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501st x Reader
The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”
Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”
You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.
“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”
Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”
You smile. “Armor for the skin.”
As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”
“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”
Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.
The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”
Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”
Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”
“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.
Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”
“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.
Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”
You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”
You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.
Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”
“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”
Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”
Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”
The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.
As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”
“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”
He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”
Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.
⸻
An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.
Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”
“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.
Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”
“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”
Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”
You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”
Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”
Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”
Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”
Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”
Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”
You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.
Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.
You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.
Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”
Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.
Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.
The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.
Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”
Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”
Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”
A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”
You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.
⸻
Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.
“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”
Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”
Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”
Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.
Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”
You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.
Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”
⸻
Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”
Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”
Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”
Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.
“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”
You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.
⸻
A/N
This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.