“Echoes Of A Legend”

Flower boy 🌻

Prettiest man ever!?? Fives in a flowercrown is something i didnt know i needed to draw for therapy ❤️‍🩹

“Red Lines” pt.7

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The lower levels of Coruscant were a different kind of loud—sirens and shouts, hover engines and flickering holoboards bleeding through the smog. It was chaos, yes, but in this chaos, Sergeant Hound felt clarity.

Grizzer padded silently at his side, the massiff’s broad frame alert, nostrils twitching as they passed another vendor selling deep-fried something on a stick. Hound barely registered the scent. His thoughts were louder.

You hadn’t contacted him since the night Fox kissed you.

And Hound hadn’t pressed. Not because he didn’t care. Because he’d needed time—to think, to process, to stop pretending that what he felt for you was just proximity or comfort or familiarity.

It wasn’t.

You had bewitched him from the moment you’d leaned a little too close with that sly smirk, asking if he always kept a massiff at his hip or if he was compensating for something. He’d been intrigued, annoyed, flustered—and slowly, hopelessly drawn in.

He’d watched you orbit Fox like gravity had already chosen. And he’d told himself that if Fox was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stand in the way.

But not anymore.

Fox had kissed you. And then let you go.

Hound would never.

He paused on the overlook just above the market plaza. Grizzer snorted and settled beside him, tail thumping once.

“She deserves better than this,” Hound muttered. “Better than confusion. Better than being second choice.”

Grizzer gave a small bark of agreement.

Hound scratched behind his companion’s ear. His thoughts drifted to the way you’d laughed that night walking home, teasing him about patrol patterns and rogue droids. The way your voice had softened, just a little, when you asked him to walk you back.

You didn’t see it yet—but he did.

You were starting to look at him differently.

He tapped his comm. “I’m going off-duty for the next few hours,” he told Dispatch. “Personal matter.”

No one questioned him.

By the time he arrived at the Senate tower, he was still in uniform—dust and grime on his boots, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes like flint. He approached your apartment with purpose, not hesitation. If you weren’t there, he’d wait. If your droid answered the door with another snippy remark, he’d endure it.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to step aside.

VX-7 opened the door with his usual pomp. “Ah, the canine and his keeper. Should I fetch my Mistress, or are you here to howl at the moon?”

“I’m here to speak with her,” Hound said calmly. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”

VX-7 tilted his head. “Hm. Bold. She may like that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Ila peeked around the corner from the sitting room, wide-eyed. “She’s still in the steam chamber,” she whispered. “But—she’ll want to see you. I think.”

Hound stepped inside. Grizzer waited obediently at the door.

A few minutes later, you entered the room, wrapped in a plush robe, hair damp, eyes guarded.

“Hound,” you said carefully. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

You blinked.

He stood a few steps away, helmet still under his arm, the overhead light catching the edge of a fresh bruise on his cheekbone.

“I’ve been patient,” he began. “I stood back while you looked at Fox like he was the only star in your sky. I let it go when he strung you along, when you thought he might choose you. I watched it hurt you, and I said nothing because I thought maybe that was what you needed.”

You stiffened—but you didn’t interrupt.

“But I won’t do it anymore,” Hound said quietly. “Because I see you, and I want you. And if there’s even a part of you that’s starting to see me too—then I’m not backing down.”

Silence stretched.

You didn’t speak. But your expression… shifted. A flicker. Not anger. Not rejection. Something else.

Something softer.

Hound took a step closer. “I’m not here to compete with him,” he added. “I’m here to fight for you.”

And with that, he turned and walked to the door.

Not storming out. Not waiting for an answer.

Just putting it all on the line, finally.

At the threshold, he looked back. “I’ll be at the memorial wall tomorrow. In case you want to talk.”

The door closed behind him.

Grizzer gave a soft whine.

Inside, your handmaiden Maera—quiet as ever—approached and offered you a datapad. “Tomorrow’s agenda,” she said softly. “Unless you’d like to cancel it. Or… change it.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood in your quiet apartment—heart suddenly too full and too tangled for words—and stared at the door where Hound had just been.

Something had shifted.

And you knew the days ahead would not allow for indecision anymore.

⸻

Commander Fox stared down at the report in his hands, reading the same line for the fourth time without absorbing a word of it.

…Civilian unrest on Level 3124-B has been neutralized with minimal casualties. Local authorities commend the Guard for…

He let out a slow breath, lowering the datapad onto his desk. It clacked quietly against the durasteel surface, the only sound in his private office. The dim lights cast hard shadows across the red plating of his armor. Even here, in the supposed quiet, his thoughts were too loud.

Hound had gone to her.

And she’d seen him.

Fox didn’t need confirmation—he could read the tension in Hound’s body when he returned to the barracks, the uncharacteristic weight in his silence. And worse… the lack of guilt.

Because Hound had nothing to feel guilty for.

You were not his.

Not anymore.

If you ever truly were.

Fox stood abruptly, the motion sharp. His armor creaked at the joints. He crossed the room and keyed his comm. “Patch me through to Senator Chuchi,” he said. “Tell her… I could use a few moments. Off record.”

A pause. Then: “Yes, Commander. She’s in her office.”

He arrived at her quarters just past dusk.

She opened the door herself—no staff, no aides, just Chuchi in a soft navy tunic and loose curls, her usual regal poise set aside for something more honest.

“Fox,” she greeted with a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

“I wasn’t either,” he admitted.

She stepped back, letting him in.

Her apartment was warmer than his—lamplight instead of fluorescents, cushions instead of steel, a kettle steaming faintly on a side table.

“You look tired,” she said gently.

“I am.” He hesitated. “I’ve been… thinking. About everything.”

She moved toward the kitchenette and poured a cup of tea. “And?”

Fox accepted the cup but didn’t drink. His eyes lingered on the steam curling from the surface.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I’m blind?”

Chuchi quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Hound told me today that I’m so focused on doing the right thing, I can’t see what’s right in front of me. That I’ve made myself blind. That…” He trailed off.

Chuchi sat down across from him, her expression softening.

“He’s right,” she said. “In some ways.”

Fox didn’t argue.

“I know you care for her,” Chuchi continued, voice calm and without malice. “I always knew. And I told myself I didn’t mind being second. That eventually you’d see me.”

Her confession was so unflinchingly honest that Fox looked up in surprise.

“But now?” she added. “I don’t want to be chosen because she walked away. I want to be wanted because I am wanted. Not because I’m convenient. Not because I’m safe.”

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “You’re not cruel, Fox. You’re careful. Too careful. So careful that you might lose everyone while trying to protect them.”

He finally sipped the tea. It was bitter, earthy. Grounding.

“I don’t know what I want,” he confessed.

Chuchi leaned forward. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

He looked up. Her eyes were patient. Warm.

He could fall into that warmth.

He might already be falling.

They stayed like that for a while—talking softly, slowly. Not of war. Not of Senate politics or assignments. Just… of quiet things. Of home worlds and half-remembered childhoods, of what it meant to serve and survive in a galaxy that demanded so much of them both.

At one point, Chuchi placed a gentle hand over his.

He didn’t move away.

Fox didn’t know what the future held.

But tonight—he let himself rest.

Not as a commander. Not as a soldier.

But as a man slowly trying to understand his own heart.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber was abuzz with tension. Holocams glinted in the air, senators murmuring in rising tones as the next point of order was introduced. Mas Amedda’s voice carried over the room like cold oil, slick and condescending.

“We must return to a more structured approach to military resource allocation. The proposed oversight committee is not only unnecessary, but also a potential breach of central authority—”

“With all due respect, Vice Chair,” your voice cut through the air like a vibroblade, sharp and unforgiving, “—that’s the second time this week you’ve attempted to dissolve accountability through procedural smoke screens.”

A hush fell. Some senators leaned forward. Others tried not to visibly smile.

Mas Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “Senator, I remind you—”

“I will not be silenced for speaking the truth,” you said, rising from your place. “This chamber deserves better than manipulation cloaked in regulation. How many more credits will vanish into ‘classified security enhancements’ that never see oversight? How many more clone rotations will be extended because of your so-called ‘budgetary shortfalls’? Enough. We’re hemorrhaging lives and credits—and for what? For your empty assurances?”

Bail Organa stood. “The senator from [your planet] raises a valid concern. We’ve seen an alarming rise in unchecked defense spending with no direct line of transparency. I support her call for oversight.”

More murmurs rippled across the room. Several senators nodded. A few scowled. Mas Amedda looked caught off guard—too public a setting to retaliate, too sharp a blow to ignore.

You didn’t sit.

You owned the floor.

“And if this body continues to protect corruption under the guise of unity,” you said coolly, “then it deserves neither peace nor legitimacy. Some of us may come from worlds ravaged by warlords and tyrants, but at least we recognize the stench when it walks into our halls.”

Gasps. Stifled laughter. Shock.

Even Palpatine, observing from his platform above, remained eerily silent, hands steepled.

From a private senatorial booth above, Chuchi leaned subtly toward Fox, her elegant features drawn tight with concern.

“She’s changed,” she murmured. “She’s always been fiery, yes, but this—this isn’t politics anymore. This is personal.”

Fox, clad in full red armor beside her, arms crossed and expression unreadable, didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on you down below.

Your voice. Your anger. Your fire.

He could hear the edge of something unraveling.

“…Maybe it is personal,” he said eventually, quiet enough that only Chuchi could hear. “Maybe it’s always been.”

Chuchi’s brow furrowed.

She looked down at you, then sideways at Fox—and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was worried for you… or for him.

This The Senate hearing had adjourned, but the fire hadn’t left your blood. The echo of your words still rang in the marble columns of the hall as senators dispersed in murmuring clusters—some scandalized, others invigorated.

You made no effort to hide your stride as you exited the chamber, heels clicking with deliberate finality. It wasn’t until you entered one of the quiet side halls—lined with tall, arched windows overlooking Coruscant’s twilight skyline—that you heard someone step into pace beside you.

“Senator.”

You didn’t need to look. That voice—smooth, measured, calm—could only belong to Bail Organa.

You sighed. “Come to scold me for lighting a fire under Mas Amedda’s tail?”

“I’d never deny a fire its purpose,” Bail replied, his tone half amused, half cautious. “Though I will admit, your methods have a certain… how shall we say—explosive flair.”

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow. “And yet you backed me.”

“I did.” He clasped his hands behind his back, dark eyes thoughtful. “Because, despite your delivery—and perhaps even because of it—you were right. There’s rot beneath the surface of our governance. We just have different ways of exposing it.”

“I’m not interested in polishing rust, Organa. If the Republic is breaking, then maybe it needs to crack apart before we can build something better.”

“And maybe,” he said gently, “some of us are still trying to stop it from breaking altogether.”

The silence between you hung for a moment, not hostile—but heavy with tension and philosophical difference.

Then Bail offered a small nod. “You’ve earned some of my respect. And that’s not something I give lightly.”

You tilted your head. “You sound almost surprised.”

“I am.” He smiled faintly. “But I’ve also been in politics long enough to know that sometimes, the most unlikely alliances are the most effective.”

You smirked. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to block me next time I set the chamber on fire?”

“I’m saying,” he said, turning to walk with you again, “that if you’re going to keep torching corruption, I might as well bring a torch of my own.”

You gave a short laugh—half relief, half wariness.

For all his charm, Organa still felt like the cleanest dagger in the Senate’s drawer—but a dagger all the same. You’d take what allies you could get.

Even if they wore polished boots and Alderaanian silk.

⸻

You were still in your senatorial attire—half undone, jacket slung over a chair, hair falling from its formal coil as you paced the living room. The adrenaline from the hearing had worn off, leaving only a searing void in its place.

A chime broke the silence.

Your head turned. The door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When it opened, Hound stood in the threshold, soaked from rain, his patrol armor clinging to him—helmet in one hand, the ever-loyal Grizzer seated obediently behind him. His gaze was sharp, jaw set with some storm you hadn’t yet named.

“Evening, Senator,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “I… I was passing by. Thought you might want company.”

You looked at him for a long beat. “That depends,” you murmured, stepping aside. “Is this an official guard visit… or something else?”

He stepped in without answering, closing the door behind him. Grizzer settled just inside the hall while Hound placed his helmet on a nearby table. His eyes never left you.

“You looked like fire on that floor today,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Not many people can stand toe-to-toe with Mas Amedda and walk away without flinching.”

“Flinching’s for people who have the luxury of fear,” you replied, moving to the window. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

He followed your voice. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you.”

You turned, slowly. “Always?”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Always.”

The air thickened between you—your breath catching slightly as the distance closed, the tension pulsing like the city lights outside. You were used to control. Used to strategy and manipulation. But Hound didn’t play your games.

He was standing just inches away now, rain still dripping from his curls, the heat of him radiating in the cool air of the apartment.

“You’re not subtle,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “But neither are you.”

Your hand reached for the front of his armor, your fingers brushing the duraplast of his chest plate.

“Take it off,” you said.

He did.

Piece by piece, Hound peeled off the armor until it was just him—tired, proud, burning. When you stepped into him, it was with a crash of mouths and breath, a meeting of fire and steel. Your back hit the windowpane as he kissed you like you were something he’d waited too long to touch—fierce, needy, reverent.

You tangled your fingers in the straps of his blacks, dragging him in closer. He groaned softly when you bit his lower lip, and your laugh—low and dark—only stoked the fire between you.

No words.

Just heat. Just hands.

And when you pulled him with you toward your bedroom, it wasn’t about power. Not politics. Not winning.

It was about claiming something—for once—for yourself.

⸻

There was a silence in your bedroom that felt sacred.

Hound lay beside you, one arm thrown over your waist, your back pulled against the warmth of his bare chest. His breathing was slow and steady, his face buried in your hair. You’d never seen him so at peace—off duty, unguarded, real.

Your fingers traced lazy lines on the back of his hand. A smile tugged at your lips. Last night had been… something else. No games. No politics. Just two people stripped bare in every way that mattered.

“Mm,” Hound murmured against your shoulder. “Y’real or did I dream all that?”

You chuckled softly. “If it was a dream, we were both dreaming the same thing. Loudly.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna bring that up every chance you get, aren’t you?”

You smirked. “Absolutely.”

Hound murmured against your skin, “You think they heard us?”

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. “All of them.”

“Guess I better make breakfast. Bribe my way back into their good graces.”

You laughed. “Oh no, Hound. You’re mine this morning. Let them stew.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Yeah… okay. Yours.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone meant it.

⸻

In the kitchen, Maera sipped her morning tea with one elegantly raised brow. She leaned against the counter, still in her silken robe, listening.

“Did you hear them?” asked Ila, wide-eyed and flushed, whispering as if it wasn’t already obvious. “I mean—I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop! But the walls—Maera, the walls!”

Maera nodded slowly, utterly unbothered. “They certainly weren’t shy about it. Not that they should be. She’s earned a night of pleasure after everything.”

VX-7, polishing silverware despite having no reason to do so, turned his head with a prim little huff. “It was excessive. Disturbingly organic. I recalibrated my audio receptors three times. And still. Still.”

From the corner of the room, R9 let out a sequence of aggressive beeps, which VX-7 translated almost reluctantly.

“He says—and I quote—‘If you’re going to wake an entire building, at least record it for later entertainment.’ Disgusting.”

R9 chirped again. VX-7 turned with stiff disdain. “No, I will not ask her for details.”

Ila giggled helplessly, her face bright red. “Well… it sounded like she was having a really good time. I mean, we’ve all seen how Sergeant Hound looks at her. Like he’d fight the whole galaxy for just one kiss.”

Maera nodded. “He might have done more than kiss.”

VX-7 sputtered. “Decorum.”

⸻

You were halfway through your caf when R9 rolled up, suspiciously quiet—always a bad sign.

He beeped something sharp and insistent.

VX-7 glanced up from organizing your data pads with a sigh. “He’s asking about the sergeant’s… performance.”

You raised a brow. “Oh, is he?”

R9 chirped eagerly.

You took a sip of caf, deliberately slow, then replied dryly, “He was… satisfactory.”

R9 sputtered in a flurry of binary outrage.

“He’s saying that’s not enough,” VX said flatly. “That he deserves explicit schematics after suffering through an evening of audible trauma.”

You smiled serenely. “Tell him he should be grateful I didn’t disconnect his audio receptors entirely.”

R9 beeped in long-suffering protest.

“I am thrilled,” VX-7 cut in, sounding deeply relieved. “Your discretion is appreciated. Some of us prefer not to know everything.”

From the hallway, Maera passed with a subtle smirk. “He did call your name a lot.”

You turned sharply. “Maera.”

“Ila timed it.”

“Ila what?!”

“I—!” came her squeaked voice from the kitchen. “I only did it once!”

R9 twirled in glee.

⸻

Sergeant Hound walked into the base with a straighter spine that morning, like someone who had nothing left to question.

He didn’t try to hide the way his eyes followed you when you passed him in the corridor, or the brief smirk that ghosted across his face when your gaze lingered a little too long.

The men noticed. Stone nudged Thorn, who muttered something under his breath and whistled low.

Fox noticed too.

He was standing by the briefing room entrance when you and Hound exchanged a quiet word. Nothing explicit. Just a hand brushing your elbow. A smile that lasted a beat too long.

Fox’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed. Thorn looked over and said nothing—but the expression said everything.

Later, when the command room emptied out, Chuchi found Fox still standing there, distracted, his gaze distant.

“Commander?” she asked gently.

Fox blinked out of it. “Senator.”

She stepped closer. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Chuchi, soft but sharp as ever, looked toward the hall you’d disappeared down. “She was always going to be a difficult one to hold, wasn’t she?”

Fox exhaled, low and conflicted. “She never belonged to anyone. I knew that.”

“But you wanted her anyway.”

He glanced at Chuchi then, just briefly. “I wanted… something simple. She’s not simple. And neither are you.”

Chuchi smiled tightly, painfully. “I’m not simple. But I do make decisions.”

She left him standing there with that.

⸻

Your office was quiet for once. You stood by the window, arms folded, staring out across the city while VX read off your schedule and R9 sat in the corner… drawing crude holographic reenactments of the previous night on your datapad.

“R9,” you said without turning around. “I will factory reset you.”

He beeped, sulking audibly.

“I can hear that attitude,” VX added, passing him with a towel. “If she doesn’t, I will factory reset you.”

You smiled faintly and went back to your thoughts. The air had shifted. The square had skewed. And somewhere deep in the Senate and Guard halls… things were about to get more complicated.

⸻

The morning air at the Senate Tower was unusually crisp. You stepped out of the speeder, flanked by Maera and VX-7. R9 brought up the rear, grumbling about having to behave himself in public.

And then came the sharp sound of boots—Hound, already waiting at the base of the steps.

Not in the shadows this time. Not quiet or distant.

He greeted you in full view of Senate staff, Guard personnel, and the few reporters waiting on the fringes.

“Senator,” he said, voice smooth but firm.

“Hound,” you replied, raising a brow. “Early today.”

“I thought I’d escort you up myself,” he said easily. “I know how the halls get… cluttered.”

Maera gave a discreet cough to hide her knowing grin.

You glanced at him, searching, reading. “Trying to start rumors?”

He leaned in slightly. “No. I’m trying to start a pattern.”

R9 beeped in what sounded like scandalized glee.

You smiled despite yourself. “Careful, Sergeant. I might get used to that.”

⸻

The upper atrium buzzed with mingling Senators, Guard officers, and invited Jedi. Drinks flowed, polite words filled the air like smoke, and nothing important was ever really said out loud.

You stood near the balcony, Hound by your side, his stance casual but unmistakably yours. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was there for you. Every look, every nod, every quiet murmur in your direction made it clear.

And people noticed.

Fox noticed.

Across the hall, the Commander stood with Chuchi, her blue cloak draped neatly over her shoulders, her posture a touch more relaxed than usual.

He wasn’t watching you this time—not exactly. He was watching Hound. Watching how natural it seemed.

Chuchi followed his gaze and tilted her head. “Regretting something?”

Fox gave the smallest shake of his head. “Observing.”

She sipped from her glass, then spoke gently. “You don’t have to talk to me like you’re writing a field report, Commander.”

He blinked, then let out the smallest breath of a chuckle. “Habit.”

She glanced at him sideways, then added, “You know… we could make a good habit of this. Talking. Being seen together.”

He looked at her then—really looked.

She was offering something real. Something without barbed wires. Something that didn’t ask him to fight through smoke to see what was there.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

Chuchi smiled. Not triumphant. Not possessive. Just… warm.

⸻

Hound was listening to a brief report from a junior officer, but his hand grazed yours beneath the table. A quiet, firm pressure.

You didn’t move away.

The contact was seen.

Thorn narrowed his eyes from across the room. Cody caught it and just hummed, sipping from his glass. Even Plo Koon gave a slightly more observant glance than usual from where he stood with Windu.

You leaned closer to Hound. “We’re being watched.”

His mouth quirked. “I know. Let them.”

And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like a triangle.

It felt like something more complicated.

And far more worth the risk.

⸻

Later that night Chuchi stood at Fox’s side at the landing platform. There was no awkwardness in her presence. She was calm. Solid.

Fox looked out over the Coruscanti skyline and finally broke the silence.

“She’ll always be a fire I’m drawn to,” he said, voice low. “But fires burn, and I’m tired of getting burned.”

Chuchi simply nodded. “Then stop standing in the flames.”

Fox turned to her. “And start standing with you?”

“If you’re ready,” she said. “I won’t wait forever. But I won’t walk away just yet.”

He nodded once. Slowly.

⸻

The skies over Coruscant were unusually clear tonight, a shimmer of starlight bleeding through the light pollution. It was a rare calm.

You leaned back into Hound’s chest on your apartment balcony, a warm cup of spiced tea in hand. His arms were around you, solid and sure, resting just below your ribs. Grizzer snored softly inside by the door, and one of the handmaidens—probably Ila—was humming as she cleaned up from dinner.

“Not bad for a long day of Senate chaos,” Hound said, his voice quiet against the shell of your ear.

You snorted. “Aren’t they all long days?”

“Yes. But lately… you don’t carry them the same.”

You turned slightly to face him, your profile catching in the golden light of the city. “And what exactly do I carry now, Sergeant?”

He looked at you, eyes warm and unshaking. “Something real. With me.”

That disarmed you more than it should have.

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re becoming dangerously romantic, Hound.”

“I blame the handmaidens. Maera’s been giving me pointers.”

⸻

Fox stood beside Chuchi on the outer mezzanine of the Senate complex, watching the after-hours city buzz. They had both left the function early, preferring the quiet.

She offered him a half-smile, something softer than she usually showed in public.

“You didn’t even flinch when they brought up her new bill,” Chuchi noted, nodding toward the echoing chamber behind them.

Fox’s mouth quirked. “I’ve learned when to speak and when to listen. She and I… we’re not at odds. Just walking different roads.”

Chuchi reached for his hand, just briefly. “And now you’re on mine.”

Fox nodded once. “It’s steadier ground.”

Their relationship wasn’t loud. It wasn’t full of sparks or danger.

It was the kind of quiet strength that soldiers rarely got to experience. And maybe that’s why he clung to it.

⸻

Later that week, you crossed paths again at a formal reception. Fox, in his dress armor, stood beside Chuchi. You with Hound, his hand resting lightly at your lower back as he murmured something that made you smile.

Fox saw it.

And for the first time in weeks, the look in his eyes wasn’t longing. It was peace.

He nodded toward you.

You nodded back.

It was over. The tension. The rivalry. The ache.

Not forgotten. But resolved.

Chuchi looped her arm through Fox’s, leaning close. “You okay?”

He glanced down at her, his answer simple. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

⸻

Back at Your Apartment Maera was running the evening reports with VX, while Ila played soft music through the speakers. R9, curiously well-behaved, was curled up at the foot of the couch like some pet beast.

You stepped in from the hall, dress heels off, hair let down.

Hound looked up from the couch. “Long day?”

“Long enough,” you replied.

He opened an arm for you. “Come here, Senator.”

And you did.

You weren’t a storm anymore. You were a sunrise.

And it was about time.

No more games. No more waiting. Just choices made, and paths finally walked.

⸻

EPILOGUE:

Several years into the reign of the Empire.

The skies of Coruscant no longer shimmered.

They smothered.

Thick clouds of smog and smoke clung to the towers like rot, and the brilliant spires of the Senate were now reduced to shadows beneath the Empire’s long arm. The rotunda stood silent. Gutted. Museumed. Its voice—your voice—silenced.

You were older now. Not old. But seasoned. A relic by Imperial standards.

The red of your senatorial robes had been replaced by somber greys and silks that whispered through empty hallways. You had not spoken in session in years. Not since the body had been stripped of meaning.

But you returned today.

Not for politics.

For memory.

Your boots echoed across the great hall of the abandoned Senate, your handmaidens long gone. Maera had vanished in the purge. Ila had married a Republic officer and fled to the Mid Rim. VX-7 had been decommissioned by the Empire for “behavioral instability.” You had buried his shattered chassis yourself.

Only R9 remained.

The little astromech trailed behind you, his plated casing dull with age, but still stubbornly functional. A grumbling, violent, loyal thing. When they tried to wipe his memory, he electrocuted the technician and disappeared for two years. When he came back, he returned to your side without explanation. You never asked.

You reached the center of the hall—the old speaking platform.

Closed your eyes.

He had stood here once, flanked by red and white armor. Fox.

You had loved him. Fiercely. Then you had lost him. Even now, you weren’t sure if it was to the Empire or to himself. Word came of his reassignment. Rumors of reconditioning. Rumors of defection. None confirmed. His armor never turned up.

Hound… Hound had died in the early rebellion skirmishes, trying to save refugees in the Outer Rim. You’d read the report yourself. Twice. Then deleted it. Grizzer had outlived him. You received the beast, years later. Half-wild and scarred. You kept him at your estate. The last thing Hound had ever loved.

You opened your eyes.

At the base of the podium sat a pair of red clone boots.

Old. Polished.

Ceremonial.

You placed a hand on them and let the silence hold you.

Outside, a storm rolled over the skyline.

R9 beeped low beside you. A mournful note.

“Don’t start with me,” you muttered.

The droid nudged your leg.

You looked out at Coruscant, then up at the distant shadow of the Imperial Palace—formerly the Jedi Temple.

And you smiled. Just slightly.

“They think it’s over,” you whispered. “But embers remember how to burn.”

In the ruins of the Republic, love and rebellion had one thing in common—neither stayed dead forever.

⸻

Previous Part

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.

stop talking about the USA. I have heard enough about that wretched place

Hi! Your writing is superb and I love your fic with the reader and Crosshair bantering. Do you think you could do a Crosshair x Fem!reader where she finally gets him flustered and blushing? Maybe a bit of spice at the end if that’s ok? Xx

“Right on Target”

Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: No explicit smut, but it’s definitely mature

⸻

Crosshair was used to being in control—of his aim, of his surroundings, of people. He liked it that way.

What he didn’t like was how you always had a retort ready for him, sharp as the toothpick between his teeth.

“Your stalking’s getting obvious, sharpshooter,” you drawled, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Didn’t know you liked watching me walk that much.”

“I wasn’t watching you walk,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching my ass. Got it.”

He glanced away, jaw tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Score one.

“You’re lucky I’m into grumpy, brooding types who pretend they don’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhm,” you said, voice thick with amusement. “That why you always hover when I’m patching up, or growl when I flirt with other clones?”

He stopped walking. You didn’t. Not until he grabbed your wrist, tugging you back with just enough force to make it known he was done playing.

“I don’t growl.”

“Oh, honey,” you smirked, stepping in close. “You practically purr when you’re jealous.”

His eyes narrowed, but his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t meant to touch his chest—but your hand was there now, and he wasn’t moving.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low.

You tilted your head. “Why? You gonna shoot me?”

“No. But I might do something you’ll like.”

You gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That’s the idea.”

And that’s when it happened—the blush. Subtle at first, just a dusting of pink across those high cheekbones. But you saw it. He knew you saw it.

“You’re blushing,” you whispered, grinning like you’d just landed a perfect headshot.

He scoffed. “It’s hot in here.”

“We’re on Hoth.”

Silence. You let it stretch. Delicious, victorious silence.

“…You gonna keep staring, or—”

You silenced him with a kiss—soft, heated, and just enough tongue to make his breath hitch. His hand gripped your waist in reflex, grounding, needing.

“You gonna let me keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, “or are you finally gonna shut me up properly?”

He backed you into the nearest wall faster than you could blink, lips crashing against yours harder this time, heat surging between you both like a live wire. When he pulled back, his voice was husky, feral.

“Be careful what you ask for.”

You smirked, heart hammering. “Right on target.”

The wall was cold at your back, but Crosshair was not.

His body pressed flush to yours, lean and strong, caging you in with one hand braced above your head and the other gripping your hip like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor you.

“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he muttered, voice dark and ragged.

“I know,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his blacks. “You like it.”

He growled—a low, almost feral sound—then tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers and kissed you again. This time, there was no holding back. Teeth, tongue, heat. He kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a dangerous edge that said he might snap.

You wanted him to snap.

Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging along the sharp dip of his waist. His abs flexed beneath your touch, and his breath caught.

“What’s wrong, Cross?” you purred, nipping at his jaw. “You usually have so much to say.”

“I’m busy shutting you up,” he rasped.

And oh—he did.

His hands were everywhere now, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging you closer. You rolled your hips against his and felt just how not unaffected he was. The air between you grew hot, heavy, thick with need.

“You wanna keep teasing,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your skin, “I’ll make good on every threat I’ve ever made.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the promise laced in his tone. He sounded dangerous. And you? You’d never wanted anything more.

“I dare you.”

He chuckled, low and rough, and it did something to you.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Oh, I do,” you said, curling your fingers in his shirt and pulling him closer. “And I want all of it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—possessive, claiming, his. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he pulled away, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.

“Later,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over yours. “When we’re not seconds from being interrupted by someone like Wrecker.”

You groaned. “He would walk in right now.”

“Which is why,” he said, voice sharp and wicked, “you’re going to think about this all day until I do something about it.”

He stepped back, leaving you breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked.

And the smirk he shot you?

It said he knew exactly what he’d done.

Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️

“First‑Name Basis”

Kix x Reader

Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.

A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”

Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”

From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”

You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”

Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.

You pointed down the line:

“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.

“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”

“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”

Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.

Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”

“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”

A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”

Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”

Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”

“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.

Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”

⸻

Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”

“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”

His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”

Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”

Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”

You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”

Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”

Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”

⸻

Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”

“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.

Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.

Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”

You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.

Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”

Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”

And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.

“My Boys, My Warriors”

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

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

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

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

⸻

Arrival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowled. “And you?”

Jango didn’t answer.

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

⸻

Training the Future Commanders

They were just boys.

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

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

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

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

But over time, that changed.

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

They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.

And somewhere along the line, the title changed.

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

You froze.

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

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

After that, the name stuck.

⸻

The Way You Loved Them

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

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

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

⸻

Singing in the Dark

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

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

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

Let the river carry you back to me

Dream, my baby, 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

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

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

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

And after that, you kept doing it.

⸻

The Warning

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

And they were brothers. Every one of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laughter died.

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

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

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

“They are not—”

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

The Kaminoan backed away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.

⸻

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

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

You never said why, but they trusted you.

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

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

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

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

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

Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”

“I will end you, rookie.”

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

Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.

“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.

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

⸻

When You Sang

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

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

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

“Last night under bright strange stars

We left behind the men that caged you and me

Runnin' toward a promise land

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

And they didn’t like complications.

⸻

The Meeting

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

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

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

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

Your fists curled at your sides.

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

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

There was a pause, then:

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

You didn’t respond.

You simply turned and walked out.

⸻

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

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

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

“They’re getting better,” you corrected.

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

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

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

You shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re pissing them off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ll make you.”

“Not until they’re ready.”

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

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

⸻

That night, you sang again.

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

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

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

Be a mouse and do not use your voice

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

Mama will be there in thе mornin'”

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

You didn’t turn to see who said it.

You just kept singing.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve served your purpose.”

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

“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”

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

“You are dismissed.”

⸻

You packed slowly.

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

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

You always took your armor.

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

“Can I come in?”

It was Cody.

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

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

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

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

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

“What happens to us now?”

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

“Are we ready?” he asked.

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

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That hit him harder than comfort might have.

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

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

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

His eyes flicked to you in surprise.

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

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

You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.

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

Cody frowned. “Banished?”

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

“That’s not fair.”

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

He was silent, digesting it.

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Silent.

Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.

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

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

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

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

You left without turning back.

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

Part 2

Republic Commando - Delta Squad

Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:

@jaderavenarts (x)

@papanowo (x)

@leafdupe (x)

Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:

38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.

07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.

I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra

NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade

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.