakin Skywalker.
"Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, Rex!" Skywalker's voice crackled through the comms. The roar of his ship's engines echoed as he barreled through the droid lines, his starfighter tearing through the air, blasting droids out of the sky with precision.
"I knew you'd show up," Rex muttered, a grin creeping onto his face despite the chaos. "Where have you been?"
"Just finishing off a few stragglers!" Skywalker's voice came back with a mischievous chuckle, as his ship soared overhead, dropping bombs and causing explosions in its wake. He was pulling the droid forces back.
The Separatists were retreating, forced to deal with the new wave of attacks from the air and ground.
Rex glanced back at you, his blue eyes full of concern. "We need to move now. They're still coming."
With Skywalker's timely intervention, the tide of battle had shifted. The 501st took advantage of the confusion caused by Skywalker's precision strikes, their assault growing fiercer. It wasn't just the droids that were retreating—Skywalker's presence had thrown them off balance, leaving the droid army scrambling for cover.
The villagers, assisted by the 501st, rallied together to get the wounded to safety. The battle raged on, but the droids were systematically wiped out. It wasn't a clean victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.
Finally, after the dust settled, you stood on the beach, your eyes still searching the horizon. You could feel the last traces of Skywalker's energy dissipating, his presence fading from the air. The village was safe—for now—but the cost had been heavy.
The 501st was preparing to leave. Skywalker had repaired his starfighter—patched up and fueled as best as he could with what limited resources the village had. His unorthodox heroics had cleared the sky, and now, it was time to go.
Rex stood beside you, silent for a moment, his hand resting on the hilt of his blaster. "We've got to go," he said, his voice soft.
You nodded, your heart heavy. You knew this was coming—the goodbye.
You looked up at him, trying to find the words. But there was only one thing you could say.
"You're going back to the fight," you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion.
Rex nodded, his gaze shifting downward for a moment before meeting yours again. "It's my job. It's what I'm good at."
You smiled softly, even though it hurt. "I know." Your fingers brushed his, and for a fleeting moment, the world stood still between you two.
Rex hesitated. There was something in his eyes now, something deeper than the soldier he had always been. He took a step closer, his hand reaching for yours. "Come with us. There's always a place for you with the 501st."
You shook your head gently, your heart aching with the decision. "No, Rex. You belong out there, with them. This is where I need to be. This is my home."
He looked at you for a long time, his gaze tender and filled with an unspoken understanding. "I'll never forget you, [Y/N]."
"I know," you whispered.
You pulled away, taking a deep breath. "Goodbye, Rex."
And as he turned to leave, you couldn't help but feel that your connection—this strange, beautiful bond between you—would remain. Even across the stars.
Rex glanced back one last time, his helmet under his arm, his eyes full of regret and something else—something you couldn't name. But then he was gone, heading to the shuttle with his brothers, disappearing into the sky.
And you stood on the shore, watching the stars shimmer in the distance, knowing that, just maybe, you would always feel that pull toward him. Across time, across galaxies, and even the darkness that threatened to divide them.
The Force, it seemed, had a way of bringing souls together—if only for a little while.
“A Safe Place to Fall”
Captain Howzer x Reader
You didn’t remember the escape.
You remembered the cell—the sting of cold stun cuffs, the fluorescent hum of sterile walls, the shadow of an Imperial officer’s boots crossing your field of vision.
You remembered pain.
And silence.
And waiting for the end.
But now, you woke to the sound of wind.
Real wind—not the artificial filtered kind used to simulate nature in Imperial holding zones. This was dry and real, carrying the scent of rock, dust, and maybe desert flowers if you were still sane enough to tell.
You lay on a cot, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket. Dim golden light crept across the floorboards of what looked like an old storage room—repurposed into a makeshift sleeping space. There were crates stacked in the corner, and a small table with two chipped mugs.
You sat up slowly. Your body ached like it had been stitched together too quickly. And then—movement.
A man was sitting in a chair across from you, unmoving. Broad-shouldered, armored only in the bare essentials of his gear. He stood when he saw you stir.
You flinched. It was instinct. You hadn’t seen his face yet—just the outline, and the authority in his posture.
“Hey,” he said quickly, palms lifting, voice calm and low. “You’re safe. You’re out. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
You blinked up at him as his face came into focus. Not a stormtrooper. Not an officer. A clone.
But not just any clone. There was something different in his eyes—something soft. He wasn’t holding a weapon. Wasn’t armored head to toe. He looked almost… tired. Grounded.
“Name’s Howzer,” he added, watching you carefully. “I was with the squad that got you out. Captain Rex sent me.”
You opened your mouth, but your throat wouldn’t work. You clutched the edge of the blanket tighter around your shoulders, fingers trembling.
“You were in that cell a long time,” he said gently. “You don’t have to talk yet. Just breathe. That’s enough.”
Your eyes burned, but you nodded. That felt like something you could do.
Howzer stepped back a pace, giving you space. He moved with a kind of deliberate calm—like he knew exactly how close not to get. Like he understood trauma too well to make it worse.
“I put some tea on the burner,” he said after a beat. “It’s not great. Local stuff. But it helps.”
You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could. Your whole body still felt like it was waiting for the next scream, the next interrogation, the next blow.
You watched him move to the small table and pour something steaming into one of the mugs. Then, without pressure, he set it down on the crate beside you and stepped away again.
“I’ll sit right over here,” he said, nodding to the chair. “You don’t owe me anything. I just… thought maybe you shouldn’t wake up alone.”
That sentence.
That sentence hit something in you.
You stared at the mug. It was shaking. No—it was your hand. You gripped the blanket harder to stop it.
“I thought I was going to die in there,” you rasped. “I didn’t think anyone would come.”
He didn’t say you’re safe now. He didn’t say it’s over. Instead, his voice dropped low and sincere.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve seen what they do. To people who speak out. Who know too much.”
Your eyes lifted to his again.
“Why are you helping?”
A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Because someone should.”
You stared at him, then looked down again. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t oppressive. It breathed.
“I didn’t think any of you clones cared,” you admitted softly.
Howzer let out a slow exhale. “A lot don’t. Not anymore. Chips saw to that.”
You didn’t know what that meant yet, but you filed it away. It sounded like something buried deep.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then added, “But there are still some of us who remember what we fought for. What it was supposed to mean.”
You looked up. “And me?”
“You spoke up against the Empire. You tried to protect civilians. You mattered.” He paused, voice softening. “You still do.”
A strange sound escaped your throat—half sob, half laugh. You covered your face with your hands, shoulders curling inward. It was too much. Too kind. Too intimate after so long spent dehumanized.
“I don’t know how to be around people again,” you confessed. “I feel… broken.”
“Then be broken,” he said gently. “You’re allowed to be.”
You lowered your hands, blinking at him. His expression hadn’t changed. Steady. Open.
He moved again—slow, cautious—kneeling beside your cot so he didn’t loom.
“I can leave if you want,” he said. “Or I can stay. I won’t touch you unless you ask. But you don’t have to go through this next part alone.”
Your throat clenched. You didn’t know this man. And yet, his presence was the first thing since your arrest that felt real. Safe.
“I don’t want to be alone,” you whispered.
He nodded. “Then I’ll stay.”
You shifted the blanket, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached out. Your hand found his gauntleted wrist—just the edge of it, where skin met armor.
He didn’t move. Just stilled, like he didn’t want to scare you. Like the contact meant something to him, too.
“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking.
He gave a small nod. “You don’t have to thank me. You made it out. That’s enough.”
You held onto his wrist for a long time.
And when your breathing slowed, and the tears dried, he stayed right there, kneeling beside your cot, steady as a lifeline. No words. Just quiet company in a broken world.
And in that small, silent room, lit by the desert sun and filled with nothing but the sound of two survivors breathing, you finally began to believe that healing might be possible. That not all soldiers followed orders blindly. That kindness hadn’t been stamped out entirely.
Captain Howzer didn’t promise to fix you.
He simply offered to stay.
And in that moment, it was more than enough.
⸻
You couldn’t sleep.
Even in safety, your body hadn’t learned how to rest. The cot creaked when you shifted, the blanket tangled around your ankles, and the stale air felt heavier the longer you lay awake.
But what really kept you up were the memories—the sterile cell walls, the screaming, the waiting. The echo of boots outside a door that never opened. You hadn’t realized how deeply loneliness could burrow inside your ribs until you were finally out.
You sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, feet touching the cool floor.
A creak sounded outside the room.
You froze.
Then—Howzer’s voice, quiet, near the door. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” you answered softly.
He hesitated. Then, his silhouette appeared in the doorway, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the hallway lantern.
He was wearing only the bottom half of his armor—no chestplate, no pauldrons. Just a plain dark shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His expression was open, calm. He looked more like a man than a soldier tonight.
“Can’t sleep either?” you asked, voice hushed.
He shook his head once. “Too quiet, sometimes. Feels wrong.”
You understood that too well. The silence that had once meant peace now scraped against your thoughts like broken glass.
“I made some tea,” he offered after a pause. “Didn’t want to drink alone.”
You stood slowly and followed him into the main room. The safehouse was small—two bedrooms, one main area, and a kitchenette that looked like it hadn’t seen Republic service in years. It was old, but clean. Familiar now.
You sat across from him at the small table. The light was dim, warm. Between you sat two steaming mugs.
“This is becoming tradition,” you said, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.
Howzer gave a low hum of amusement. “It’s the only thing I know how to make that doesn’t involve rations.”
You took a sip. “Still better than what the Empire served.”
His smile faded, and for a moment, he watched you too carefully—like he was searching for bruises no one could see.
“You’re sleeping more,” he said. “That’s good.”
“Not dreaming less,” you admitted.
“How long were you in there?”
You hesitated. “Three months. Maybe more. They stopped marking the days. I think they thought I’d break.”
A silence settled between you. But not a heavy one.
“They don’t like people who speak too loudly,” he said eventually.
“I didn’t scream when they came for me,” you murmured, almost surprised to hear the words aloud. “I thought… maybe that would mean something. That I stayed quiet. Dignified.”
Howzer’s voice was soft. “You don’t owe them your silence. Or your strength.”
You looked at him. Really looked.
His eyes weren’t cold, like the ones behind stormtrooper helmets. They were warm and tired and human. He looked like a man who had seen too much and decided to carry it anyway.
“You’re not like the others,” you said.
He shook his head once. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, you thought he might not answer.
“I saw what they did to Ryloth,” he said finally. “The Empire. The orders. I followed them for too long. But one day… I just couldn’t anymore.”
He didn’t sound proud. He didn’t sound angry either.
He just sounded real.
“Do you regret it?” you asked.
“Every day. And I’d do it again.”
You swallowed hard. “That’s brave.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That’s necessary. Brave would’ve been doing it sooner.”
The silence between you changed. It warmed. Stretched. Your eyes lingered on his hands—strong, scarred, fingers curled around the mug like he was anchoring himself to something.
“You’re the first person who’s made me feel safe since…” You trailed off, unsure if you could finish.
He didn’t press. Just said, “You don’t have to explain.”
“But I want to.”
That surprised both of you.
You lowered your eyes to the table, your thumb tracing the rim of the mug. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel normal again. Or… human. But with you, I don’t feel broken. Just… healing.”
Howzer’s voice dropped to a hush. “You are human. You never stopped being.”
You looked up.
And the way he looked back at you—gentle, unwavering—made your chest ache.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you said. “I don’t know how to be close to someone again.”
Howzer reached out—slowly, carefully—and laid his hand on the table, palm up. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move any closer.
But he offered.
And after a long moment, your hand found his.
You curled your fingers around his palm. The warmth of his skin grounded you, anchored you in the present.
“You don’t have to know how,” he said. “We can just sit here. That’s enough.”
The silence that followed was the good kind—the kind that let you breathe.
You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until his forehead touched yours.
The contact was feather-light. Chaste. His breath ghosted across your cheek. His eyes stayed closed, and his free hand hovered near your elbow, waiting for you to pull away.
You didn’t.
Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers tightening around his.
“You’re gentle,” you whispered.
He smiled, barely a breath. “I have to be. You’ve had enough pain.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I don’t know if I can feel everything yet,” you admitted.
“That’s okay,” he said. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
And gods—how many people had said that and meant it?
You leaned into him, letting your weight rest partially against his chest. He adjusted, gently guiding you closer, until your cheek pressed against the space just below his collarbone. His arms wrapped around you slowly, hesitantly, then held you like you were something precious.
He didn’t try to deepen the moment. Didn’t press for more. He just held you. One hand in your hair, the other resting low on your back. His heartbeat against your cheek. Steady. Warm. Alive.
“I don’t want this to be temporary,” you whispered.
“Then it won’t be.”
You stayed like that until the lantern burned low, and your body stopped flinching at shadows.
And when you finally fell asleep—held safely in Howzer’s arms, your fingers still twined with his—you didn’t dream of the cell.
You dreamt of the desert wind.
And hands that never hurt.
-
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