Title: Command And Consequence

We've gathered here today in celebration of men with pretty brown eyes

“Brothers in the Making” pt.1

Command Squad x reader

The Kaminoan rain never stopped. It pounded endlessly against the sleek platform outside Tipoca City, a cold and hollow sound that seemed to echo the clinical detachment of the place. Even standing in full beskar, the chill somehow crept in — not through the armor, but somewhere deeper.

You stood on the edge of the landing pad, arms crossed, helmet clipped to your belt, dark hair damp with saltwater mist. This place felt wrong. Too sterile. Too… quiet. Even the air smelled like antiseptic and damp steel. But you'd come because he had asked.

Footsteps. Precise. Heavy. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Su cuy’gar,” Jango Fett said in that gravel-deep voice, stopping beside you. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. But something in his eyes told you he was glad to see you.

You gave a nod. “Didn’t think you’d come calling, Fett. Figured you liked working alone.”

“I do.” He glanced out at the sea, then back at you. “But this… this isn’t something I can do alone.”

You raised a brow. “Clones?”

He nodded once. “Ten thousand strong already. All of them made from me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You never struck me as the paternal type.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But they’ll need more than Kaminoan routines and simulations. They need real training. Real people. Mandalorians.”

You studied him for a moment. “And you want me to babysit them?”

His lips twitched — almost a smirk. “No. I want you to help forge commanders. The Kaminoans have preselected cadets they think show leadership potential. I want them to have someone who can teach them more than drills. Someone they’ll listen to. Someone they’ll respect.”

“And that someone is me?”

“They’re kids,” he said quietly. “They’ll be soldiers in a few years. But right now, they need a guide. A warrior. And someone who remembers what it means to be Mandalorian.”

You looked at him, thoughtful. “What about Skirata? Or Vau?”

“They’re here. Kal’s working with Nulls. Vau’s got his own batch. But I need you to take this one. They’re special, and they’re watching everything. The others are rougher around the edges. You’ve got… a way.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the grey horizon. He wasn’t wrong. You’d trained younglings before. Fostered war orphans on Concord Dawn, taught them how to survive, how to fight. This was different, but maybe not by much.

Finally, you looked back at him. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

He nodded again, and for a moment — just a moment — you saw gratitude flicker in his expression.

---

The hallways inside Tipoca were too white. Too clean. Too... wrong. Like they were afraid dirt might somehow corrupt the clones.

Jango led you through the corridors toward the training barracks. “They’re all designated cadets, but these ones are pre-coded for advanced training. Commanders and captains, if the Kaminoans have it their way.”

He stopped before a wide blast door. “You’ll be living in the barracks. You eat with them. Train with them. Earn their respect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not that much older than them.”

“No,” he said. “But they’ll see you as a superior anyway. That’ll matter.”

With a hiss, the door opened.

Inside were about two dozen boys, aged around nine or ten, all with identical faces — his face. But their expressions varied. Curious. Alert. Some stiff, trying to look tough. Others hiding behind wide eyes.

They straightened the moment they saw Jango. You stepped in behind him, hands on your hips, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Cadets,” Jango said, his voice sharp and commanding. “This is your new instructor. She’s Mandalorian. She’s been in more fights than you’ve had meals. She’s here to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed before the war even starts.”

The boys’ eyes widened slightly at that.

You stepped forward, giving them a once-over. “Name’s [Y/N]. You don’t need to salute me, and I’m not here to yell at you every time you mess up. But I will push you. Hard. Because I’m not interested in making you follow orders. I’m interested in making you leaders.”

There was a long pause. Then, one of them — a little shorter than the rest — raised his hand.

“Yes?” you said.

“Are you going to teach us Mando’a?”

You grinned. “First lesson starts tomorrow. Right after we run the perimeter course. In full gear.”

A few groaned. Some grinned. One boy, standing just a little taller, gave a silent nod of approval.

You had a feeling that one would be your troublemaker. The kind who’d grow up to wear yellow.

“Get some sleep,” you said. “You’re mine now.”

As the lights dimmed and the boys returned to their bunks, murmuring quietly among themselves, Jango watched you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You think they’ll listen?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “They already are.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the future soldiers of a galaxy-wide war, you didn’t feel like a babysitter. You felt like something else.

A guide to warriors yet forged.

And maybe — just maybe — the one thing standing between them and the emptiness that awaited.

---

The Kamino rain pounded on the durasteel above, a dull rhythmic hammer that never seemed to end. It echoed through the open training yard, where the clone cadets stood at attention, armor damp, expressions locked into disciplined stillness.

They were still young. Barely ten. Not quite boys, not quite soldiers — something in between. Something manufactured, yet undeniably alive.

You stood in front of them, arms crossed, cloak shifting with the wind.

These were the Kaminoans’ selections. Future commanders. Leaders. Advanced training candidates, chosen by behavior patterns, genetic nuance, projected loyalty metrics — whatever sterile system the aiwha-huggers had cooked up in their labs.

But you weren’t interested in the science. You were interested in them.

You stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

“You’ve been trained,” you began. “You know your formations. Your tactics. How to handle a blaster and break down a droid line. You’re sharp. Efficient. You’ve passed every metric the Kaminoans put in front of you.”

They stayed still.

“But I’m not them,” you said. “I don’t care about their spreadsheets and projections. I care about who you are when everything breaks down. When orders aren’t clear. When it’s your call.”

A few eyes flicked to you. Subtle. Curious.

You stopped in front of the tallest in the line. Sharp jaw. Controlled stance. Commanding presence already starting to form.

“You. Designation?”

“CC-2224, Instructor.”

You moved to the next one. The one with the fast eyes — always scanning, always calculating.

“CT-7567.”

Another.

“CC-1010.”

“CC-5052.”

“CC-5869.”

“CC-4477.”

It was like listening to a datapad reading off serial codes. Precise. Identical. Empty.

You looked down the line again — at all of them. All these boys with the same face, but not the same fire behind their eyes. Not if you knew how to look.

And you did.

You let the silence stretch.

“I know that’s what they call you,” you said quietly. “Your CCs and CTs. Your numbers. But let me tell you something. Numbers are easy. You lose a number, you assign a new one. But a name? That’s earned. That’s kept.”

A shift in the air. Barely noticeable, but it was there.

They were listening now. Not because they had to. Because they *wanted* to understand what you meant.

You didn’t say more. Not yet. You weren’t ready to name them. They weren’t ready to carry it.

But you were watching.

You glanced at CC-2224 again — precise, sharp, already holding himself like a commander. He’d be the first. Eventually. But not yet.

CT-7567 — the quiet focus, the twitch of awareness every time someone moved. Tactician in the making. You could feel it.

CC-1010 — the shield. No emotion on the surface, but his squad respected him, followed him without hesitation. That meant something.

And the smaller ones — the ones who tried harder to stand out, to be something more than the face next to them. They would rise too. Some through grit. Some through pain. Some through sheer, unrelenting heart.

You stepped back, letting your gaze sweep across the line.

“One day,” you said, voice calm but clear, “you’ll have names. Not because I give them to you, but because you’ll earn them. Through blood. Through choice. Through fire. And when you do… they’ll mean something.”

The wind howled between you all, tugging at your cloak, flapping against the plastoid armor of twenty-three boys trying to be men.

“Until then — on the field. Four perimeter laps. In full gear. Then squad sim rotations. Move.”

They ran hard.

Harder than they needed to.

Because for the first time, you hadn’t seen twenty-three clones.

You’d seen twenty-three stories waiting to be told.

---

The rain was still coming down in sheets, but no one noticed anymore. The training sim was running full tilt inside Tipoca’s open-air field chamber — a perfect recreation of a small ruined city block. Crumbling walls, wrecked speeders, low visibility.

Perfect chaos.

You stood above the sim on the observation platform, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm. Down below, your cadets were mid-exercise: split into two squads, one to defend a location, the other to take it. Non-lethal stun rounds, full armor, comms restricted to local chatter only.

They were doing well — mostly.

“CT-7567, you’ve got a flank wide open,” you muttered, watching his marker blip across the holo. “Come on…”

A blur of movement below — one of the smaller clones dove through a gap in the wall, skidding behind cover and popping off two clean stuns. A third clone — one of his own squad — shouted through the comms, “You weren’t supposed to breach yet!”

The smaller one’s voice came through half a second later. “You’re too slow, ner vod!”

You smirked.

Below, the chaos grew. Blasterfire crackled against shields, tactics fell apart, a few cadets started improvising wildly. A few… maybe too wildly.

“CC-5052,” you snapped into the comm. “What are you doing on the roof?”

A pause.

“Recon, Instructor.”

“There’s no recon objective.”

“Thought it’d look cool.”

You closed your eyes, exhaled. “It doesn’t. Now get down!”

Another pause.

“I’ve got good balance.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple.

A second voice cut in — this one from the other team. “He doesn’t have good balance.”

“I do!”

“Last week you fell off a bunk.”

“That was sabotage—”

“Enough!” you barked through the comm, trying to hold off a laugh. “ I swear, if I have to come down there…”

You leaned over the railing, watching as CT-7567 moved into position. He’d adapted quickly — circled his squad around, set up a pincer, and was moments away from breaching the enemy defense. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp.

You watched the moment unfold — the way he made a silent hand signal, the way the squad moved as one, trusting him without a word. They cleared the position in seconds.

And he didn’t celebrate.

He just started checking on the stunned cadets.

You smiled to yourself. Not yet, you thought. But soon.

Later, when the sim ended and they were all dragging themselves out of the chamber — soaked, tired, armor scuffed — you leaned against the bulkhead by the exit, arms crossed.

CC-5052 walked by first, helmet under his arm, smug as ever. “Still think I looked cool.”

You raised a brow. “Keep this up and I’ll name you ‘Clown’.”

A cadet snorted behind him. “Told you.”

5052 flipped him off behind his back — you saw it.

CT-7567 was next. Quiet. Focused. His brow furrowed like he was still playing through the whole thing in his head. You gave him a nod, subtle. He didn’t react much — but the way his shoulders squared said he noticed.

CC-2224 followed, calm and methodical, giving a half-report before you even asked. “Squad cohesion broke down mid-sim. We’ll run fireteam drills tomorrow, break the habits.”

“You’re not wrong,” you said. “But your breach response was solid.”

He gave a nod, firm and confident. “We’re learning.”

“I can see that.”

They filed past, dripping water, bickering quietly. Someone slapped someone’s helmet off. Someone else tried to act innocent. You let it all happen.

Because this — this was the good part. The growing pains. The chaos before clarity. The laughter between brothers.

They weren’t ready for names yet.

But they were getting closer.

And when the day came — when one of them truly showed you who he was — you’d give him the first name.

And it would mean something.

---

Kamino’s storms didn’t rest, but the facility did.

Lights dimmed in the barracks, casting long shadows across the corridor as you walked the cadets back to their bunks. Their chatter had softened into yawns and half-whispered jokes. The chaos of the sim was gone, replaced by the quiet fatigue of young soldiers trying not to admit they were still just boys.

You moved beside them like a silent sentinel, hands tucked behind your back, helmet clipped to your belt. You stopped at their dormitory door, letting them file in — one by one — muttered "Instructor," and "Night, ma’am," as they passed.

“You’re not getting extra stimcaf tomorrow if you stay up talking all night,” you warned as the last few ducked inside.

CC-5052 gave you a tired smirk. “Even if it’s tactical debrief?”

“You say ‘tactical’ like it’ll stop me from making you do perimeter drills in the rain.”

A few chuckles, then a wave of yawns as they climbed into the bunks. Blankets tugged over armor-clad bodies, helmets set neatly at bedsides. The rain beat a gentle rhythm outside.

You lingered at the doorway a moment longer, watching as their movement slowed, heads rested back, breath evened out.

And then you turned.

Your own quarters were spartan — a small room not far from theirs, but far enough to give them space. You sat on your bunk, pulled off your boots, leaned forward with a sigh. It wasn’t exhaustion so much as weight. Of command. Of care. Of responsibility for twenty-three lives that had never known anyone but you who treated them like they were something more.

You didn’t hear the door open at first — it slid open quiet, hesitant. It was the breath that gave him away. Soft. Uneven.

You glanced up, hand instinctively reaching toward the blaster on your bedside.

CC-1010 stood there.

Helmet off. Shoulders stiff. Eyes uncertain in the low light. Not afraid of you — not exactly. Just… afraid.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded, once. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“Didn’t want the others to see,” he said finally. “They’d think something’s wrong.”

You stood slowly, motioned him in. “Close the door.”

He obeyed.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle before you spoke again. “Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“What if I mess up?”

You turned slightly to look at him. His brow was furrowed. His jaw clenched hard. “Not in sims. In real combat. What if I give an order and someone dies? What if I don’t see something, or I freeze, and my brothers—”

His voice cracked and stopped.

You stood again — close enough to reach out, but you didn’t touch him. Not yet.

“1010,” you said quietly, “you’re already thinking about how your choices affect others. That alone makes you better than half the commanders I’ve seen.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” he said. “I’m supposed to protect them. What if I can’t?”

You looked at him — really looked.

Behind the calm, behind the training, behind the cloned perfection, there was a kid terrified of not being enough.

You stepped closer.

“You remember what I said about names?”

He nodded slowly.

“They’re not just earned in battle. They’re earned in who you are. And I’ve watched you since the first day.”

You didn’t hesitate this time — you placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You carry more than the others realize. You hold it all in so they don’t have to. You think before you speak. You lead without needing the spotlight. You protect your brothers before yourself. That makes you a shield.”

You looked him in the eyes.

“And you’re strong enough to take the hit.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

“That’s why your name is Fox.”

His breath caught. For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel something about it. Then his shoulders dropped — not in defeat, but in relief.

“…Fox,” he repeated, testing it. “That’s me?”

You nodded. “That’s you.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t need to. But he gave you a look you’d never forget — one of raw, unfiltered trust. The kind that meant you weren’t just his instructor.

You were *his person.*

“Get some sleep,” you said softly. “You’ve earned it.”

He turned to go, then hesitated. “Thank you… for seeing me.”

You smiled.

“Always.”

When the door slid shut behind him, you sat back down on the bed and leaned back against the wall. The rain drummed steady outside.

Fox.

The first to earn his name.

One down.

Twenty-two to go.

---

Next Chapter

Has this been done yet

Scorch should be 100% silly but the man who cracks most jokes something something

Inspired by @minosprimeenjoyer's command batch version

“Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”

Wrecker x Female Reader

⸻

The ocean was too blue. The sky was too clear. The people were too… happy.

It annoyed you.

Not because it was bad—it wasn’t. Pabu was a dream. A sanctuary. A rare piece of untouched paradise in a galaxy still licking its wounds. But after everything you’d seen, done, survived, the cheerfulness of it all hit you like sunburn on old scars.

So when Wrecker waved at you the first morning you arrived—big smile, bigger voice, bouncing down the stone steps like a gundark on caf—you nearly turned around and left.

But you didn’t.

You stayed. You unpacked. You avoided him for two days.

And then?

He showed up outside your door with a grin and a crate of fresh fruit.

“You need help settin’ up?” he asked, already peeking past your shoulder like he owned the place.

You crossed your arms. “You just looking for an excuse to snoop?”

Wrecker blinked, then grinned wider. “Only a little.”

You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw.

“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it!” he said, delighted, as if he’d won a war.

“That wasn’t a smile. That was… mild amusement. Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, your smile is so beautiful!” he declared, plopping the crate on your counter like he lived there. “I’d love to see it more often.”

You raised a brow. “Flattery? Really?”

“Not flattery,” he said, serious for a second. “Just the truth.”

And just like that, your walls cracked a little.

⸻

A week passed. Then two. You stopped flinching when he knocked. You started helping him haul supplies. You let him drag you into town gatherings, always with the same grin and the same cheer.

“You’re definitely the only person I would do this for,” you grumbled once, dragging your boots through the sand on the way to a lantern festival.

“I know!” Wrecker beamed, looping a thick arm around your shoulder. “I’m special.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m charming.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You smiled again.”

“Damn it.”

⸻

One night, you found yourself sitting beside him on the docks. The moon cast silver streaks across the water, and Wrecker was humming some out-of-tune melody you didn’t recognize.

“You ever stop being cheerful?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “Used to. After Crosshair left, and after Echo… yeah. I had some bad days. Real bad. But Omega helped. So did Pabu.”

You nodded slowly.

He looked at you, more thoughtful now. “You got bad days too, huh?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “Sometimes it feels wrong to enjoy peace. Like I haven’t earned it.”

Wrecker shifted closer. His hand brushed yours, warm and solid. “You don’t gotta earn peace. You just gotta accept it.”

You looked at him, brow tight. “You make it sound easy.”

He grinned. “Nah. It ain’t. But I’m here. Omega’s here. You’re not alone.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’ll do it,” you whispered after a long pause, “but only because you asked me to.”

“Do what?”

You finally leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Try. To enjoy it. This place. You.”

Wrecker’s face turned redder than a sunset. “Well, hey, no pressure, but—I really like it when you smile.”

You chuckled.

Then, finally—finally—you smiled again.

“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.

“on all levels except physical, i am a wolf”

“The Sound of Your Voice”

Wrecker x Togruta Reader

The sunset painted Pabu’s sky in thick, golden brushstrokes, casting long shadows over the peaceful island. Waves lapped lazily against the cliffs below, and somewhere distant, children’s laughter drifted on the breeze.

Wrecker walked carefully behind you, boots thudding heavily against the worn footpath. In contrast, you moved with a graceful lightness, bare feet brushing over the earth as if you were part of it. He wasn’t paying much attention to where he was, though.

Not when you were walking beside him, your vibrant montrals catching the light, your voice weaving a story he barely understood but couldn’t get enough of.

You stopped near a bluff overlooking the water, turning back to him with a smile.

“You can sit, if you like,” you said softly.

Wrecker flopped down without hesitation, arms resting on his knees. He watched curiously as you remained standing, closing your eyes and spreading your toes against the soil. You tilted your face up toward the stars, breathing deep, like you were drinking in the very air.

After a long, peaceful moment, you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

“Togruta believe the land is part of us,” you began, voice like a gentle tide, steady and warm. “The soil carries the memory of life. Every step we take barefoot, we are sharing in that memory. Feeling the heartbeat of the world.”

Wrecker blinked up at you, utterly enchanted but thoroughly confused. “The dirt’s got a heartbeat?” he asked, scratching the side of his head.

You laughed, soft and melodious, not mocking him — just delighted by his earnestness.

“In a way. It’s not something you hear with your ears. You feel it here.” You placed your palm over your chest, just above your heart.

Wrecker copied the gesture clumsily, his big hand thudding against his chest plate with a solid thunk. He winced. “Maybe I oughta take this armor off first, huh?”

You smiled and knelt beside him, resting lightly on your heels. Your robes pooled around your legs, and your toes stayed firmly rooted in the soil.

“You don’t have to be Togruta to feel the connection. Just… still your mind. Listen.”

Wrecker frowned a little in concentration, shutting his eyes tight, shoulders tensing like he was preparing for battle.

You bit back a laugh. “Not so hard. Relax.”

He cracked an eye open at you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “I ain’t too good at this kinda thing,” he admitted. “S’pose I don’t really hear nothin’ except you talkin’.”

You tilted your head slightly, your montrals twitching at the gentle evening breeze.

“That’s alright,” you said, reaching out and gently taking his gloved hand in yours. His hand swallowed yours easily. “Maybe you don’t need to hear the earth tonight. Maybe… it’s enough just to listen to me.”

Wrecker’s cheeks flushed warm, and he gave a low, bashful chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I like listenin’ to ya. Your voice makes everythin’ seem… calmer. Better.”

The two of you sat there, hand in hand, the ocean’s lullaby wrapping around you. Above, the stars wheeled lazily across the night sky, ancient and eternal — just like the bond between living beings and the worlds that cradled them.

And Wrecker, big and loud and rough around the edges, had never felt so peaceful just sitting still.

Just listening to you.

Just feeling — maybe, just a little — the heartbeat of the land beneath him.

Wrecker shifted, glancing down at your bare feet pressed into the soil, then at his own heavy boots. He frowned, thoughtful.

“Do ya think… it’d help if I took these off?” he asked, voice low, almost shy.

You smiled warmly, tilting your head. “Maybe. It might help you feel what I feel.”

He grunted, leaning back to unbuckle his boots. It took him a moment — the armor clasps were stubborn — but finally, with a huff, he yanked them off and peeled away his thick socks too.

The second his bare feet touched the earth, he froze.

“Maker, that’s weird,” he blurted. “It’s all… squishy!”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your amusement. Wrecker wiggled his toes uncertainly, then gave a surprised grin.

“Feels kinda nice, though.”

You nodded, the moonlight catching the gentle curve of your smile. “Togruta believe that the land is not just something we live on — it’s something we live with. Every creature, every plant, every stone is part of a greater whole. We’re taught to listen, to feel… to never see ourselves as separate.”

Wrecker watched you with wide, focused eyes, the way he did when he was on a mission, except softer now, like the whole world had narrowed down to just you and your words.

You continued, your voice smooth and full of quiet passion. “When we walk barefoot, we are honoring the connection. Letting the world know we are its children, not its masters.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the murmur of the ocean below.

Wrecker let out a slow breath, his toes curling into the soil. He looked at you for a long moment, then said, with a sincerity that made your heart flutter:

“You got such a beautiful voice.”

You felt your cheeks warm, your montrals picking up the slight tremble of emotion in his words.

“I don’t really get all of it,” Wrecker added with a crooked grin, “but when you talk, it’s like… like everything’s alright. Even if I don’t understand it all, I wanna keep listenin’.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, and shifted closer, the two of you sitting barefoot in the cool dirt, connected not just to the land, but to something deeper.

And under the endless Pabu sky, with your voice weaving through the night air, Wrecker decided he didn’t need to understand everything.

He just needed you.

Hello! Can you do a bad batch x fem!reader where she’s been with them for a bit but they still have an outwardly showed her that they like her but they get close to her/touch her whenever they’re uncomfortable because she might smell/remind them of home(their ship) and she doesn’t really notice at first but when she does it’s all “aw you really do like me!”

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

You’d been traveling with Clone Force 99 for just long enough that your “guest” status had evolved into something more like “resident stowaway they couldn’t get rid of.” Not that you were complaining. The Marauder might not have been luxury living, but it was safe, the crew was (mostly) stable, and there was always something to laugh about—usually Wrecker tripping over his own boots or Tech getting roped into arguments with Gonk.

Still, there was a weird undercurrent to life aboard the ship.

They were… close. Physically. Constantly. And it wasn’t like they were trying to make you uncomfortable, but sometimes, you wondered if the entire squad had collectively decided you didn’t have a personal bubble. You’d turn around and find Echo right over your shoulder while you were cooking rations. Crosshair would sit beside you on missions when there were other seats available. Hunter always managed to casually lean his arm over the back of your chair during briefings. And Tech—sweet, literal, constantly-tapping-on-a-datapad Tech—had started borrowing your jackets when he got cold. Without asking.

You weren’t mad about it. Just… confused.

“Do clone squads not believe in personal space?” you muttered under your breath one evening, squashed between Echo and Wrecker on the narrow seating bench while Hunter briefed the team on their next mission.

“What’s that?” Wrecker asked, already distracted by trying to sneak some of the ration bar you’d left in your pocket.

“Nothing,” you grumbled, tugging it away from him. “Just wondering if elbows have to touch for squad cohesion.”

Echo gave you a slow side-eye and didn’t move away.

⸻

It wasn’t until the fourth night in a row that you found Tech asleep in your chair, legs propped on your bunk, datapad resting on his chest like a satisfied pet, that something in your brain started to itch. You stared at him from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

He stirred, blinked once, then sat up and blinked again like you’d startled him from a dream. “Oh. I—apologies. I must have dozed off.”

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

He looked genuinely confused. “I do. But yours is—warmer.”

You squinted. “Warmer?”

“It smells like… here.” He blinked. “Like the ship. Like the inside of the cockpit when we’ve been in hyperspace too long. It’s familiar. Soothing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “You mean it smells like me.”

“Yes,” he said easily, then added after a beat, “That was not meant to be an intrusive observation.”

You stared at him. “You fell asleep in my chair because I smell like the Marauder?”

“Yes. Precisely.” He paused. “It’s… comforting.”

It took you a full thirty seconds to connect that to the moment yesterday when Crosshair had leaned just a little too close while cleaning his rifle and muttered something about “the smell of ion grease and coffee,” or that time Hunter had caught your wrist absentmindedly and inhaled before letting go like nothing had happened.

You turned on your heel and went straight to the galley. Echo was there, pouring caf, looking sleep-deprived and deeply unrepentant.

“Do all of you use me like some kind of emotional support blanket?”

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You remind us of home.”

You blinked. “I live here. On the ship.”

“Yes, but… you smell like the inside of it now. You’ve been here long enough. You’re part of it.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

Later that night, you caught Wrecker curled up on your bunk, nose buried deep in your pillow. The image might’ve been cuter if it didn’t confirm every weird suspicion you’d had for weeks.

“Wrecker.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned, not even trying to move. “It smells like you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I like it.” He snuggled in further, like a massive, affectionate tooka. “Smells like the Marauder.”

You sighed, but your heart did something traitorous and warm.

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

“Hey,” came Hunter’s voice from the doorway, sounding suspiciously amused. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it?” You crossed your arms and turned toward him. “Because instead of telling me you liked me, you all decided to casually absorb my scent like loth-cats?”

Crosshair strolled past behind him, muttering, “Didn’t realize she’d catch on this fast.”

“I didn’t catch on! You basically rolled in my laundry!”

Tech emerged from the cockpit, pushing up his goggles. “To clarify, I merely borrowed your jacket.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction. “You napped in my scent.”

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

There was a long, awkward silence before Wrecker added cheerfully, “We just like you, that’s all.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden earnestness. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You make it feel like home.”

Hunter stepped closer, expression softening in that careful, deliberate way of his. “We didn’t know how to say it. You came into our lives like a storm and just… stayed. It got easier when you were here. Like we could breathe again.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes from the background. “You’re all terrible at subtlety.”

“I don’t think ‘sniffing my blankets’ qualifies as subtle.”

“Would it help,” Echo said slowly, “if we just admitted it properly?”

You stared at them—five elite clone troopers, all looking at you with some variation of awkward affection or hopeful confusion.

“You’re all idiots,” you said finally, grinning despite yourself.

“But… our idiots?” Tech offered, voice hopeful.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Fine. My idiots.”

Wrecker threw his arms up in celebration from your bunk, nearly taking out the overhead panel. “Knew it!”

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

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

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