“The Warmth Between Wars”

POV: Bad Batch Season 3 Finale

Endorsed by bestie @hatzlanna-blog 🌝

“Painted Gold”

Commander Bly x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

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

But not his.

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t been so sure.

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

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

So could Bly.

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

He was quiet a moment.

“I usually am.”

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

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

He exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

“About what?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“About you.”

That stopped you.

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

“They do matter.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

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

“Because I could.”

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

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

You didn’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

And you let him.

Because love didn’t always come with declarations.

Sometimes, it came painted in gold.

⸻

Palpatine: Sneezes

Fox, hiding in his vents, aiming a sniper through the slats: Bless you.

Palpatine, looking up: God?

Fox, cocking the sniper: You won't be seeing him where your going.

Rebels Wolffe x Reader

Summary: Wolffe x Medic!Reader set post-Order 66 during the Rebels era. Listened to the song “somewhere only we know” by Keane and made me think of old man Wolffe.

⸻

The sky of Seelos burned orange as another sun dipped beneath the jagged horizon. The Ghost had landed hours ago, stirring the sand, dust, and old ghosts from their resting places.

You stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, scanning the ramshackle AT-TE turned-home ahead. Your breath caught when you saw him—helmet under one arm, same eye scar, same heavy gait. But time had added weight to his shoulders and silver to his hair.

Wolffe.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t believe it. You smiled.

“Well, kark me,” you called, stepping forward, “either I’m dreaming or the years have not been kind to you, old man.”

He froze mid-step. His one eye widened, flickering with something too raw to be masked. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.

“Medic?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still calling me that after all this time? Not even a ‘hey, great to see you, thought you were dead’?”

He dropped his helmet, closing the distance in long, heavy steps. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he reached you—until his gloved hand gently took your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear.

“You left,” he said. Not accusing. Just fact.

“So did you,” you whispered. “War ended. Republic died. So many of us died with it.”

A moment passed where neither of you breathed. The wind whistled over cracked metal and dry earth. The sun dipped a little lower.

Wolffe’s eye searched your face like it had answers to questions he never dared to ask. “Why now?” he said. “Why here?”

You glanced back toward the Ghost, where Sabine and Zeb were offloading supplies, Hera and Kanan deep in discussion. “I’m with them now. The Ghost crew. Ezra brought us out here. Said there were… good men worth finding.”

Wolffe looked away. “Not sure that’s true anymore.”

You touched his cheek—scarred, weathered, familiar. “Still wearing your guilt like a second set of armor, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“I remember when you used to smile,” you murmured. “Used to fight like hell, patch your brothers up, then sit with me under stars on Ryloth like the war wasn’t chewing us to pieces.”

His silence was heavy, but he didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had.

“I’ve thought about you,” you said. “Over the years. Wondered if you made it. Wondered if you found peace somewhere.”

“This is the closest I got,” he said, glancing back at the AT-TE. “It’s not much.”

“It’s something,” you offered. “Somewhere only we know.”

A tired smirk tugged at his lips. “Still quoting that old song you used to hum in the medbay?”

You shrugged. “Catchy. And depressing. Fit the vibe.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, worn and dry but still alive. “You really haven’t changed.”

You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “You have. More lines. More grump. Less hair.”

“I shaved it.”

“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

He shook his head, muttering a fond “damn smartass” under his breath.

The sun was nearly gone now, and the stars began to appear, faint and blinking like the ghosts of all you’d lost.

You stepped closer, chest brushing his armor. “You think we could find that peace again?” you asked, soft. “Maybe not like before, but… something close?”

He didn’t answer right away. But his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding.

“Stay a while,” he said. “Just… stay.”

You squeezed his hand.

“For now,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

And under a Seelos sky, two remnants of a broken galaxy found the smallest sliver of something whole. A memory made real. A place only you two remembered.

Somewhere only you knew.

⸻

We interrupt your regularly scheduled political tragedy to bring you SPACE PIGEONS.

“The Butcher and The Wolf”pt.2

Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader

R4 trilled while plugging data‑spikes into the sleek shuttle’s nav‑computer; TC polished the boarding ramp as though senators would rate its shine. Inside, [Y/N] sealed a crate of festival gifts—kyber‑laced lanterns, citrus‑spiced tihaar—when the hangar doors parted.

In strode Master Plo Coon and Kenobi, with his most innocent smile. Behind them Commander Cody and an impeccably straight‑backed Commander Wolffe.

Kenobi surveyed the scene, eyes twinkling. “My lady, I trust Coruscant treated you… memorably?”

Plo’s mask inclined. “Yes, I understand you’ve already formed a—shall we say—effective working rapport with our best security personnel.”

TC’s head swiveled. “If you refer to last night’s flawless briefing, Masters, I assure you my presentation notes were—”

“—copied from my schematics,” R4 beeped smugly.

Kenobi chuckled. “Quite. Though some reports suggest the princess herself gathered more… field intelligence than anticipated.”

Wolffe’s helmet visor dipped a millimeter; only Cody saw the pained grimace. He murmured, “Steady, vod, you’ve faced droid armies—Jedi teasing won’t kill you.”

[Y/N] kept a serene smile. “Coruscant was enlightening, Master Kenobi. Your commanders are… thorough.”

“Thorough,” Kenobi echoed, barely suppressing a grin. “An admirable quality.”

Plo produced a data‑chip. “Your Highness, these are revised escort protocols for the festival. The Council looks forward to cooperating.”

Cody added, “Wolfpack leads the clone detachment. We’ll rendezvous in orbit over Karthuna.” He patted Wolffe’s pauldron. “Commander is eager to ensure everything runs smoothly.”

Wolffe managed, “Honored to serve, Princess.” Translation: please let the floor swallow me.

R4 gave a warbling laugh. TC translated dryly, “R4 suggests the commander already has extensive knowledge of our customs—particularly nightlife.”

Kenobi coughed into his sleeve; even Plo’s mask seemed to smile.

[Y/N] ascended the ramp, pausing beside Wolffe. Low enough for only him: “Try not to judge anyone before second breakfast, Commander.”

He answered just as quietly, “Next time, title first, drinks second.”

Her wink was pure mischief. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With diplomatic farewells exchanged, the Jedi departed, Cody dragging a still‑smirking Kenobi. Wolffe lingered as engines warmed, visor reflecting the princess who had upended his meticulously ordered world.

R4’s hatch closed, TC waved primly, and the shuttle lifted skyward—toward open borders, a five‑day festival, and a reunion sure to test the Wolf’s composure more than any battlefield.

⸻

Commander Wolffe had survived orbital bombardments, trench sieges, and General Grievous’s cackling—but nothing tested endurance like the embassy’s protocol droid at full lecture speed.

TC strode the aisle between jump‑seats where Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker buckled in.

“…and the Festival of Dawning begins with a kuur‑vaan procession. That translates roughly as ‘dance of a thousand sparks,’ involving micro‑kyber filaments that ignite in sequence—quite breathtaking, provided you wear appropriate eye shielding. Now, the correct greeting is ‘Gal’shara’ with palms outward—never inward, or you imply the listener lacks honor. Also, avoid offering your left hand—historically used for bloodletting rituals dating back—”

Sinker slumped. “Commander, permission to eject myself through the air‑lock.”

Boost whispered, “Could be worse—could be a Senate speech.”

TC continued, undeterred. “—and if you’re offered sapphire tihaar, remember it’s an apology drink, not casual refreshment. Accepting without cause is tantamount to admitting fault. Speaking of fault, did you know the northern fault‑line—”

Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Droid, compile this in a datapad. My men will study quietly.”

“Oh, certainly, Commander. I have already prepared a 312‑page primer, complete with holo‑graphs.”

Sinker mouthed three‑hundred‑twelve?! Boost mimed choking.

⸻

[Y/N] sat cross‑legged in her cabin, R4 projecting a secure blue holo of King Talren—silver‑bearded, stern eyes softened only for his daughter.

“Little Dawn,” he greeted, using her childhood nickname, “I won’t waste time. Loyalist scouts uncovered three insurgent cells. Extremists insist reopening our borders is betrayal; some whisper of Separatist aid.”

A map flared beside him—red sigils in mountain passes.

“I need those cells silenced before the festival opens,” the king said. “You know the terrain. Take whatever force is required, but keep off‑worlders uninvolved. This must look like an internal matter.”

[Y/N] bowed her head. “It will be done, Father.”

The holo faded. R4 beeped a query.

“Prep infiltration loadouts,” she answered. “Low‑flash sabers, sonic mines, and two squads of Shadow Guard on standby. We strike first nightfall.”

R4 warbled approval, projecting tactical overlays. She added waypoints, carving silent routes Wolffe’s clones would never notice.

⸻

Later, passing Wolffe in the corridor, [Y/N] offered a casual nod. He paused, as if sensing undercurrents, but protocol kept him silent.

Behind him TC called, “Commander, I neglected to mention Karthunese dining order—if the Princess serves you last, it’s actually a sign of high esteem—”

Wolffe muttered a prayer for battlefield blasterfire to drown out etiquette lessons.

In her quarters, [Y/N] traced insurgent sigils on the holo with a gloved fingertip, resolve hardening. Opening Karthuna’s doors to the galaxy meant showing strength the old way—quiet, decisive, unseen.

And if the Wolf and his troopers never learned how the festival stayed peaceful, all the better.

⸻

The twin suns of Karthuna cast copper light over the obsidian‑paved sky‑dock as the Republic cruiser settled with a hiss of repulsors. King Talren stood flanked by honor guards whose sun‑metal armor threw brilliant flares into the air. Behind him waited the planetary senator, Senator Vessar, and the ever‑skeptical Governor of Interior Works, Governor Rhun.

The ramp dropped. Out strode Masters Plo Coon and Kenobi, Chancellor Palpatine in ceremonial crimson, a cluster of senators, and the clone detachment led by Commanders Cody and Wolffe flanked by Boost and Sinker.

Talren bowed with a warrior’s economy. “Karthuna welcomes the Republic. May the Force greet you as friend and guest.”

A respectful murmur answered. Yet even before introductions concluded, his daughter slipped to his side, murmured, “Urgent Shadow Guard matter, Father,” and—still in civilian vest and braid—beelined for a sand‑silver speeder.

Wolffe’s visor tracked her, but protocol held him. Engines howled; the speeder vanished down a cliff‑side lift‑tube toward the high passes.

Talren inhaled—the first lie ready on his tongue.

⸻

Kenobi stepped forward, large smile in place. “Your Majesty, we look forward to your famous Festival of Dawning.”

“As do we all,” Talren replied, steering the party toward the citadel’s balcony overlooking the festival valley—far from launch bays or military comms.

Chancellor Palpatine clasped gloved hands. “Your daughter leads the festivities, does she not? I had hoped to congratulate her.”

“She prepares a…surprise presentation,” Talren said smoothly. “Artists’ temperaments, Chancellor.”

Governor Rhun muttered just loud enough, “More like a warrior itching for mischief.”

Senator Vessar chimed in, tone dripping dry humor, “I assure our off‑world partners the princess habitually vanishes moments before debuting something spectacular—or spectacularly dangerous.”

Talren fixed them both with a steel‑edged smile that promised discussion later.

Plo Coon shifted his weight, Kel‑Dor mask unreadable. “Your Highness, Clone Commander Wolffe will require coordination with your security captain.”

“Of course.” Talren gestured toward the fortress doors. “Commander, my staff will relay schematics over luncheon. Meanwhile, allow me to show the Chancellor our kyber‑terraced gardens—quite safe, I assure you.”

Wolffe’s unspoken protest died behind the visor; duty bound, he followed Cody toward a briefing alcove where TC awaited with yet another data‑slab. Talren breathed easier: one crisis delayed, if not averted.

As the king guided the diplomats through colonnades, Governor Rhun leaned in: “You risk interstellar incident if the princess sparks bloodshed while the Republic picnics outside our walls.”

Talren’s voice stayed velvet, danger beneath. “Better insurgent blood in the mountains than senator blood in the streets.”

Senator Vessar added, half‑teasing, “If she returns with soot on her boots, I shall schedule extra press holos to reframe it as heroic cultural demonstration.”

Kenobi caught the whisper, grin curving. “Your court seems…spirited, Majesty.”

Talren allowed the tiniest exhale of amusement. “Karthuna has waited fifteen years to step back onto the galactic stage, General. We intend to give a performance worth the ticket.”

Above them, fireworks crews tested micro‑sparklers; bright hisses masked the distant roar of a speeder blazing toward insurgent territory.

In a quiet moment against the balcony rail, Talren gazed over valley tents blooming for festival week, mind split between choreography of diplomats and the razor‑work his daughter undertook beyond those peaks.

He whispered to the wind, “Return swift, Little Dawn.”

⸻

By mid‑afternoon the princess was still missing.

Commander Wolffe stood on the citadel parapet overlooking the valley’s bustling festival city, visor fixed on the distant scar of mountains her speeder had taken.

Local Sun‑Guard Captain Arven stepped up, spearhaft tapping stone.

“Enjoying the view, off‑worlder?”

“I’d enjoy it more if your crown heir were within com‑range,” Wolffe replied. “Transmit her last coordinates.”

“Princess has classified authority.”

Wolffe’s servo‑joint clicked as his gauntlet clenched. “My mandate is to protect every Republic dignitary on this rock—including her.”

Arven smirked. “Karthuna protected itself centuries before troopers in white armor needed it. Stand down, Commander.”

Cody’s voice crackled through Wolffe’s comlink: “Easy, vod. Diplomacy first.”

Wolffe never took his eye from the peaks. Diplomacy ends when the VIP bleeds, he thought—and weighed the odds of “borrowing” a gunship.

New LAATs screamed in, disgorging Jedi and clones.

Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano with the 501st, assigned to guard Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo and a cadre of Core‑World legislators.

Masters Mace Windu and Ki‑Adi‑Mundi arrived with Commanders Ponds and Bacara respectively, doubling ground strength.

Skywalker clapped Wolffe’s pauldron. “Heard your princess pulled a disappearing act—sounds like my kind of trouble.”

“Not helping, General,” Wolffe growled, though Ahsoka’s sympathetic grin eased his temper a notch.

Senators debarked in a flurry of aides, holo‑recorders, and fashion impractical for mountain air. Festival staff hustled to reroute them toward reception halls—distraction, Talren hoped, until his daughter returned.

Master Yoda, leaning on his gimer stick, sought King Talren atop a sun‑warmed terrace strewn with kyber wind‑chimes. The diminutive Jedi regarded the monarch’s sun‑metal cuirass and the twin‑bladed saber at his hip.

“Strong in the Force, your people are,” Yoda began. “Yet light and dark you name not. Curious, this is.”

Talren inclined his head. “Master, on Karthuna we are taught: there is no dawn without night. Deny darkness, and daylight loses meaning. Balance is not the absence of shadow, but its harmony with light.”

“Hmmm.” Yoda’s ears twitched thoughtfully. “Unnatural, you say, to void one side?”

“As unnatural as silencing half a heartbeat,” Talren answered. “We do not fear the shadow; we fear imbalance.”

Wind‑chimes chimed like distant sabers. Yoda closed his eyes, absorbing the resonance.

“Much to learn, even I have,” he murmured. “And much to guard, we both must.”

Talren’s gaze drifted to the mountains. “Agreed, Master Yoda. Balance must sometimes be defended by hidden blades.”

⸻

Sunset torched the valley when a sand‑silver speeder roared through the citadel gates. Clone guards scrambled aside as [Y/N] leapt off, still in dust‑streaked vest and combat shorts. She vaulted a barricade, sprinting for the grand foyer.

“Hey—civilian access is restricted!” bellowed Commander Fox, Crimson Guard staff lowered across her path.

She halted, breath steady despite the climb. “I live here, thanks.”

Before Fox could run ID, Chancellor Palpatine emerged from a delegation knot, eyes narrowing with fox‑like curiosity.

“My dear, racing through secure halls in such…practical attire—is something amiss?”

[Y/N] offered a flawless court bow that contrasted sharply with her grime‑spattered boots. “Merely last‑minute festival preparations, Chancellor. Please excuse me; I must dress for the gala.”

Palpatine’s smile sliced thin. “Ah, duty never rests. I look forward to your presentation this evening.”

Fox straightened as realization dawned. “Wait—you’re—”

She winked. “Classified, Commander.” Then slipped past, leaving red armor and red robes equally bemused.

In her chamber, TC fussed with brocade gowns while R4 powered a sonic shower.

“Your Highness, the schedule is punishing: welcome gala at nineteen‑hundred, holo‑address at twenty‑two, and saber exhibition by dawn.”

“Then we’d better look lethal and lovely,” [Y/N] said, toweling off. She chose a floor‑length gown of midnight silk that clung to sculpted muscle, high slits revealing thigh holsters for compact hilts. Sun‑metal pauldrons mirrored her crown, but the gown’s sleeveless cut displayed the lattice of scars down both arms—plasma burns, shrapnel lines, duelist nicks—each a story she refused to hide.

TC clipped the circlet into her damp hair. “Might I suggest gloves to soften the, ah, impression?”

She flexed scarred fingers. “No. Let the galaxy see what Karthuna’s balance looks like.”

R4 projected her entrance route. She studied it, then smiled. “Time to charm senators, silence rumors, and—perhaps—make a wolf squirm.”

⸻

A fanfare of crystal horns cut through conversation. Doors parted, revealing Princess [Y/N] radiant in midnight silk and sun‑metal crown, scars on her bare arms glinting like silver filigree. Senators gasped—half at the regality, half at the unapologetic battle‑marks.

Master Kenobi murmured to Skywalker, “Grace and menace in equal measure—definitely your type, Anakin.”

Skywalker smirked. “She’d have me for breakfast.”

Padmé Amidala complimented the gown’s craftsmanship; [Y/N] returned praise for Naboo’s relief programs, steering talk away from rumored insurgents.

Master Windu approached her, he attempted to discuss security perimeters; the princess assured him Karthuna’s Shadow Guard had “every shadow covered.”

Across the room, Governor Rhun whispered to holoreporters, stoking stories of her “reckless mountain excursion.” TC hovered, intercepting leading questions with cutting etiquette lessons.

Commander Wolffe, helmet clipped to belt, stood near a terrace arch with Cody and Plo Coon. When [Y/N] approached, conversation faltered like a blaster misfire.

She offered a delicate curtsy—mischief in her eyes. “Commander, I trust the briefing notes were…illuminating?”

“They were extensive,” Wolffe said evenly. “Yet somehow omitted your talent for disappearing.”

“Ah, but every good security test includes an unscheduled drill.” She stepped closer, voice just for him: “You passed—eventually.”

The faintest flush darkened Wolffe’s neck. “Next time give me a comm frequency, not a cliff to chase.”

[Y/N] arched a brow. “And deny you the exercise?” Her fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron as she glided past. “Meet me on the terrace at midnight—strictly business, of course.”

Wolffe exhaled—half growl, half laugh—as Cody elbowed him, grinning. “Careful, vod. That one dances with both halves of the Force.”

Strings struck up Karthuna’s dawn‑waltz. Jedi mingled with diplomats while clone troopers ringed the hall’s perimeter. Suspicion, politics, and bright music braided in the air—yet for a heartbeat, harmony held.

In the high galleries, R4 scanned faces, feeding the princess data on a Separatist envoy concealed among trade delegates—tonight’s real threat.

Midnight loomed, and outside the terrace doors, mountain winds whispered of balance, blades, and a wolf answering a princess’s call.

⸻

Princess [Y/N] leaned against the balustrade, moon‑silver kissing the scars on her shoulders. Commander Wolffe stood close, arms folded—attempt at stoic ruined by her playful tug on the strap of his pauldron.

“Still on duty, Commander?” she teased.

“Always.”

“So devoted,” she murmured, fingers ghosting along the seam where synth‑skin met armor. “Makes a woman wonder how else that focus might—”

A scarlet bolt sizzled through the ballroom windows. Shouts. Glass rained like crystal hail.

Inside, Governor Rhun lay sprawled behind an overturned buffet, cloak smoking at the shoulder. Clone guards returned fire toward upper galleries; a masked shooter vaulted onto a chandelier cable and vanished in a flash‑grenade’s glare.

Skywalker, Ahsoka, Windu ignited sabers; Cody’s troopers fanned out. Wolffe ushered [Y/N] through the shattered doors into the throne corridor, senators scrambling behind.

⸻

Heavy doors slammed. Present: King Talren, Chancellor Palpatine, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kenobi, Commanders Cody, Wolffe, Ponds, Bacara, Senator Padmé, and a handful of shaken delegates. Rhun, arm bacta‑wrapped, was dragged in by medics.

Tension whipped like live wire.

[Y/N] broke the silence, voice flat: “Pity the shooter missed.”

Gasps; Wolffe’s helmet snapped toward her.

Rhun snarled. “Should’ve been you that got shot!”

She advanced, eyes blazing. “I opposed reopening our borders. Tonight proves me right. We invited every power broker in the war to one valley—painted a target the size of a moon.”

King Talren’s tone cut ice. “Peace requires risk.”

“Blind risk courts massacre,” she shot back. “Insurgents in our mountains, Separatist agents in our ballroom—now assassins under our roof.”

Palpatine interjected silkily, “Surely, Princess, the Republic can strengthen your security.”

“More soldiers won’t erase the bull’s‑eye you represent, Chancellor.”

Mace Windu’s gaze narrowed. “You suggest isolation while the galaxy burns?”

“I suggest survival,” she answered.

Arguments flared—senators citing diplomacy, clones citing protocol. Wolffe stepped between factions, voice drill‑sergeant sharp: “Focus. Assassin is still loose. Mandates later, lockdown now.”

Plo Coon, calm amid storm, nodded approval.

King Talren exhaled. “Commander Wolffe, you have joint authority with my Shadow Guard. Hunt the shooter.”

Wolffe met [Y/N]’s gaze—heat of earlier flirtation replaced by razor respect. “Princess—coming?”

She clicked twin sabers to her belt. “Lead the way, Commander.”

Rhun blanched; Padmé exchanged a knowing look with Kenobi—battle partners born.

The moment the throne‑room doors slammed behind them, [Y/N] was already moving—midnight gown gathered in one fist, the other dropping her double sabers into waiting palms.

Wolffe fell in at her shoulder, DC‑17 raised. The marble corridor echoed with their synchronized footfalls.

“Shadow Guard breach tunnel’s this way,” she hissed, sweeping aside a wall‑tapestry to reveal a spiral stair cut straight into obsidian.

He nodded once. “After you, Princess.”

The air grew cooler, alive with a faint crystalline hum. Iridescent kyber veins glowed within the stone, casting violet and jade shadows across their path.

Wolffe switched his helmet lamp to low‑band; [Y/N] didn’t bother—her people’s Force‑attuned sight caught every shimmer.

A blaster scorch on the stair railing.

“Fresh,” she murmured.

“Means we’re close,” Wolffe replied, pulse settling into the calm that preceded battle.

The stair disgorged them into a vast cavern—kyber pillars rising like frozen lightning. At the far end, the assassin’s silhouette leapt between crystal spires, cloak tattered by security bolts.

Wolffe’s comm clicked twice—Boost and Sinker sealing exits above.

“Corner him,” Wolffe ordered.

“Alive,” [Y/N] added. “I want intel before he bleeds out.”

They split wordlessly: Wolffe low along a mineral ridge, [Y/N] sprinting the high ledge, gown whipping behind like a war‑banner.

The assassin spun, twin WESTARs barking scarlet. Wolffe dove, bolts sparking off crystal as [Y/N] sprang from above, sabers igniting.

A vibro‑dagger flicked from the assassin’s wrist—met by Wolffe’s gauntlet, beskad plating deflecting the strike. He slammed the butt of his pistol into the assailant’s ribs.

“Yield,” the commander growled.

A hissed curse the killer smashed a detonator against the pillar. Kyber screamed as fractures spider‑webbed, light flaring.

[Y/N] threw Wolffe back with a Force‑shove and thrust both sabers into the crystal, channeling energy away in a surge of blinding radiance. The explosion muted to a concussive thump; shards rained harmlessly.

When vision cleared, the assassin lay dazed, binders already clamping on under Wolffe’s practiced hands.

“Who hired you?” the princess demanded.

The prisoner spat blood, defiant. “Karthuna’s own who crave true freedom—and the Confederacy rewards such courage.”

Wolffe’s visor tipped toward [Y/N]. Confirmation.

⸻

Governor Rhun’s voice boomed across the ballroom remnant—holocams hovering:

“This outrage proves openness invites anarchy! I petition immediate curfew, martial oversight by local forces, and expulsion of unnecessary off‑world elements!”

Several senators, rattled, murmured agreement. Separatist sympathizers whispered through the crowd, feeding fear.

Master Windu folded his arms. “Governor, the assassin wielded Separatist tech. Cooperation with the Republic, not isolation, thwarts such threats.”

Rhun’s smile was razor‑thin. “Yet my princess would see me dead; perhaps the Council should examine internal loyalties first.”

King Talren’s reply was cut short by the distant rumble of kyber—catacomb fight vibrations reaching high halls. Panic rippled anew.

Wolffe and [Y/N] emerged, armor and gown dusted in crystal powder, prisoner in tow. Gasps rippled through assembled officials.

“Governor Rhun,” [Y/N] announced, voice carrying. “Your assassin failed. And he’s confessed to Separatist backing—backing that feeds on fear you happily sow.”

Rhun’s complexion drained.

Palpatine stepped forward, tone silken. “A grave accusation, Princess. Proof?”

Wolffe activated the assassin’s cracked vambrace: a holo‑sigil of the Techno Union flickered. That, plus recorded confession from his helmet‑cam, filled the air in chilling blue.

Yoda’s ears drooped, sad but certain. “Darkness invited not by borders, but hearts seeking power, yes.”

Arguments flared, but now the tide shifted: senators demanding inquiry into Rhun’s dealings, Jedi reinforcing joint patrols, clones and Sun‑Guard sharing data rather than territory. The assassin was led away.

In the aftershock, [Y/N] turned to Wolffe, adrenaline still bright in her eyes.

“You kept up,” she said softly.

“You lit up half a mountain,” he retorted, relief threading the words.

A grin tugged her lips. “Balance, Commander—little light, little dark.”

His chuckle surprised them both. “Next time, maybe just a dance.”

She offered her arm—scarred, unhidden. He took it, escorting her back into the fractured ballroom where a new balance—uneasy, hard‑won—waited to be forged.

Previous Part

Ghosts of the Game

Rex x Bounty Hunter!Reader

Timeline: Post-Order 66

⸻

You loved Rex.

That was the problem.

Loving someone like Rex—someone who bled loyalty, who carried honor like a burden on his back—it meant every lie had weight. Every omission chipped a little deeper.

And you’d made a lot of omissions.

Like the fact that the long supply runs and offworld errands you took were less “freelance logistics” and more “tracking people with credits on their heads.”

Or that the blaster you kept in the back of your locker wasn’t for show.

Or that your work boots weren’t scuffed from cargo bays—they were scuffed from being ankle-deep in the Outer Rim’s worst places, chasing scum worse than you.

Rex didn’t know.

And you weren’t ready for him to.

Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you knew him. Knew how he’d look at you if he found out. Not with disgust, but disappointment.

You couldn’t take that. So, you didn’t give him the chance.

He thought you were away for work. You let him believe it.

He let you come home when you could. No questions asked.

And every time he greeted you with that quiet smile, that warm hand at your waist, the trust in his eyes made something in your chest twist sharp and guilty.

⸻

“Target’s down there,” Hunter said, pointing toward the jagged canyon mouth. “Five mercs guarding him. We take them quiet, get in, get out.”

The squad nodded. You crouched beside Rex, hidden behind a crumbling rock wall. Your rifle was primed, your eyes scanning the dust-blown valley below.

From your position, you could see them—mercs, alright. Sloppy formation. No discipline. One of them had their helmet on backwards. You’d seen cleaner work from drunk Rodians.

Wrecker shifted beside you. “Bet I could take ‘em all with just my fists.”

“Only if they die from secondhand embarrassment,” you muttered.

One of the mercs—tall, broad, self-important—stood by the fire and began what could only be described as a speech.

“I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game!” he bellowed, pacing like he was auditioning for a holodrama. “Time we made our own rules!”

The others grunted. One clapped. Another belched.

You groaned. “Oh, stars. That one again?”

Rex raised a brow. “Again?”

You waved vaguely toward the group. “Every washed-up gun for hire says that eventually. It’s like a rite of passage. They pretend they’re the main character when really, they’re just some rent-a-pawn with delusions of depth.”

Wrecker laughed. “You really don’t like mercs.”

You snorted. “I don’t like hypocrites.”

Rex studied you, something quiet behind his eyes. “You’ve been around this kind of crew before?”

You hesitated just long enough for it to matter. Then: “Yeah. Once or twice. Cargo jobs. Protection gigs. Nothing worth writing home about.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look away right away.

He was starting to ask questions.

Not out loud. Not yet.

But they were there—building behind his eyes, behind every careful glance. You could feel it.

You had to keep it together. Had to keep the story straight.

Because Rex trusted you.

And if he ever found out that while he was building something real with you, you were still out there playing a very different game—hunting, lying, hiding—you didn’t know what that would do.

To him.

To both of you.

⸻

The plan was clean. Simple.

Split the group. Neutralize the mercs. Grab the ex-Imperial and get the hell out.

Of course, it stopped being simple the moment you dropped down from the ridge and landed three meters away from someone who kinda used to know your face.

He was grizzled, thick-skulled, and reeked of old spice and bad choices.

And unfortunately, he was staring right at you.

“Wait a damn second,” he growled, squinting through the dust. “I know you.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “You don’t.”

“No—nah, I do. You’re that ghost-runner from—” His eyes lit up. “Lortha 7. The docks. You dropped a guy with a blade to the eye and vanished before the payout even—”

A hard CRACK echoed as the butt of your blaster met the side of his head. He dropped like a sack of nerf shit.

Wrecker whistled. “Kark. Remind me not to piss you off.”

Echo stepped over the merc, nudging his unconscious body. “Well, that was subtle.”

You brushed dust off your jacket like nothing happened. “Guy was clearly hallucinating.”

Rex’s voice cut in low behind you. “Lortha 7?”

You didn’t look at him. “You want to talk geography now?”

“No. I want to talk about why a bottom-tier merc from the Outer Rim thinks he’s worked with you.”

Hunter called out from ahead. “We’ve got the target. Let’s move.”

Bless you, Hunter.

You swept ahead of the group, boots kicking up dirt, but you could feel Rex’s gaze on your back. Curious. Calculating. Not angry—yet—but you knew that look. You’d seen him stare down traitors with softer eyes.

Beside you, Omega jogged to keep up, wide-eyed and beaming. “You were amazing! That guy looked like he was gonna cry before you even hit him!”

You gave her a half-grin. “Good. That means I’m losing my touch. Usually they cry after.”

Omega laughed like it was the best thing she’d heard all week.

Rex—not so much.

⸻

The fire crackled low. Everyone was scattered—Wrecker snoring, Tech nose-deep in a datapad, Howzer half-dozing upright. Hunter was on watch. Omega was curled up beside Gonky.

You were cleaning your blaster.

Rex watched you for a long time before speaking.

“That’s a Relby-K23,” he said. “Not common outside Mandalore or… bounty hunters.”

You didn’t look up. “Got it from a friend.”

“Friend with a bounty license?”

Your fingers paused on the slide. Just for a second.

He caught it.

You kept your voice steady. “What are you getting at, Rex?”

He stepped closer, crouched beside you. His voice was quiet. “You knew how those mercs would move. What they’d say. You called the leader’s bluff before he even opened his mouth.”

“I’ve worked dirty jobs. Doesn’t make me a merc.”

“No,” he agreed. “But then there’s your weapon. The vibroblade in your boot. The way you never flinch at high-value ops. The fact that you never tell me where you’re going when you ‘travel for work’.”

You finally looked at him.

And gods, the way he was looking at you—soft, but betrayed. Like he already knew the truth, but didn’t want to hear it.

You hated that look more than anything.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He nodded slowly. “But I think there’s a part of you I don’t know.”

There it was. No accusation. Just quiet heartbreak.

You exhaled. “I didn’t want to lie. But… I didn’t want to lose what we had either.”

“You still working?” he asked, not harsh, just real.

You didn’t answer.

Which was its own kind of answer.

From the firelight, Omega stirred. “Rex?”

He looked over, gave her a quiet “go back to sleep,” and she did.

When he looked back at you, he was still the man you loved. But there was distance now.

Not anger. Just space.

And you weren’t sure how to cross it yet.

“The Sound of Your Voice”

Wrecker x Togruta Reader

The sunset painted Pabu’s sky in thick, golden brushstrokes, casting long shadows over the peaceful island. Waves lapped lazily against the cliffs below, and somewhere distant, children’s laughter drifted on the breeze.

Wrecker walked carefully behind you, boots thudding heavily against the worn footpath. In contrast, you moved with a graceful lightness, bare feet brushing over the earth as if you were part of it. He wasn’t paying much attention to where he was, though.

Not when you were walking beside him, your vibrant montrals catching the light, your voice weaving a story he barely understood but couldn’t get enough of.

You stopped near a bluff overlooking the water, turning back to him with a smile.

“You can sit, if you like,” you said softly.

Wrecker flopped down without hesitation, arms resting on his knees. He watched curiously as you remained standing, closing your eyes and spreading your toes against the soil. You tilted your face up toward the stars, breathing deep, like you were drinking in the very air.

After a long, peaceful moment, you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

“Togruta believe the land is part of us,” you began, voice like a gentle tide, steady and warm. “The soil carries the memory of life. Every step we take barefoot, we are sharing in that memory. Feeling the heartbeat of the world.”

Wrecker blinked up at you, utterly enchanted but thoroughly confused. “The dirt’s got a heartbeat?” he asked, scratching the side of his head.

You laughed, soft and melodious, not mocking him — just delighted by his earnestness.

“In a way. It’s not something you hear with your ears. You feel it here.” You placed your palm over your chest, just above your heart.

Wrecker copied the gesture clumsily, his big hand thudding against his chest plate with a solid thunk. He winced. “Maybe I oughta take this armor off first, huh?”

You smiled and knelt beside him, resting lightly on your heels. Your robes pooled around your legs, and your toes stayed firmly rooted in the soil.

“You don’t have to be Togruta to feel the connection. Just… still your mind. Listen.”

Wrecker frowned a little in concentration, shutting his eyes tight, shoulders tensing like he was preparing for battle.

You bit back a laugh. “Not so hard. Relax.”

He cracked an eye open at you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. “I ain’t too good at this kinda thing,” he admitted. “S’pose I don’t really hear nothin’ except you talkin’.”

You tilted your head slightly, your montrals twitching at the gentle evening breeze.

“That’s alright,” you said, reaching out and gently taking his gloved hand in yours. His hand swallowed yours easily. “Maybe you don’t need to hear the earth tonight. Maybe… it’s enough just to listen to me.”

Wrecker’s cheeks flushed warm, and he gave a low, bashful chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I like listenin’ to ya. Your voice makes everythin’ seem… calmer. Better.”

The two of you sat there, hand in hand, the ocean’s lullaby wrapping around you. Above, the stars wheeled lazily across the night sky, ancient and eternal — just like the bond between living beings and the worlds that cradled them.

And Wrecker, big and loud and rough around the edges, had never felt so peaceful just sitting still.

Just listening to you.

Just feeling — maybe, just a little — the heartbeat of the land beneath him.

Wrecker shifted, glancing down at your bare feet pressed into the soil, then at his own heavy boots. He frowned, thoughtful.

“Do ya think… it’d help if I took these off?” he asked, voice low, almost shy.

You smiled warmly, tilting your head. “Maybe. It might help you feel what I feel.”

He grunted, leaning back to unbuckle his boots. It took him a moment — the armor clasps were stubborn — but finally, with a huff, he yanked them off and peeled away his thick socks too.

The second his bare feet touched the earth, he froze.

“Maker, that’s weird,” he blurted. “It’s all… squishy!”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to hide your amusement. Wrecker wiggled his toes uncertainly, then gave a surprised grin.

“Feels kinda nice, though.”

You nodded, the moonlight catching the gentle curve of your smile. “Togruta believe that the land is not just something we live on — it’s something we live with. Every creature, every plant, every stone is part of a greater whole. We’re taught to listen, to feel… to never see ourselves as separate.”

Wrecker watched you with wide, focused eyes, the way he did when he was on a mission, except softer now, like the whole world had narrowed down to just you and your words.

You continued, your voice smooth and full of quiet passion. “When we walk barefoot, we are honoring the connection. Letting the world know we are its children, not its masters.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the murmur of the ocean below.

Wrecker let out a slow breath, his toes curling into the soil. He looked at you for a long moment, then said, with a sincerity that made your heart flutter:

“You got such a beautiful voice.”

You felt your cheeks warm, your montrals picking up the slight tremble of emotion in his words.

“I don’t really get all of it,” Wrecker added with a crooked grin, “but when you talk, it’s like… like everything’s alright. Even if I don’t understand it all, I wanna keep listenin’.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, and shifted closer, the two of you sitting barefoot in the cool dirt, connected not just to the land, but to something deeper.

And under the endless Pabu sky, with your voice weaving through the night air, Wrecker decided he didn’t need to understand everything.

He just needed you.

Commander Cody x Twi’lek Reader

The battle for Ryloth raged on, the skies above choked with smoke and the echoes of blaster fire. The clones fought valiantly, as they always did, but in the midst of the war, it was the civilians who suffered most. The Twi'leks were caught between the Separatists' relentless assault and the Republic's effort to free them.

Commander Cody, his distinctive armor marked with the colors of the 212th Attack Battalion, was in the thick of it, leading his troops through the war-torn streets. The noise of the battle was deafening, but he focused, always focused, as he barked orders and ensured his men stayed on task.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, he saw her.

A Twi'lek woman, her emerald skin marked with the familiar patterns of her people, stumbled in the open, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her lekku twitched nervously. She was no soldier—just a civilian, caught in the crossfire.

Without thinking, Cody sprinted toward her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to safety just as another volley of blaster fire whizzed past them. They ducked into the shadow of a nearby building, the sound of the battle muffled by the walls around them.

"Stay down," Cody ordered, his voice calm despite the chaos. His heart was racing, adrenaline flooding his veins, but his instincts were razor-sharp. "I'll make sure you're safe."

She nodded, her wide eyes still full of fear. She was clearly shaken, but her strength was evident. She wanted to run, to fight, but she knew she had no place in this war. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of blaster fire. "I—I don't know what I would've done without you."

Cody looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. There was something about her, something that tugged at him, but he didn't have time to think about it. There was a war to fight, and civilians needed to be protected.

He turned back toward his men, ensuring the area was clear before giving her a nod. "Stay close. I'll get you out of here."

But just as he stepped toward the street to lead her to safety, a distant explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Cody stumbled, pain shooting up his side as he fell to one knee, his vision swimming. He reached out, steadying himself, but the pain was too much.

"Commander!" she gasped, rushing to his side.

"I'm fine," he gritted through clenched teeth, but his body betrayed him, and he crumpled against the wall. Blood seeped through the cracks in his armor, a clear sign that he had been injured more seriously than he realized.

"No, you're not," she insisted, kneeling beside him. "Let me help you. Please."

Her eyes were full of concern, and something deeper—something warmer—flashed between them. It was a connection neither of them had expected but couldn't ignore. In the middle of the battle, amidst the destruction and death, there was only the two of them in this small corner of the world.

She pulled a medical kit from the pack she had slung over her shoulder, her hands steady as she worked to clean his wounds. Cody winced, but he remained quiet, letting her do what she could.

"You're a medic?" he asked, his voice strained but appreciative.

"No," she replied softly, applying pressure to his side. "Just someone who knows a little bit about surviving. I've had to learn." Her words were matter-of-fact, but there was something raw in her tone that made Cody's heart tighten.

Her hands were gentle, moving with care, as if she could heal not just his body but the war-torn world around them. It was a kindness, a rare gift in a universe filled with conflict, and Cody found himself entranced by the sincerity in her touch.

Once the worst of the bleeding had been stopped, she sat back, wiping the sweat from her brow. Cody caught his breath, the pain dulling but not entirely gone.

"You're a good woman," he said softly, his voice low, a hint of admiration in his words.

She smiled at him, though her eyes were full of uncertainty. "I'm just doing what needs to be done. It's the only way I can survive."

Cody's eyes softened as he gazed at her. He had been trained to fight, to lead, to be the soldier the Republic needed, but in this moment, all he wanted was to stay. To stay here with her, away from the war, even if only for a little while.

But duty called. And as the sounds of battle drew closer, Cody knew he had to go. He stood slowly, wincing at the pain in his side but determined.

"You need to get to safety," he said, his voice resolute. "It's not safe here."

She stood as well, her eyes sad but understanding. "I know. But... what about you? What happens to you?"

Cody gave a half-smile, despite the pain. "I'll be fine. I'll be with my men again soon enough."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she stepped closer, looking up at him with a mixture of gratitude and something else. Something deeper.

Cody hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. In the midst of the war, in the middle of a planet torn apart by conflict, they were two people, bound by something greater than the galaxy around them.

Without thinking, he reached out and cupped her cheek gently. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. In that brief moment, time seemed to stand still.

And then, without a word, he leaned down, brushing his lips softly against hers. It was a kiss filled with everything they both couldn't say, everything that had built up between them in their short time together. It was tender, lingering, and full of all the things they couldn't share—*but* they did, in that fleeting moment.

When they pulled away, Cody's breath was unsteady, his heart racing, but he forced a smile. "Goodbye," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And thank you. For everything."

She smiled softly, a sad yet knowing expression crossing her face. "Goodbye, Commander," she replied, her voice steady. "Stay safe out there."

With one last glance, Cody turned and began to walk away, the pull of duty stronger than anything else. But as he disappeared into the distance, he couldn't shake the memory of her—her touch, her kiss, and the warmth in her eyes.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if they would ever meet again. But for a brief moment, amidst the chaos of war, he had found something that felt worth fighting for.

And that was enough.

---