Marshall Commander Bly - 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.

⸻

“Painted Gold”

Commander Bly x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Your lekku ached by the end of the day—dust, sun, and tension clinging to your skin like static. The Republic base on Saleucami wasn’t built for comfort, especially not for Twi’leks. The durasteel walls felt colder, the clone stares felt longer.

But not his.

Commander Bly didn’t stare. He observed. Quietly. Constantly. With that golden visor that gave nothing away—and still, somehow, everything.

You’d first met him patching up his troops in the med bay you ran. Your hands worked quickly—practiced, efficient—but Bly’s attention never left the soldier on the table. Not until you touched his shoulder.

“Commander,” you’d said, “he’s stabilized. You can breathe.”

His helmet turned slowly toward you. “I am breathing.”

You hadn’t been so sure.

Now, weeks later, you’d come to expect him. He brought his troopers in for treatment like clockwork. Always formal. Always quiet. Always… watching.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Too quiet. Even the droids had stopped advancing—pulling back, regrouping. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones.

So could Bly.

He stood near the perimeter, hands behind his back, helmet off for once. His golden markings shimmered faintly in the dying sun, and his gaze was turned toward the horizon like it had something to answer for.

You walked up beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You always stand like that,” you said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re bracing for something to hit you.”

He was quiet a moment.

“I usually am.”

You turned to look at him. His face was as hard as durasteel, but the lines were tired. Older than he should be. Too much war. Not enough sleep. Not enough peace.

“You’re not just watching the horizon, are you?” you asked. “You’re thinking.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

“About what?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“About you.”

That stopped you.

“I’ve seen a lot of medics,” he continued, his voice low, gravelly, careful. “But I’ve never seen someone patch a man up like she’s stitching together something sacred. You treat every soldier like they matter.”

“They do matter.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

You looked away, heart tight. “Because they die?”

“Because I could.”

You turned back. He was staring at you now—truly staring. No visor. No armor. Just him.

“And if I did,” he said, softer now, “I wouldn’t want to go without… knowing what this is.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I don’t know how to say it right,” he added. “Never learned. But when I see you—it’s like there’s a part of the war that isn’t ugly.”

You reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t need to say it right, Bly. You already did.”

His hand curled around yours. Warm. Rough. Real.

And there, on the edge of battle, surrounded by silence and fading light, Commander Bly leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to yours—Twi’lek to clone, soldier to healer, broken to breaking.

And you let him.

Because love didn’t always come with declarations.

Sometimes, it came painted in gold.

⸻