This Is So Shit Bro

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"

Every time you answer one of my requests i giggle and kick my feet while having a little happy meltdown as i read it. Your fics genuinely brighten my day and they make me so happy <3

Anyways-

What about a crosshair x reader where the reader is really happy go lucky and doesn't care about his snarky comments at all (sometimes shooting back a few). BUT- cross lowkey has a crush on them and his comments are his way of flirting. The reader picks up on this and starts "flirting" back with insults and the rest of tbb thinks they're crazy.

Also maybe the reader is also a really good sniper which is why they even caught crosshair's attention in the first place

Ok bye darling i hope you have a good day／night <3

Thank you xx I truly appreciate all the love and comments I get on all my fics ❤️

“Sharp Eyes”

Crosshair x Reader

Blaster‑clean silence ruled the gun‑rack alcove until you flipped the long‑range sight guard open with a soft click.

Crosshair’s pale eyes slid your way. “That latch is louder than your entire trigger discipline.”

You grinned. “Funny—coming from the guy who coughs every time he exhales. You swallowing sand again, long‑neck?”

Echo, working on the nav console across the corridor, winced as though a thermal detonator had rolled under his boots. Wrecker mouthed They’re both crazy, and went back to bench‑pressing a cargo crate.

Crosshair’s lips tugged into what passed for a smile. “Keep rattling, sunshine. Won’t change the grouping on your last target sheet.”

You tilted the datapad so he could see the tight cluster of holes—dead‑center, half‑credit size. “Looks like it changed yours, though. Jealousy kicks the barrel left, apparently.”

For half a heartbeat his eyebrows lifted—barely—but you caught it. That microscopic flash of you‑impressed‑me that he could never quite smother.

He lounged against the bulkhead, toothpick rolling between his lips. “Blind luck.”



“Luck’s just skill nobody believes in yet,” you shot back, sliding the toothpick from his mouth with two fingers before he could react. You tucked it behind your ear, matching his lazy stance. “Besides, you’ve been staring since Ord Mantell. If my shooting’s so bad, why watch?”

Hunter’s tread slowed as he passed, sensing the static but wisely continuing on. Tech muttered from the upper gantry, “Statistical probability of combustive banter reaching critical mass: ninety‑two percent.”

Crosshair’s voice dropped, all gravel and embarrassment he’d rather chew than admit. “Maybe I appreciate a challenge.”

You leaned in, noses a breath apart. “Maybe you appreciate the view.”

Wrecker’s crate hit the deck with a clang. “I knew it! They like‑like each other!” Echo groaned, “Please don’t say ‘like‑like.’”

Crosshair didn’t move, but the tip of his ear darkened. “Put my toothpick back.”

You placed it between his lips, brushing gloved fingertips over the scratch on his chin. “Earn it aft‑side, sharpshooter.”

He caught your wrist—not rough, just sure. “Next op, fifty‑meter wind, angled shot, moving speeder. One bullet. Loser buys rations for a month.”

“Make it two shots,” you purred, pulling free. “One for the target—one to carve my initials in your ego.”

Behind you, the squad’s collective groan thudded louder than artillery. But as you strode toward the weapons locker, you felt his gaze marking every step—steady, precise, unmistakably interested.

And for once, Crosshair let the toothpick rest perfectly still, the curve of his mouth admitting what his words never would: he’d just been out‑sniped at his own game—and he liked it.

YAAA IM SUCH A HUGE FAN OF YOUR TBB WORK AND I FINALLY HAVE A REQUEST IDEA…

Mandalorian reader who speaks in Mando’a to herself when she thinks she’s alone, and one day cf 99 overhears her!!

tysm if you do this, like I said I love your work and I’m so excited to read more <3 take care lovely!!

Thank you x

I hope this is somewhat close to what you had in mind.

“Secrets in the Shadows”

Bad Batch x Reader

The cantina was loud as usual, reeking of stale spotchka and poor decisions. You sat in the corner booth at Cid’s, helmet off but gauntlets still on, nursing a cheap drink and a cheaper job. You’d just come back from a run that paid in credits so light they could float off your palm. Figures.

You muttered to yourself, low and in a tongue most beings on Ord Mantell didn’t understand.

“Kriffing dikkut,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for your own ears. “Ni ru'kir not even cuyir sha borarir today… bal par meg”

You swirled your cup, leaned back with a scowl. In your mind Cid’s got no honor, no plan. Just her greasy fingers in every job on this rock.

Another sip. You were speaking louder now. You thought you were alone. “Meh Ni had options, Ni Ru'kel tettar kaysh shebs off a roof”

“Interesting,” came a voice just behind you.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head—and saw the familiar faces of Clone Force 99. Hunter stood with his arms folded, head tilted. Tech was already tapping on his datapad. Crosshair had a toothpick in his mouth and that smug glint in his eye. Wrecker was smirking like you just said something hilarious. Echo said nothing, but his gaze was sharp.

“You speak Mando’a,” Tech noted, without looking up. “Quite fluently.”

You stood quickly, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“No osik,” you snapped. “Didn’t exactly mean for the whole squad to eavesdrop.”

Crosshair chuckled. “You talk to yourself in a dead language, and we’re the weird ones?”

Your visor snapped down. “It’s not dead. Just sleeping. Like a rancor with teeth.”

Hunter took a step closer. “Why keep it quiet?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared, then finally said, “Because it’s mine. Because people like Cid don’t deserve to hear it. Because you aruetiise don’t know what it means to carry a name that was earned, not assigned.”

Wrecker looked genuinely hurt. “Hey, we’ve fought with you, bled with you—”

“Doesn’t make us vod,” you interrupted. “Not yet.”

Echo stepped forward, quieter than the rest. “We’re not trying to be something we’re not. But we do understand what it’s like to have your culture stolen and your purpose used.”

That made you pause.

You looked at him for a long time, the words catching in your throat. Then, finally, you said it—soft, but clear.

“Ni ven, ori’vod. But you tell that chakaar Cid if she lowballs me again, I’ll weld her bar shut.”

Crosshair’s smirk widened. “I’ll get the torch.”

Hunter let out a rare chuckle. “Fair enough. Next time, maybe just let us know when you’re venting in Mando’a. We’ll knock first.”

You gave a subtle nod and walked past them, muttering under your breath again.

“I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

But your pace slowed at the door. Just for a second.

And none of them missed it.

leader of the pack

[Image ID: Digital bust illustration of Commander Wolffe from Star Wars: The Clone Wars. He is framed by a blue background. End ID.]

Arc Trooper Echo x Old Republic Jedi Reader

Before the War, Before the Fall...

You were never supposed to be here.

Once, long before the clone army ever existed, you were a Jedi Knight of the Old Republic. A warrior of the High Order, trained in the arts of peace and battle alike. Your robes were stitched from tradition, your saber forged in a time when the galaxy still believed in balance. You fought in the Mandalorian conflicts, aided in the fallout of Sith uprisings, and stood beside legends long turned to dust.

And then, during a critical mission—classified even by High Council standards—you were frozen in carbonite for protection, hidden away on an unmarked moon. Preserved in silence. Time passed. Empires fell. Republics reformed.

You were forgotten.

Until General Skywalker found you.

Woken from carbon stasis nearly a thousand years later, you emerged into a war-torn galaxy so alien, it barely recognized you as Jedi. The robes were the same. The Code had survived in pieces. But the people... *they* were different.

Especially the clones.

You had never seen soldiers bred for war. The first time you met the 501st, they moved as one—disciplined, deadly, proud. But each man had a spark of something unique. Echo's spark shone brightest to you.

ARC Trooper Echo, all calm focus and sharp wit. Loyal to a fault. Quietly brave. There was a warmth beneath his helmet that reminded you of someone you lost long ago.

And over time, in the stolen spaces between battles and strategy briefings, you found yourself seeking him out. And he—hesitantly, almost shyly—did the same.

You shared jokes, glances, meditations by moonlight. Nothing official. Not even a kiss. Just the ache of something growing where no roots should've taken hold.

---

**Now...**

The hangar echoed with the sound of carbon-freeze generators.

You stood near the chamber platform, arms folded, watching the 501st prepare for the Citadel mission. An infiltration like no other. High risk. No guarantee of return.

Your heart beat in time with the distant hiss of steam. You'd been in carbonite before. You wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"You really want to go through with this?" you asked as Echo approached, helmet tucked under his arm.

He smirked. "I've seen worse."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really? *Worse* than being flash-frozen and dropped into a fortress built to kill Jedi?"

He shrugged with a boyish tilt of his head. "When you put it like that..."

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. "I don't like this mission. Something feels... off."

Echo's smile faded just slightly. "I know. But we follow orders."

You stared at him a long moment, eyes locking with his.

"I've had my fair share of carbon-freeze," you said softly, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Trust me—it's overrated. Don't make it a habit."

Echo chuckled, but there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Or hope. His fingers brushed yours briefly.

"If I don't make it back—"

"You *will*," you cut in.

He held your gaze. "Still. If I don't... I'm glad it was you."

The words hung in the air like an unsent message. You swallowed the ache in your throat.

"I'll be waiting," you whispered.

Then the chamber hissed open, and Echo stepped inside. You watched as he was encased in freezing mist—familiar, haunting. And then he was still.

---

They returned.

Most of them.

But not him.

You heard the news with numb detachment. "Echo didn't make it." Skywalker didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Fives couldn't speak at all.

You were handed Echo's pauldron. Burnt. Cracked.

But the Force...

The Force *whispered* something else.

In meditation, beneath the endless hum of the ship, you reached for that flicker—the warm, stubborn light of him. It was faint. Weak. But not extinguished.

You pressed your hand to your heart and said nothing.

Because you knew.

*Echo was still alive.*

And whatever the cost... you'd find him.

---

You couldn't let it go.

No matter how much time passed, or how many battles you fought alongside the 501st, there was something you couldn't shake—a gnawing feeling deep in your soul. Echo was out there. You knew it. The Force whispered it to you every time you closed your eyes.

You felt him.

The report had come through the 501st's channels—Echo was alive, but he was a prisoner. He had been taken to Skako Minor and reprogrammed, twisted into something... else. A broken version of the man he had once been. But you didn't care. You would bring him back. You would save him, no matter the cost.

Rex was right beside you, his unwavering loyalty to Echo just as strong as your own. The two of you, separated by a galaxy of uncertainty and destruction, had always understood each other in ways the others couldn't. Rex had never let go of his brother, and neither had you.

And now, you couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of the decision as you prepared for the mission. You weren't just doing this for Echo anymore. You were doing it for both of you—him and you. For the love of a comrade, a soldier, a friend, and perhaps, deep down, someone more.

"I won't rest until we find him," you whispered to Rex before the mission began.

Rex gave you a stern nod, though his eyes were soft with the same grief you carried. "We're not stopping until we bring him home."

You shared a glance with him—a silent understanding of what this meant. Echo had always been there, in the trenches with them, in the hardest of battles. But now, it was different. The question of who he was had morphed into something unrecognizable. Would the man you both knew still be the same when you found him?

---

The mission was critical, and time was running out.

You, along with Rex, Anakin Skywalker, and the Bad Batch, had infiltrated the outpost on Skako Minor. The Separatists had taken Echo—one of the finest ARC Troopers—and turned him into a prisoner, forced to serve their twisted agenda. You, however, weren't going to let that happen. Not if you could help it.

Echo was still alive. He had to be. You could feel it.

The journey to the outpost had been a long and difficult one, but now, standing on the precipice of their base, you knew what needed to be done. You had trained with Echo, fought beside him. He was family, and you weren't about to lose him to the war.

The place was cold, mechanical, and sterile—almost too quiet for comfort. It felt like a graveyard. But the faintest sound of movement ahead cut through the silence.

You turned, locking eyes with Rex. His jaw was set, his gaze firm. Beside him, Anakin stood, ready for anything. And then, there was Echo.

But he wasn't the same.

There he was—strapped into an array of machines, wires trailing from his body, his face emotionless. The pain of seeing him like this nearly broke you in that moment, but you knew it wasn't over. He was still Echo.

"Echo," Rex called softly, stepping forward. "We've got you, buddy. We're getting you out of here."

For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of machines and the silence of the outpost. Then, a flicker of movement. Echo's head turned slowly, his eyes blank, as if the man you once knew was buried deep inside somewhere, and this was just the shell.

You stepped forward, your heart racing in your chest. "Echo? Can you hear me?" Your voice was calm, but it cracked with the emotion you could no longer contain. You were here. You had found him.

Slowly, Echo's lips curled into a small, dry smile—familiar, but tinged with something distant.

"You know, I was starting to get used to this place," Echo's voice was robotic, distant. "It's better than the barracks, but I think I could've done without the wires."

You laughed softly, despite the ache in your chest. "You always did have a way with words. Still, this is no place for you. We're taking you back, Echo. You belong with us."

Echo's gaze flickered toward you briefly, his eyes dull but still alive with some trace of recognition. "You... came for me," he muttered, as though trying to process the reality of it.

"You know we would," you said, your voice firm, yet gentle. "You're one of us, Echo. You don't leave your squad behind."

But Echo's face darkened, his expression turning pained. "I'm not the same anymore," he said quietly, almost regretfully. "They've done something to me. I don't know if I can go back to being who I was."

The words hit you hard. But you refused to back down. "That doesn't matter. You're still the same person, Echo. You've always been there for us. We are still here for you."

Echo shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the floor. "I don't know... I don't think I can go back to being that soldier. I've changed."

Rex stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "You're more than what they've made you, Echo. You've always been more than that

For a moment, Echo seemed to consider this, his eyes moving between you and Rex. But then, he shook his head slowly.

"I don't know if I can go back to who I was," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.

Rex's hand clenched into a fist. "You don't have to go back. We're here for you, Echo. We'll fight for you."

Anakin stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "We'll help you, Echo. We're not leaving anyone behind."

Echo's expression remained stoic, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Maybe... maybe I'm not the man you want me to be," he whispered. "Maybe I'm not that soldier anymore."

The pain in Rex's eyes was palpable, but his voice was resolute. "You're not alone, Echo. You never were. And we're not leaving without you."

The escape was chaotic.

Once Echo was freed from the machine bindings, the alarms blared throughout the facility. There was no time to waste. You, Rex, Anakin, and the Bad Batch fought your way out, blasters blazing, all while Echo struggled to regain his bearings. His movements were stiff, his mind clouded from the reprogramming, but with every passing moment, you could see him coming back to himself—albeit slowly.

It was Anakin who led the charge through the outpost's corridors, his strategic mind piecing together their escape route even as enemy fire rained down on them. Rex covered you, his blaster raised and steady, while you kept your focus on Echo, guiding him through the madness.

"You're with us, Echo. We'll get you out of here," you said, trying to keep him calm. He didn't respond, but the faintest nod was all you needed.

When you reached the hangar, the Bad Batch took their positions, covering the exits and keeping the Separatists at bay. Echo was stumbling, but he kept moving forward, a faint glimmer of the soldier he once was starting to re-emerge. You didn't know if he would ever be the same again, but for now, he was with you—and that was all that mattered.

"Keep moving, Echo," you said as you pushed him toward the ship.

"I'm with you," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "I'll never leave you behind."

Finally, after what felt like hours of intense combat, you made it to the ship. The engines roared to life, and the transport shot off into the atmosphere, away from the chaos of Skako Minor.

As you all settled into your seats, the adrenaline of the escape began to wear off, and the weight of what you'd just witnessed settled in. Echo was alive, but he was still so far from being the man you remembered. The wires, the reprogramming, the suffering—it was all etched into him in ways you couldn't yet fully understand.

But you were determined to help him heal. You didn't care what it took— and you wouldn't leave him behind again.

- - -

The chaos of the mission on Skako Minor had finally settled, leaving an overwhelming sense of relief in its wake. The Marauder, the ship piloted by the Bad Batch, now cut through the stars as it headed towards the Republic fleet. It was a rough ride—no surprise there, considering the crew—but it was a comforting one. There was a sense of familiarity with the Bad Batch's eccentricities, their usual banter filling the air around you. However, the most comforting part of all was Echo, sitting across from you.

It had been a long and arduous rescue, but Echo was finally free—physically, at least. The mental scars of his time with the Separatists would take longer to heal.

Echo was seated across from you, leaning back slightly in his seat, his expression distant. His posture was less rigid than usual, but you could see the storm behind his eyes. The escape had been harrowing, and he was still processing everything.

Wrecker, the ever-vibrant and boisterous member of the Bad Batch, was rummaging around in the back, most likely looking for snacks. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say we were all a little too quiet today," he said with his signature grin, tossing a bag of chips to Tech, who caught it with precision.

Tech raised an eyebrow but accepted the snack. "We've just been through a rather intense operation, Wrecker. A little silence isn't a bad thing."

Meanwhile, Hunter leaned against the wall near the cockpit, his piercing eyes scanning the ship's systems, though his attention occasionally drifted toward you and Echo. You knew he respected Echo's capabilities, but you also suspected that he had noticed the bond growing between the two of you.

Rex, too, had been quietly observing, but it was clear from his relaxed posture that he was relieved. Everyone had come out of the mission alive, but the tension was far from gone.

You turned your attention back to Echo, noticing how his eyes occasionally flickered toward the viewport. The stars outside were nothing compared to the turmoil inside him, and it hurt you to see him struggling.

You shifted in your seat and, without thinking, reached across the aisle to gently nudge his arm. "You know, I've had my fair share of carbon freezing," you joked softly, trying to lighten the mood. "So I can't say I'm jealous of you getting to do it again."

Echo blinked, looking at you as a quiet smile tugged at his lips. "I think I've had enough of it for a lifetime," he said with a soft chuckle. "That last time wasn't exactly a vacation."

Your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, the way the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You shared a brief moment of eye contact before he looked back at the stars, and you took the opportunity to close the distance just slightly, your hand brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes in that quiet moment.

The Marauder continued its journey through the void, the hum of the ship's engines filling the air. But it wasn't just the ship that seemed to hum now—it was the quiet connection between you and Echo, something that had always been there, unspoken. The bond between the two of you felt more tangible now, as if the events of the mission had brought you even closer together.

Wrecker, still in the back, called out over his shoulder, "Hey, you two going to just stare at each other the whole ride, or are we finally going to get a real conversation out of you?"

Echo let out a quiet laugh, his eyes flicking to you with a playful, almost sheepish expression. "I think we're getting there."

You couldn't help but grin at the playful teasing, but your heart was racing. A brief glance passed between you, and for just a moment, you felt like the weight of everything—the war, the danger, the mission—faded into the background. It was just you and him, the connection between you two solidifying in that quiet space.

Echo's voice was lower now, more intimate as he leaned slightly closer. "I don't know how to say this, but... I'm glad you were here. I don't think I could have made it through this without you."

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. The words were too big to express, but the warmth in your chest was enough to convey everything.

"You don't have to say anything," you replied quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm just... happy you're safe."

Echo gave a small smile before his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, sending a flutter through your stomach. "Safe, but not unscathed."

The words lingered between you, but this time, it didn't feel like an obstacle. It felt like a truth you were both starting to accept. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Echo wasn't just a soldier you fought beside. He was something more. Someone more.

- - -

When the Marauder finally docked with the Republic fleet, the hangar bay was filled with the usual bustle of activity. You all disembarked, the quiet tension of the mission still hanging in the air. Everyone's expressions were marked by the weight of what had just happened.

Echo, though physically alive and well, still seemed lost in his thoughts. The Bad Batch, as usual, carried on with their typical behavior, but there was a more subdued air about them. Hunter gave a curt nod of approval as you all made your way toward the command center.

As you walked together, Echo's hand brushed against yours again, a simple, tender touch that made your heart skip. You looked at him, your breath catching in your throat.

"Well, I guess we're back," you said with a light smile. "Not exactly how I imagined the rescue would go."

Echo smirked, his fingers lingering on yours.

Your heart swelled at the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, the affection clear in your gaze.

Before either of you could speak again, Rex came up beside you, giving you a teasing look. "Hey, I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm pretty sure you're both walking into a warzone if you don't get it together soon."

Echo chuckled, his face reddening just a little. "Rex is right, you know. Maybe we should take some time to... figure things out."

You nodded, your heart racing. "I think that's a good idea."

Wrecker, who had been trailing behind, chimed in from a distance. "Oh great! Another love story brewing on this ship. I hope it's not as dramatic as the last one!"

You and Echo exchanged a playful glance, both of you rolling your eyes at Wrecker. Amused but not wanting to pry on the Batch's secret love lives.

With your hand still in his, Echo leaned in slightly, his voice soft. "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."

You smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace settle over you. "Good. Because I don't think I could do this without you."

The two of you walked side by side toward the command center, the quiet between you now a comfortable one. You had no idea what the future held, but in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—you and Echo had finally found something worth holding onto.

_______

Part 2

“Collateral Morals” pt.1

Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader

The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.

Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.

“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”

Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.

“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”

You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.

“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”

There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.

You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.

You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.

“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”

A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.

You stared them down.

“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”

You bowed your head. “That’s all.”

And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.

⸻

You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.

You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.

“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”

You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”

That’s when the glass shattered.

You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.

Sniper.

You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.

A shadow shifted across the floor.

Then—crash.

A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.

But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.

You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.

Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.

Commander Thorn.

He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.

“Clear.”

Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.

“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”

You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”

Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”

His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”

“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”

There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.

You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”

“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”

You paused.

“…You’re kind of intense.”

He stared.

“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.

You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”

⸻

You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.

Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.

You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.

He didn’t even blink at your state.

“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”

You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”

“No.”

“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”

No answer.

You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.

Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.

You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.

Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”

You didn’t.

But you did flash a grin at the cameras.

“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”

Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.

⸻

“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”

You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”

Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.

Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”

“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”

He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”

You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”

“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.

You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”

Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”

He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”

“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”

“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”

He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”

You stood. “You owe me answers.”

“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”

Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.

“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”

⸻

The day hadn’t gotten better.

You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.

You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.

Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.

“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.

“Not required.”

“You don’t flinch either.”

“No point.”

You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”

Silence.

You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”

More silence.

You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”

He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”

You blinked—then smiled.

“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”

“I’m not here to be fun.”

You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”

You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”

His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”

And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.

It was the electric kind.

The kind that promised more.

⸻

The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.

You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.

Thorn, behind you, said nothing.

Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.

Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.

“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”

Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”

“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”

“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.

Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”

Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.

“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”

Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”

“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”

Anakin ignored that. Barely.

Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.

You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”

“Only when you stop being a walking target.”

You laughed. “So never?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.

You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.

But their eyes never really left each other.

You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.

“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”

Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”

You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”

Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.

You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”

“I’m never off duty.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”

Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever start?”

That almost-smile again.

And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.

Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”

Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.

Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.

As a man.

Then—

“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”

His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.

You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.

The commotion turned out to be nothing.

A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.

No fire. No attack.

Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.

“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”

“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”

You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”

Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.

Yours was not.

“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”

Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.

Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”

You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”

“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”

You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”

Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”

You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.

Dead silence.

Padmé choked.

Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.

Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”

⸻

You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.

“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”

You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”

“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.

“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I am.”

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.

He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”

“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”

He snorted. Actually snorted.

You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.

You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“I don’t have the patience.”

You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”

He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.

He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.

“It might be.”

You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding.

“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.

“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”

You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”

He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”

You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.

“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.

His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”

That made you smile.

He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.

And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.

“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”

You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”

“I don’t do soft,” he said.

“I noticed.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.

But you stopped.

Just short.

Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.

“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.

You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.

He was still standing there.

Still watching.

Still unreadable.

⸻

Morning crept in too early.

You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.

Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…

Stars.

You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.

“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.

A glass appeared on the side table beside you.

You blinked up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—

He was standing just a bit too close.

“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.

Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.

You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—

No. You shook it off.

Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.

You, less so.

“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.

His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.

Your breath caught.

“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”

He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You blinked. “Which part?”

“You’re not a hypocrite.”

You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.

But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.

“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.

“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”

Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.

You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”

His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”

You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.

“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He wanted you.

And he wouldn’t act on it.

Because that’s what made him him

⸻

The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.

Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”

You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”

Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.

It was subtle. Surgical.

But not subtle enough for Fox.

He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”

Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”

You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.

“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”

The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”

“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”

“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.

“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.

Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.

Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

Thorn said nothing.

“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”

Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.

Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.

You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.

You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”

“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.

You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.

“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.

You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”

His smile only widened.

But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.

And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.

But he knew.

⸻

The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”

Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.

Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.

Too still.

Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”

Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”

Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”

Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.

“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”

At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.

“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”

“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.

“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”

Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”

Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”

“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”

He paused, voice softening just a hair.

“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”

A beat passed.

“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”

Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.

Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”

They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.

Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.

Next Chapter

Me: I'll stay silent so they don't know I'm judging The face I'm silent with:

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

“Diplomacy & Detonations”

Commander Cody x Village Leader Reader

Their ship barely had time to land before blaster rifles were pointed at them.

“I told you I didn’t want help,” came a voice from the treeline—sharp, challenging, full of attitude.

Commander Cody raised a hand to signal the 212th to hold. From behind him, Obi-Wan calmly stepped forward.

“We’re not here to interfere, only to support your defense—”

“You are interference,” the voice snapped.

Then you stepped into view.

A whirlwind of belts, loose straps, feathers, and leather. Goggles shoved to your forehead, hands on hips, expression full of contempt. You looked at the fully armored, clean-cut clones like they were an invasive species.

Obi-Wan bowed slightly. “You must be the village leader—”

You held up a hand. “No, no, don’t butter me up with that Jedi etiquette crap. You’re uninvited.”

“I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say,” Cody said, stepping forward.

You blinked at him. Then walked slowly around him, circling like a predator.

“Mm. Square jaw. Soldier posture. Serious as a stun baton to the ribs. You’re the commander?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Unfortunate.” You gave a nasty grin. “I was hoping for someone I could beat in an argument.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re welcome to try.”

You smirked.

Just as you squared your shoulders, ready to argue—maybe throw a punch—a group of kids came tumbling out from the trees. A little one tugged your coat.

“Boss! Are we really getting Republic soldiers? That means laser tanks, right? And hot rations?”

You didn’t even turn. “Not now, shitheads, I’m busy beating up strangers.”

Cody blinked. Waxer coughed to hide his laughter. Ahsoka’s eyes went wide. Anakin mumbled, “Oh, Force.”

Later, around a crackling fire in your chaotic half-open planning tent (made of repurposed sailcloth and wire), Obi-Wan laid it out clearly.

“The Separatists are planning a full invasion. Three battalions of B1 units, two AATs, and an orbiting cruiser for support.”

You sipped from a cup of what smelled like fermented jungle fruit and blinked slowly. “So… what you’re saying is… there’s gonna be a fight?”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll be… big?”

“Yes.”

You sat up straighter. Your grin turned hungry.

“Fine. I accept your help.”

Cody raised a brow. “That fast?”

You threw your arms out dramatically. “You brought me violence! You should’ve led with that!”

Boil leaned over to Waxer. “She’s gonna get us all killed, isn’t she?”

Waxer whispered back, “Yeah. But it’ll be fun.”

⸻

Two days later, you were mid-dismantle of a thermal sensor when Cody approached.

“You shouldn’t be in the blast zone. This isn’t standard military procedure.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face and smirked. “I’m not a standard anything, Commander.”

Cody exhaled. “You’re reckless.”

You held up a small grenade. “I call it chaotic innovation.”

“It’s dangerous.”

You grinned. “So are your cheekbones, but I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

He blinked. “…What?”

You tossed the grenade to him. He caught it reflexively.

“Good hands,” you said. “I like that.”

He stared down at the live grenade in his palm.

“Is this—armed?”

You winked. “Might wanna disarm before you end up splattered on that wall.”

⸻

When the droids finally attacked, you were thriving.

You rode into battle standing on a makeshift hover-skiff, brandishing a long spear with fireworks tied to it, cackling like a banshee.

Cody shouted into the comm: “Can someone please get her out of the crossfire?”

Waxer replied: “We tried. She bit Boil.”

Boil yelled: “She did NOT! I just tripped—!”

“You tripped because she kicked you!”

⸻

Later that night, after the battle, the village lay safe. The droids were in pieces. And you sat on a fallen log with your knees tucked up, staring at the jungle.

Cody approached, helmet off.

“You did well today.”

You sighed. “Don’t ruin it with compliments.”

He smirked. “I’m trying to be civil.”

You eyed him. “Why? Planning to ask me to dinner?”

A pause.

“…Would you go?”

You stared.

Then laughed. “Commander. If you take me to dinner, I’ll probably start a bar fight and make you pay the tab.”

“Noted.”

You tilted your head. “You’d really take me?”

Cody shrugged, voice quiet. “You fight for your people. You’re unpredictable, reckless… and you’ve got guts. I respect that.”

You squinted. “That’s either the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me… or the scariest.”

He held out a hand.

You took it, grinning wide. “Alright, Tensejaw. Maybe I’ll let you stick around.”

Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx

“Permission to Feel”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.

No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.

You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.

But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.

And failing.

The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.

You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.

But you couldn’t stay in this room.

Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.

Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.

You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.

But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”

He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”

He was already opening his arms before you finished.

You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.

Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”

You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.

Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”

“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.

“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.

“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”

You blinked. “What?”

Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”

Your heart stuttered.

Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”

You looked at them. Really looked.

These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.

You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.

“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.

Wrecker never stopped holding you.

He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”

That simple.

You can just stay.

And so you did.

You stayed.

Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).

Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.

You drifted off like that.

Not in your quarters.

Not alone.

But safe, for once.

Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.