Commander Neyo X Reader - Blog Posts

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.

⸻

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

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

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

“Side Streets and Solitude”

Commander Neyo x Reader

You saw him before he ever ordered a drink.

Most clones came into 79’s loud, rowdy, aching for some distraction. But he walked in alone—always alone—helmet tucked under his arm. He wore that long coat like armor, even off duty, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight no one else could see. He never smiled. Not once.

You didn’t ask his name. You just called him “the usual?” and he’d nod once, wordless. Whisky. Neat. Never touched the beer.

He sat at the far end of the bar, not too close to anyone, but never hiding. Just… existing in the silence between laughs and music and the rest of the Guard forgetting the war for five minutes. He never joined them. Just drank. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.

You learned to stop wiping the counter when you passed him. He didn’t like the sudden movement. You figured that out after the first night, when his hand twitched toward the blaster holstered at his side.

Some clones called him Neyo. Commander. You didn’t use it. He didn’t correct you either way.

“You ever smile?” you asked once, half-joking, late in the night when the place had thinned out and the hum of the room softened. You were stacking glasses, looking at him across the lip of the bar.

He didn’t look up. “Not much to smile about.”

You let that hang. You knew a man carrying ghosts when you saw one.

“Yeah. I get that.”

He glanced at you then, just once. A flicker. Like he didn’t expect to be understood. You didn’t need to tell him your story—he didn’t want it, probably—but that look said he clocked it. That you weren’t like the others either.

You lived in the same city, drank the same watered-down liquor, but both of you were walking some kind of empty road no one else could see.

For a long time, you just stood in silence. Him with his drink. You with your rag and your thoughts.

Finally, he said, “I come here because it’s quiet. Even when it’s loud. You know?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s a good place to feel alone. But not… completely.”

He blinked, slow. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t expect him to. But he came back the next night. And the next.

Always alone. Always quiet. But now, when he sat down, he looked at you first.

Not a smile. But maybe something close.

⸻

He didn’t come back for two weeks.

You didn’t ask where he went. You knew better than to ask questions like that. Especially with the GAR—especially with him.

But when he came back, he had blood on his gloves. Not his. You could tell by the way he moved.

You poured his drink before he reached the bar.

“Rough one?” you asked, voice low, like if you spoke too loud it might break whatever fragile tether kept him standing upright.

He sat. Took the glass. Didn’t answer right away.

“Lost a good man.”

You nodded. “They always are.”

A long silence followed. The kind that settled in your chest.

“They say we’re not supposed to get attached.” His voice was flat, but his hands were tight around the glass. “Doesn’t matter. You feel it anyway.”

You didn’t say I’m sorry. That phrase meant nothing in a place like this. Instead, you grabbed another glass and poured one for yourself.

“To the good ones,” you said, raising it halfway.

He didn’t lift his, just looked at you. Then, after a second, knocked it back.

That became a new ritual. Not every time. Just sometimes. When the grief sat too heavy in his coat.

Over time, you learned the little things.

He preferred the quiet of the back booth when the place wasn’t packed. He never danced, never flirted, didn’t touch the food. When the music got too loud or too fast, he’d drift outside for air. You started meeting him out there with a second drink, standing beside him under the flickering streetlamp, neither of you talking unless the silence needed it.

“Most people see clones as one thing,” you said once, after a few too many customers had made too many dumb jokes about regs. “But you’re all different. You especially.”

He stared ahead, helmet under his arm again, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter if we are. Not to the people who give the orders.”

You looked at him. “Does it matter to you?”

That made him pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. Then added, “I remember every face I’ve lost. That’s how I know I’m still me.”

And that—more than any long-winded speech—told you everything you needed to know about him.

He wasn’t a man of many words. But what he gave, he meant.

And still, he never stayed long. One night here, three days gone. A week of silence, then another appearance. No promises. No warnings.

But when he did come in, he’d glance toward the bar before scanning the room. Like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping you’d still be there.

You always were.

One night, close to closing, the place was empty. Rain tapped at the windows, slow and rhythmic. Neyo was sitting at his usual spot, coat slung over the chair.

You brought him his drink, and this time, slid a datapad across the bar.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A list,” you said. “Of my shifts. So you don’t have to wonder.”

He looked at it. Then at you.

That unreadable look again.

You smiled. “I know you won’t always show up. But if you do… I’ll be here.”

His fingers grazed the pad, slow. He didn’t smile. But he held your gaze a little longer this time.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. A rare thing, that word.

You poured him another drink and stood across from him, matching his silence.

The war hadn’t ended. The streets were still cracked. The dreams were still broken. But for now, in this little corner of the galaxy, you both had somewhere to walk that wasn’t so lonely.

⸻

Neyo wasn’t the kind of man who noticed absence.

He was trained to move forward. To endure loss like gravity—constant, inevitable, unavoidable.

But when he walked into 79’s that night and saw someone else behind the bar, something shifted.

She was too talkative. Young. Smiled too much. Had never poured him a drink before, and made it obvious by asking, “What’ll it be, sir?”

Sir.

He blinked. Something cold crept up his spine, not fear, not anger—just dissonance.

He sat down anyway. Same stool. Same spot.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

She nodded, turned, poured. A splash too much.

He looked at the drink. Didn’t touch it.

You never asked what he wanted. You already knew.

“Is [Y/N] around?” he asked, voice low, forced casual.

The bartender blinked. “Oh—they called in sick tonight. First time I’ve worked with their section, actually.”

Called in sick.

He sat back slowly, fingers tightening just slightly on the glass. He told himself it didn’t matter. People got sick. People missed shifts.

But you never had before.

He stayed longer than usual that night, even though everything felt… wrong. The lights too bright. The music too upbeat. He didn’t finish his drink. Just let it sit there, the amber catching light, untouched and warm.

The new bartender tried to make conversation once—asked something about the war. He ignored her.

Eventually, he stood, paid without a word, and walked out into the rain.

He didn’t know where he was going until he got there—corner street, flickering streetlamp, just outside the side entrance. Where you used to stand with him when it got too loud.

You weren’t there, of course.

He leaned against the wall anyway.

Rain pattered onto his shoulders. Steam curled off the street like breath.

He didn’t understand it—why the night felt heavier without you in it. He didn’t have the words for that kind of absence. But it gnawed at him, that sudden space you left behind. The silence you weren’t filling.

He looked down at the datapad in his coat. The one with your shift list, still saved.

Tomorrow, you’d be back. Probably.

And if you weren’t… he didn’t want to think about that.

⸻

You came back on a quiet night.

No fanfare. No apology. Just walked in through the back door, tied your apron, and started cleaning a glass like you hadn’t missed a beat.

But Neyo saw it.

The way your eyes didn’t search for him first. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

When he took his usual seat, you were already pouring his drink. But your hands moved slower.

“You were gone,” he said, voice steady.

You nodded. “Yeah. Needed a night.”

He didn’t reply. Just watched you slide the glass across to him, fingers brushing, not quite touching.

Then you said it—quietly, like it was a confession.

“I handed in my resignation.”

He blinked once. “What?”

“I start somewhere new next week. Smaller place. Little more out of the way. Less noise.” You looked at him, trying to read him like you always did, but his expression didn’t shift. “I just… I needed a change.”

A long silence followed. You hated the way it stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Where?”

You told him the name of the place. A lounge bar tucked into one of the upper levels—not exactly seedy, but not exactly clone-friendly either.

He stared at his drink. “They don’t serve clones there.”

Your breath caught. “Yeah, I know.”

Another silence.

“I didn’t choose it because of that,” you said quickly. “It’s just… different. It’s quiet. Thought maybe I’d try something new.”

He didn’t look at you.

“You won’t see me there,” he said plainly. Not cruel. Just fact.

You nodded. “I figured.”

You wanted to say more—to explain that it wasn’t about him, that you weren’t abandoning him, that the weight of every war-worn story and every heavy silence was starting to drown you. But you didn’t. Because that would be unfair. Because you knew what he’d say.

He lifted the glass and drank. Then sat it back down with a soft clink.

“When?”

“Three days.”

He gave a short nod.

You looked at him for a long time. “I’ll miss this.”

He didn’t answer.

But his jaw clenched. Just barely.

Then, softer than you’d ever heard from him: “So will I.”

That was the closest thing to goodbye you were ever going to get.

And somehow… it hurt more than if he’d said nothing at all.

⸻

It was your last shift.

The bar felt the same, but you didn’t. Everything had a weight to it now. The laughter, the music, even the way you wiped down the counter—it all carried finality.

And he was there.

Neyo showed up just before midnight. Sat at the end of the bar like always, helmet on the counter, armor dull with wear. He didn’t say anything when you slid him his drink. Just gave you a long look.

You didn’t need words tonight.

You served your last table, handed over the till, and untied your apron with tired fingers. The place was quieter than usual. The other bartender took over, giving you a soft wave as you shrugged into your coat.

You turned to leave—and saw him waiting at the door.

Outside, the street was cool and quiet. Your boots echoed against the duracrete. Neyo walked beside you, silent as a shadow.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you said softly.

He glanced over. “Didn’t want you walking alone.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re sweet when you’re trying not to be.”

He didn’t respond—but you could’ve sworn his jaw loosened, just a bit.

You walked in companionable silence, the kind that only came from two people who had said more in silence than they ever could aloud.

When you reached your building, you stopped at the steps and turned to him.

“If you ever need a drink…” you started, watching his face, “you’re welcome to come around.”

He stared at you. Not in the usual guarded way, but with something else in his eyes—something uncertain, almost… longing.

Then you added, “Want to come up?”

It hung there, a gentle offer, nothing more.

For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. It was written in his posture—the way he stood like he might turn away.

But then… he nodded.

You didn’t smile. Just opened the door and led the way.

Your apartment was small, cluttered, warm. You threw your coat over the back of the couch and kicked off your boots.

Neyo stood just inside the door, helmet under his arm like a shield he didn’t know where to put.

“You can sit,” you offered.

He did—hesitantly, armor creaking as he lowered himself onto the couch. You poured two drinks from a half-finished bottle on the counter and handed him one.

“You sure you’re off duty?” you teased lightly.

His eyes met yours over the rim of the glass. “I’m never off duty.”

You sat beside him, the air thick with things unsaid. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“Why’d you really wait for me?” you asked, voice softer now.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t want to regret not saying goodbye.”

You swallowed. “You saying goodbye now?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or practiced—it was urgent, restrained, the way a man kisses when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again. Your fingers curled into his blacks, and his gloves dropped to the floor. The helmet followed. You pulled him closer, and for once, he didn’t resist.

His hands were calloused, unsure, but when they found your skin, they lingered like he was memorizing every inch. You guided him, slow but certain, until his barriers fell—not just the armor, but the weight he carried behind his eyes.

He wasn’t a soldier in that moment.

He was a man. Tired. Raw. Desperate for something real.

And you gave it to him.

Bittersweet. Fleeting.

The kind of night that lingers like the echo of a song you almost forgot—until it finds you again in the quiet.

His mouth was still warm against yours when he pulled back, breath shallow, eyes unreadable.

You stayed close, barely inches apart, your fingers still resting against the edge of his undersuit.

“Neyo,” you whispered, searching his face. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye.”

His jaw clenched. Not in anger—just habit. A response to something he didn’t know how to process.

He looked away, eyes dragging across the room like he was already retreating. Like he had to remind himself where he was. Who he was.

“I don’t get to stay,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I don’t have that kind of life.”

You leaned in again, gently, slowly, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

“I’m not asking for forever,” you said. “Just… don’t shut the door before you’ve even walked through it.”

He looked at you again, and something flickered behind his eyes. It wasn’t hope—but it was something close.

“I don’t want to leave and forget this ever happened,” you added. “I don’t want to pretend like you never came in out of the rain, like we didn’t sit under that streetlight all those nights like we were the only two people left in the world.”

His breath hitched—but barely.

“You don’t talk much,” you said softly, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye. “But you stayed. You showed up. Every time. That’s gotta mean something.”

Neyo closed his eyes, just for a second. When he opened them again, he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it wasn’t a goodbye either.

And for someone like him, that was more than enough.

You stayed like that for a while—still dressed, still halfway caught in that space between war and peace, silence and what could be.

Then, finally, he spoke. A whisper. A truth you weren’t expecting.

“I’ll come find you.”

You nodded, even as your chest tightened. “Good.”

Because you weren’t sure when—or if—he would. But you believed him.

And maybe, for one of the first times in his life, so did he.

“Rules of Engagement”

Commander Neyo x Senator Reader

⸻

You weren’t what the Senate expected.

You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.

Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.

He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.

He followed you everywhere.

And you made sure to give him a show.

“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.

“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”

“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”

You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”

“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

“How noble.”

That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.

Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.

You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.

“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.

You smirked as the man scurried off.

“Jealous?” you teased.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”

You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.

“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.

Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.

“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”

“And yet…”

He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You grinned. “Good.”

He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.

And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.

Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.

⸻

You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.

Your stomach roiled.

There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.

“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.

You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.

Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.

You were dying.

And still—you were determined to win.

A sharp knock came at the door.

“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.

You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.

He blinked.

“You look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He nodded. “Fair.”

He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.

Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”

You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”

To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.

By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.

Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.

Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.

“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.

“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”

“I was warmed up.”

He blinked. “You threw up.”

“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”

He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.

Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.

He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.

Lights brightened. All eyes on you.

You smiled.

Then you spoke.

Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.

When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.

In the corridor, he finally said:

“You’re… something else.”

You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”

⸻

The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.

You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.

“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”

“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”

“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“Also a lie.”

You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”

When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.

“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.

Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.

He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.

Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.

The door shut behind you.

And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.

Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.

“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”

Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.

Then—

“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.

You made a muffled whining sound.

“You’ll stab yourself.”

“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.

But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.

And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.

One by one.

You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.

His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.

“Better,” he said softly.

You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.

“You’re being weirdly sweet.”

“I’m not sweet.”

“Well, you’re weird then.”

A long pause. He didn’t move away.

Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”

He hesitated.

Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”

Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.

You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.

You knew he wouldn’t leave.

And that—for once—felt like safety.

⸻

It was past 0200 when you stirred.

The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.

You found Neyo right where you expected him.

Standing just outside your bedroom door.

Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.

Unmoving.

“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.

“Yes.”

You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”

“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”

You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”

“I’m consistent.”

“Irritatingly so.”

You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.

Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.

Neyo noticed.

Then everything happened at once.

A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—

And Neyo tackled you to the ground.

The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.

Another shot. Close.

Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.

They hadn’t met Neyo before.

He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.

The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.

Then silence.

Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”

You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.

The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.

You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.

The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.

Smoke. Dust. Silence.

Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.

You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:

Your liquor cabinet.

You limped over.

From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.

You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.

Then you held it out to Neyo.

“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.

He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.

He took the bottle from your hand.

Took a sip.

Didn’t even flinch.

You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”

He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”

You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.

“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”

He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.

But it did.

⸻

You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.

Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.

Your apartment looked like a warzone.

Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.

The door buzzed.

You groaned.

“Tell them I’m dead.”

Neyo didn’t even turn.

The door buzzed again.

You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.

The door slid open.

“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.

Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.

Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”

Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”

“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”

Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.

Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”

“So was my liver,” you muttered.

Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”

“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.

Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”

“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”

“You nearly died.”

“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”

He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”

Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”

You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”

The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.

Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.

Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”

You stared at it.

Then smiled.

“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”

⸻

The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.

“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”

“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”

“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”

Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.

They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.

In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.

Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.

And now, word had come down.

He was being reassigned.

⸻

The knock on your door was unnecessary.

You already knew it was him.

You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.

Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.

He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”

“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”

“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.

You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.

“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.

He nodded.

You stared at him, your throat tight.

“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”

That caught his attention.

“Why?”

“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”

His eyes dropped for a moment.

Then rose again—meeting yours.

“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”

You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”

“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”

Your heart stung.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.

And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.

Then pulled away.

Duty won again.

“Goodbye, Senator.”

You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.

Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.

Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.

And toasted to what almost was.

Hi! I saw you took requests and I was wondering if you could do a Command Squad x Fem!Reader where she’s a general but not because she’s a Jedi but because she actually served in wars before this and they want her respect and flirt with her. And of course any of your flourishes ;)

You’re the best! Xx

“Steel & Stardust”

Fem!Reader x Command Squad (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Neyo, Bacara, Gree, Bly, and Ponds)

⸻

You weren’t a Jedi. Never wore the robes, never had the Force. You didn’t need it.

Your command had been earned the hard way—blood, shrapnel, and scars in wars no one even bothered to archive anymore. When the Republic came knocking, you told them you didn’t serve causes—you served soldiers. And somehow, that landed you here.

Not in front of them. With them.

The elite. The best the Republic had to offer.

And from the second you stepped into that war room, every helmet turned your way. And when the helmets came off—yeah, that was a problem. Because they were all infuriatingly hot, and even worse, they knew it.

Cody was the first to speak, his voice calm, neutral, but his eyes sharp. “General. You’ll forgive the question, but… what exactly are your qualifications?”

You just smirked, tossing your old service jacket onto the table with a dull thud. “Two border wars, five urban insurgencies, and a ten-year campaign in the Outer Rim before the Jedi decided the galaxy needed saving. That enough for you, Commander?”

Wolffe snorted, amused. “She’s got more battlefield time than half the Jedi Council.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bacara grunted, arms crossed, voice gravelly. “Seen her file. Most of us got bred for war. She just never left it.”

“I like her,” Bly grinned, leaning on the table with a little too much casual charm. “Can we keep her?”

“Not like that, Bly,” Fox muttered, though he didn’t exactly disagree.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bly said with a wicked grin. “Yet.”

You sighed. “Are you always like this, or is it just when there’s a woman in the room who outranks you?”

Gree chuckled. “You outrank us technically. Not in spirit.”

Neyo hadn’t said a word yet, just stared at you like he was dissecting your tactical potential, or possibly imagining your funeral. Could go either way with Neyo.

Ponds gave you a respectful nod. “We’ve worked under a lot of Jedi. Not all of them know what they’re doing. We’d follow you, General.”

And that—that was what mattered.

⸻

You caught them watching you more often than not. In the field, in the war room, during briefings. It wasn’t just the usual soldier-to-general dynamic. No, it was different. Heat in Cody’s gaze when you gave orders. That glint in Wolffe’s eye when you called him out in front of the others. The way Fox lingered just a bit too long when you handed him back his datapad.

Even Neyo—cold, calculating Neyo—started standing just a little too close.

“You know they’re all trying to impress you, right?” Gree asked one night while you were cleaning your gear, his voice low and amused.

You didn’t even glance up. “Trying and failing.”

Bly leaned against your doorway. “Is that a challenge?”

⸻

After you saved their shebs in a firefight—ripping a blaster from a fallen commando and dropping six droids in twelve seconds flat—you were pretty sure something shifted.

They wanted your respect. You already had theirs.

But they wanted more.

So they fought beside you. Ate with you. Got protective in the field. Made excuses to talk to you after hours. Fought over who got assigned to your team. And every now and then… they flirted like it was a competitive sport.

Cody did subtle praise and brooding glances. Always has your back.

Wolffe. The grumpy softie. Pretends he hates you. Would kill anyone who hurt you.

Fox was stoic, but flirty in a dry, sardonic way. Deep down, he’s soft, but you’d have to earn it.

Neyo protective in a weird way. Doesn’t speak much but always notices when you’re off. Secretly touched you remembered his name.

Bacara extremely blunt, intense. A man of few words—but his loyalty is loud.

Gree slightly flirty and professional. Gives you space but always drops a line like, “You ever need a break, General… I know a place.”

Bly was shameless. Teases you endlessly but respects you deeply. Would absolutely fight anyone who disrespects you.

Ponds was quiet support. Loyal. Observes everything. The first one to ask how you’re doing when no one else notices.

And you?

You don’t fall easily. You’ve seen too much.

But if you were going to fall—

It might just be for one of them.

Or all of them.

⸻

79’s was already loud when you walked in. Music thrumming through your bones, the low hum of clone banter and laughter rising and falling like waves. You hadn’t planned to come here. You’d just wanted one damn drink. One moment not steeped in war, planning, or death.

You ran right into Commander Bly. Well, more like his chest.

“General,” he said, and the smile that bloomed on his face was entirely too pretty. He looked you over, gaze lingering just a little too long. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t,” you replied, stepping back. “Just needed to breathe.”

“You came to a GAR bar to breathe?” Gree chimed in from behind him, drink in hand and eyebrows raised. “You’re worse at relaxing than Fox.”

Speak of the devil—Fox was at the bar, sharp suit shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He lifted his glass in greeting and turned away to order another round. You could feel his eyes on you though, like a sniper sight you couldn’t shake.

“You here alone?” Bly asked, leaning against the wall like he knew what he was doing.

“I was,” you replied flatly.

“Tragic,” Gree said, stepping closer, voice smoother than it had any right to be. “This place is full of trouble tonight.”

“Is that what you are, Gree? Trouble?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Cody, Wolffe, Bacara, Ponds, and Neyo filtered in from the second level, coming down the steps like they were part of a slow-motion holodrama.

Cody looked you over once, eyes flickering to the drink in your hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” you replied, teasing, heat behind the words.

Wolffe smirked. “Too bad.”

Ponds gave a low whistle. “She’s gonna kill one of you tonight.”

“I volunteer,” Bly said without hesitation.

Bacara rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink, staring at you over the rim of the glass like he was thinking something entirely inappropriate—and probably correct.

And Neyo—stone-cold, unreadable—just nodded. “You clean up well, General.”

That made a few of them pause. Compliments from Neyo were about as rare as a Tatooine blizzard.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how the lights in the bar made everything seem lower, warmer, closer.

Fox appeared beside you without a sound, holding out a drink. “On me.”

You hesitated. “You trying to get me drunk, Commander?”

“If I were, I’d start with something stronger,” he said, voice low, his knuckles brushing yours as you took it.

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You might be starting something you can’t finish.”

“I always finish what I start,” Fox replied smoothly, dead serious.

The tension snapped tight like a tripwire.

Cody moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You should be careful with us, General.”

Wolffe stepped in next to him, eyes gleaming. “Or don’t. We like dangerous.”

Gree leaned in from the other side. “And we play well together.”

“You all are shameless,” you muttered, taking a sip just to hide your smirk.

“No,” Ponds said with a shrug. “Just very, very interested.”

You looked around—at eight sets of eyes, different in every way except one thing: they wanted you. Wanted to impress you, challenge you, make you forget—if only for one night—that the galaxy was falling apart outside these walls.

You downed the rest of your drink and smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, boys. Try and keep up.”

The night was just beginning.

The music had shifted. Slowed. Lower bass, seductive rhythm. Clone troopers were still everywhere, but the spotlight wasn’t on them anymore.

It was on you.

You hadn’t planned to be the center of the room, but when you started moving through the crowd—hips swaying just enough, eyes catching every glance—you had their undivided attention. Especially when Commander Bly snuck up behind you and took your hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, already guiding you onto the floor like he’d waited years for the excuse.

You let him.

Bly danced like he fought—confident, smooth, close. One hand gripped your hip, the other held yours. His gold armor was traded for casual blacks, but the heat rolling off him was all battle-born adrenaline and want.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured in his ear, “and I’ll start thinking you’re falling for me.”

He faltered—actually faltered. Blinked once, then twice.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “What’s the matter, Bly? Didn’t think I could flirt back?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You slipped away with a smirk.

Gree was next—casual, clever, always too smooth for his own good.

“Careful,” you said, nursing a drink beside him at the bar. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“Just wondering how someone like you keeps every commander in the GAR wrapped around your finger.”

You leaned in, gaze dark. “Who says I don’t already have you wrapped around mine?”

He choked on his drink.

You patted his back, sweet as sin. “I’ll be gentle.”

⸻

Fox looked like he was ready for a war crime when you sat beside him.

“I thought you hated attention,” you said, sipping from your glass.

“I do.”

“And yet,” you murmured, brushing your knee against his, “you keep watching me like I’m a damn threat.”

Fox’s eyes flickered. His jaw clenched. “You are.”

You leaned close. “Then do something about it.”

He looked away. Tight. Tense.

Flustered.

⸻

Neyo didn’t flinch when you approached—but his grip on his glass tightened when you laid your hand lightly on his chest.

“You don’t say much,” you whispered, “but I bet you think about me more than you should.”

His eyes were locked on yours. Still silent.

“You going to prove me wrong?”

He looked down, just for a second. Then turned and walked away—only to stop, just out of reach, and glance back like he wanted you to follow.

God, he was dangerous.

Ponds approached and gave you a smile like calm water hiding a riptide.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“I am now.”

You rested a hand on his arm, feeling the strength there. “You ever going to stop being the sweet one?”

His smile dipped just slightly, darker now. “Only if you ask nicely.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “What if I beg?”

He stared at you like you’d kicked him in the chest.

Bacara barely moved when you brushed his hand at the table, except for the twitch in his jaw.

“You don’t talk much either.”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

You tilted your head. “Then say something. Right now.”

Bacara met your gaze for a long, charged moment. Then—

“You’re dangerous.”

You smirked. “Took you that long to figure it out?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly needing a long drink.

⸻

Wolffe was already grumpy when you got to him, sitting in the corner like he’d rather be anywhere else—but the second you sat on the arm of his chair, his whole body went rigid.

“What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, playing with the edge of his collar. “You just always look like you want to throw me against a wall.”

He inhaled sharply. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I am.”

And just for fun, you kissed his cheek. Quick. Sharp. Possessive.

Wolffe went absolutely still. “You’re a menace.”

“You like that.”

⸻

Cody found you at the end of the night—when your guard was just a little lowered, your drink half-finished.

“You were playing us all along,” he said, leaning on the bar beside you, eyes burning.

“Not playing,” you replied. “Just reminding you who’s in charge.”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Then dance with me.”

You didn’t resist when he pulled you back onto the floor, slower this time. Closer.

“You like control,” he murmured in your ear.

You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Only when they’re strong enough to take it from me.”

Cody stared at you like he wanted to drag you out of the bar and ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d let him.

You hadn’t meant to start a war in 79’s—but then again, you’d never played fair, had you?

The music was sultry, all slow bass and sin. The lights were low. You’d been dancing with Cody for all of three minutes, and you could already feel the eyes on you. His eyes.

Fox had been brooding at the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching you like a hawk all night. You’d shared a moment earlier, sure—a drink, a brush of skin, words that lingered.

But now you were wrapped up in Cody.

Hands at your waist, lips near your ear, warm breath as he murmured, “You’re playing a dangerous game, General.”

You looked up at him, smug. “Only if someone plays back.”

Cody smirked. “Oh, I’m playing.”

He pulled you in tighter, hand trailing down your spine, and that was it—that was the trigger.

You didn’t see Fox at first—you felt him.

Storming across the floor like a man possessed. Controlled, measured fury wrapped in sleek civilian clothes. A few troopers nearby saw him coming and stepped aside like instinct told them don’t be in his way.

You barely had time to blink before—

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a blaster shot.

Cody’s hand stiffened at your hip. You turned slowly—heart pounding—to find Fox right in front of you.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Cody asked, tone calm but wary.

Fox didn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes were on you. “This what you came for?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “To play us against each other like it’s all some kind of game?”

You tilted your head, meeting his fury with wicked calm. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Commander.”

His hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but demanding. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you a step closer. “I’m not jealous.”

“No?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

“I’m done pretending you’re just another officer.” His voice dipped, raw and sharp. “I see you dancing with him like that and I want to put my fist through the wall.”

A slow hush had fallen across the floor.

You stepped into Fox’s space, bodies nearly touching. “So do something about it.”

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

His hand slid to your waist. Possessive. Hot. “Dance with me,” he ordered. Not asked. Ordered.

You could have said no.

But you didn’t.

You let him lead you back to the center of the floor, every trooper watching now, every step like a declaration. Fox danced like he wanted to erase Cody’s hands from your skin. He kept you close. Too close. The kind of close that whispered mine without ever saying a word.

“Next time,” he growled in your ear, “I won’t be so polite.”

You smirked against his neck. “That was polite?”

He held you tighter. “You haven’t seen me lose control yet.”

And part of you—twisted, wild, aching—wanted him to.

⸻

A/N

No idea where I was going with this tbh, think I went down my own little route and it ended up liked this 🫤

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.5

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.

Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”

You said nothing at first.

“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”

The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.

“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”

You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”

Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.

Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.

“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”

“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”

You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”

That hit a nerve.

The room was heavy. Silent.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”

Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”

⸻

They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.

But they locked you away.

Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.

And your voice.

You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.

And then—

You hummed.

Low. Soft. Familiar.

That lullaby.

“You may not know me because I changed

But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby

When the river takes, the river gives

And mama will search as long as she lives”

You didn’t know anyone was listening.

Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.

He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.

And quietly… he’d sent the link out.

To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.

Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”

They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.

They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.

The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.

Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.

Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.

Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.

She was still fighting for them.

Even now.

⸻

The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.

Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.

He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.

He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.

He was always composed.

But something was wrong.

He hadn’t spoken in three hours.

His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.

But his Jedi General noticed.

General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.

Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:

“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”

Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”

“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”

He stiffened.

She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.

Then—

“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”

Stass turned, curious.

“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”

His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”

Stass blinked. “Your mother?”

He nodded once.

“What happened to her?”

“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”

The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.

He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.

“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”

He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.

“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You miss her,” Stass said gently.

“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”

Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”

He didn’t reply.

But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.

It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.

⸻

The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.

The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.

A quiet chime at the door.

She stopped humming.

The door hissed open.

Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.

She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.

“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”

“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”

He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”

The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”

“I came to offer truth,” he said.

She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”

“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”

Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.

“They’re still my little boys.”

Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”

He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”

She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.

“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.

“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”

She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”

He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”

As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.

“Windu…”

He looked back.

“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”

He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

⸻

The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.

He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.

“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.

Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”

A pause.

“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.

“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”

Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.

“She means something to you.”

“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”

“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.

“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”

Another pause.

“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”

“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”

There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.

“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”

“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”

Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”

Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”

He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.

Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”

With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.

⸻

The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.

Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.

Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.

“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.

“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.

Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”

Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”

Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.

“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”

“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”

The Jedi waited, giving him space.

Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”

“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”

Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”

“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”

Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”

“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”

That silence hit hard between them.

“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”

Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Cody looked at him, surprised.

Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”

Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”

The silence stretched.

“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”

“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”

Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”

Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”

Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”

⸻

The storm of war was always preceded by silence.

Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.

Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.

But instead…

He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.

And then his comm buzzed.

A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.

EXECUTE ORDER 66.

His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.

The message repeated. Execute Order 66.

Cody didn’t move.

The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”

Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:

“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”

Cody clenched his fists.

“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”

Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.

His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.

Seconds ticked by.

The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.

He pressed the detonator.

The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.

And Cody’s heart shattered.

He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.

⸻

In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.

Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.

She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.

⸻

Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.

She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.

And then she stopped feeling them.

Her boys.

One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.

She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.

Gone.

The humming in her throat died.

⸻

The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.

She stood, slow and cautious.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.

Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.

Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.

“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”

She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”

“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”

Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”

“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”

Fox flinched.

He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.

She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”

His eyes flickered.

“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”

Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”

Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”

Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”

Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”

Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.

“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”

Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.

Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”

The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.

She dropped to her knees, hollow.

She had trained them to survive.

She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.

⸻

There were whispers again.

But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.

No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.

She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.

She was dying.

Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.

She wouldn’t allow it any longer.

She struck at twilight.

No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.

Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.

When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.

She threw the door open, weapons drawn—

Only to find the air grow colder.

And him standing there.

A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.

She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.

“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.

She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”

She attacked.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.

She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.

But she didn’t stop.

She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.

And then—nothing.

The red blade pierced through her chest.

She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.

Vader held her there, impaled, silent.

“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”

“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.

⸻

News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.

They all heard it.

Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t speak for days.

Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.

Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.

He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.

And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.

And Rex.

Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.

He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.

He didn’t move for hours.

He just let it play.

Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.

Their buir… was gone.

But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.2

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The lights didn’t feel as warm.

Maybe they never had been.

But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.

Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.

No singing. No softness.

No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.

They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.

No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”

Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.

He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.

Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.

Rex stopped smiling as much.

Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.

Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.

Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.

Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.

Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.

The nights were the worst.

No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.

Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.

He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.

“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”

That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.

“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”

“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”

“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”

“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

They all looked at him.

“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”

“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”

There was silence for a long time.

Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.

He didn’t send a message.

He just played the recording.

A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.

The boys sat. Still. Silent.

Listening.

⸻

The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.

But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.

Your boys weren’t boys anymore.

They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.

The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.

Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.

Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.

Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.

Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.

Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.

They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.

Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.

He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.

And to make her proud.

But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.

⸻

Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.

Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.

They didn’t say goodbye.

But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.

Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.

And then they were gone.

She wasn’t there to see them off.

Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.

Wasn’t there to call them her boys.

But they carried her with them anyway.

In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.

They were ready.

She’d made sure of that.

⸻

The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.

She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.

Or… she used to.

Now, the silence grated.

The galaxy was changing again.

And this time, she wasn’t in it.

Not yet.

The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.

She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.

He came alone.

Pre Vizsla.

Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.

“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.

“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.

He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”

She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”

“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”

She said nothing.

“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”

“They are worth something.”

Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”

She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”

“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”

He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.

⸻

She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.

Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.

Not since her boys.

The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.

No messages. No voices. No lullabies.

She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.

Was Mandalore dying?

Was she wrong to have left?

She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.

She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.

Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”

But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.

At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.

Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.

She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.

“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.

“You’re still here,” he replied.

“I’m here for Mandalore.”

“Then we want the same thing.”

“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”

“You’ll kill me?”

“I’ll bury you.”

⸻

Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.

A soft blinking light glowed.

Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.

A message was sent.

No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.

She would know what it meant.

They were alive.

They were fighting.

And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

“My Boys, My Warriors”

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly) pt.1

Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero

Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders

A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.

⸻

Arrival

Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.

You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.

“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”

He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”

You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.

“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

You scowled. “And you?”

Jango didn’t answer.

You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.

⸻

Training the Future Commanders

They were just boys.

Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.

“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.

“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”

At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.

But over time, that changed.

You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.

They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.

And somewhere along the line, the title changed.

“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.

You froze.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”

But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”

After that, the name stuck.

⸻

The Way You Loved Them

You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.

“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”

They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.

⸻

Singing in the Dark

Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.

You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

Let the river carry you back to me

Dream, my baby, 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.

Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.

You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.

And after that, you kept doing it.

⸻

The Warning

“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”

“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”

“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”

You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”

He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.

⸻

Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.

You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.

And they were brothers. Every one of them.

“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.

“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.

The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.

“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”

“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”

You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.

The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.

The laughter died.

You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.

“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”

You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”

“They are not—”

“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”

The Kaminoan backed away.

You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.

“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”

He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”

The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.

You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.

Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.

He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.

⸻

You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.

You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.

You never said why, but they trusted you.

And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.

“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”

“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.

“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”

Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”

Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”

“I will end you, rookie.”

“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”

Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.

“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.

Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.

⸻

When You Sang

Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.

The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.

You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.

“Last night under bright strange stars

We left behind the men that caged you and me

Runnin' toward a promise land

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.

You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.

But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.

⸻

The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.

When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.

And they didn’t like complications.

⸻

The Meeting

You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.

“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”

“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.

“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”

Your fists curled at your sides.

“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”

You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”

There was a pause, then:

“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”

You didn’t respond.

You simply turned and walked out.

⸻

He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.

They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.

Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”

“They’re getting better,” you corrected.

He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”

You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”

You shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re pissing them off.”

You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”

“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.

“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”

Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”

You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.

You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”

“They’ll make you.”

“Not until they’re ready.”

Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”

You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”

⸻

That night, you sang again.

You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.

You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.

“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land

Be a mouse and do not use your voice

River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause

Mama will be there in thе mornin'”

Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”

You didn’t turn to see who said it.

You just kept singing.

⸻

They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.

Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”

No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.

“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.

Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”

You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”

“You’ve served your purpose.”

You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”

“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”

You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”

“You are dismissed.”

⸻

You packed slowly.

Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.

You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.

You always took your armor.

You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.

“Can I come in?”

It was Cody.

You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”

He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.

“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”

“Because I care too much,” you said simply.

Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.

“What happens to us now?”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That hit him harder than comfort might have.

“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”

Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”

You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”

His eyes flicked to you in surprise.

You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”

He looked down. “What was your war like?”

You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.

“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”

Cody frowned. “Banished?”

You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”

He was silent, digesting it.

Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”

Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”

You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”

You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.

⸻

You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.

Silent.

Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.

You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.

“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”

You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.

“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”

You left without turning back.

Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.

Part 2

Material Lists 🩵

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

Star Wars

The Clone Wars

501st Material List🩵💙

212th Material List🧡

104th Material List🐺

Clone Force 99/The Bad Batch Material List❤️🖤

Delta Squad Material List 🧡💛💚❤️

Corrie Guard Material List ❤️

Other Clones/Characters

OC Works

“Crimson Huntress”

I accept request🩵🤍

Disclaimer!!!!!

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

Arc Trooper Fives x Bounty Hunter Reader pt.2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fives smirked, but didn't answer.

Fives was the first to notice her.

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

A voice. That voice.

Playful. Sharp-edged. Familiar.

He turned—and there she was.

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

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

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

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

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

"She hasn't changed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cadet didn't listen.

Of course he didn't.

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

Fives winced.

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

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

"You sure about that?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

She holstered her blaster like it was just another Tuesday.

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

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

Her head whipped around.

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

Then she smirked. "Fives."

"Missed me?"

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

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

She stopped in front of them, one brow arched.

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

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

She smiled—too sharp to be sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you still shoot first."

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

Echo cleared his throat behind them—pointedly.

They both turned.

"What?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

__ __ __ __

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The channel went silent for a second.

"What?" She asked.

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

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

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

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

"Okay, that's new."

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

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

"Tipoca's about to get very crowded."

__ _ _ __

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you bleed, General," she breathed.

"You will," he spat.

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

Kenobi launched himself into the corridor, saber blazing.

"Get out of here!" he shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rex cursed under his breath. Cody looked grim.

_ _ _ _

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

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

"Clear that hall!" Rex ordered.

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

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

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

She exhaled, still crouched. "Yeah."

"You didn't even have a saber."

"Didn't need one."

"You survived?"

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

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

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

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

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

"With knives."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course he did," Cody muttered.

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

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

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

"Only the ones that survive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn't stop. He never did.

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

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

A B2 unit turned the corner—heavy cannon glowing.

It fired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fives looked up at her. "We will."

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

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

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

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

_ _ _ _

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe," Fives said with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_ _ _ _

Part 1