“More Than Calculations”

Hardcase x Medic Reader

⸻

The soft beep of monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the dimly lit medbay. Most of the beds were empty tonight—except for one, where Hardcase was half-sitting, half-lurking like a bored animal ready to bolt.

You entered with a tablet in hand, already sighing. “If I find you trying to ‘stretch your legs’ one more time, I swear I’ll sedate you.”

Hardcase gave you an innocent grin, all teeth and mischief. “Come on, doc, I was just doing a lap. For circulation. You wouldn’t want my muscles to atrophy, would you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hardcase, you have three broken ribs and a hairline fracture in your leg. Sit. Down.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender and flopped back dramatically onto the cot, letting out an exaggerated groan. “You wound me more than the blaster bolt did.”

“You’re lucky I was there to drag your sorry shebs off the field,” you muttered, scrolling through his vitals. “Next time, maybe don’t charge a tank on foot.”

“I had a plan.”

“You yelled ‘I’ve got this!’ and ran straight at it.”

“…Exactly.”

You looked up, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are. Checking on me. Again.” He tilted his head, gaze softening. “You always come back, don’t you?”

That gave you pause. The playful tone slipped, just for a second. “That’s the job.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But not everyone does it like you.”

Silence settled between you, not heavy—but charged. Tense in a different way.

You set the tablet down and approached the side of his bed. “You’re a good soldier, Hardcase. But you don’t have to be the loudest in the room to matter. You don’t have to hide behind all that energy.”

He looked at you, blinking. “You see that?”

“I patch up your bones. I hear what your heart’s doing, too.”

He let out a slow breath, the grin slipping into something smaller, more genuine. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You leaned in, crossing your arms. “And you’re kind of an idiot.”

Suddenly, his arm shot out—gently—and pulled you forward by your wrist, just enough that you stumbled and caught yourself on the edge of his bed.

“If you wanted me in your bed, cyare,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “you could’ve just asked.”

You glared down at him, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “You’re lucky you’re injured, clone.”

He smirked. “What happens when I’m not?”

Your hand lingered on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. “Guess we’ll find out.”

His grin faded into something warmer. “I hope we do.”

⸻

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

Hiya babes! Hope you’re doing well! Just outta say I absolutely adore your writing and always brings a smile to my face when you post!!

I was hoping you could do an angst fic where it’s the boys reactions to you jumping in front of them taking a hit/bolt. You can choose the clone group! Xxx

Thank you so much — seriously, your kind words mean the world to me!! I’m so glad my writing can bring a little light to your day 💛

I hope you don’t mind that I decided to go with the Wolf pack for this one. I hope you enjoy 🫶

⸻

“For the Pack”

Reader x 104th Battalion (Wolffe, Sinker, Boost)

⸻

You don’t think. You just move. That’s what instinct does when family is in danger.

The air was thick with heat and cordite, the jungle humid enough to choke on. Blasterfire lit the treeline in wild flashes—red bolts cutting through the green like angry stars. You pressed forward with your saber raised, breath tight in your chest, the Force buzzing like a live wire beneath your skin.

This wasn’t supposed to be a heavy engagement. Just a scouting mission. Routine.

But nothing about war ever stays routine for long.

“Wolffe, move it! You’re exposed!” you shouted, watching him duck behind cover just as two more shots chewed bark over his head.

“Copy that,” Wolffe growled, popping off a few retaliatory blasts. “Boost! Sinker! Sweep the right flank and flush that nest!”

“Already on it!” Boost called from somewhere in the brush.

“We’re getting pinned down out here!” Sinker added, tone sharp but controlled.

You moved closer to Wolffe, saber up, covering his retreat as he repositioned behind the half-blown trunk of a felled tree. The rest of the battalion had spread out, covering the ridgeline, trying to locate the sniper.

That’s when it hit you—the feeling.

The Force spiked.

Time slowed.

A heartbeat ahead of the moment, you felt it: danger, aimed at someone you couldn’t let go.

Wolffe was turning. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

A leap. A cry. A single instant of instinct and fear and absolute certainty.

And then the bolt hit you square in the back.

Wolffe didn’t register what happened right away. One moment he was turning to call out an order, the next there was a flash of blue, the hum of a saber, and a sickening crack of a body hitting the dirt.

“—[Y/N]?!”

You were lying on your side, smoke rising from your robes, your saber a few meters away, deactivated.

You weren’t moving.

Sinker screamed something wordless over comms. Boost shouted your name.

“MEDIC!” Wolffe was already moving. “Get me a medic now!”

He slid to his knees beside you, hands already tearing open the fabric around the wound, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just doing. There was too much blood. Too much heat coming off your skin. You were smaller than him, younger, not armored like they were. You were a Jedi, yeah, but also just a kid compared to the rest of them.

His kid. Their kid.

And you’d taken a shot meant for him.

⸻

Hours Later you were in bacta now. Still alive. Barely.

The medics said it was touch and go. The bolt had burned through muscle and clipped something vital. You’d coded once during evac, but they brought you back. Your saber had been returned to Plo Koon, its emitter dented from where it had slammed into the ground.

Wolffe sat in the corner of the medbay, helmet off, armor streaked with dried blood—your blood. He hadn’t moved in two hours.

“Why the hell would she do that?” Sinker muttered, pacing with his helmet tucked under one arm. He was flushed, angry. “We wear armor for a reason. We train for this. She’s a Jedi, not a clone. She’s not supposed to—”

“Be willing to die for us?” Boost cut in, voice tired. “Guess she missed that memo.”

Sinker let out a long, low sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re the ones who throw ourselves in front of people. That’s the job. That’s our job.”

Plo Koon stood at your bedside, one hand lightly resting on the glass of the tank. He’d been silent for most of it, his calm presence a strange contrast to the chaos.

“She has always seen you as more than soldiers,” he said gently. “You are her brothers. Her family.”

Wolffe finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “She’s part of the pack. And the pack protects its own.”

“But she nearly died protecting you, Commander,” Boost said. “What does that make us?”

“Alive,” Wolffe answered. “That’s what it makes us. And when she wakes up, she’s going to be reminded that we never leave one of our own behind.”

Sinker stopped pacing, jaw clenched.

“She’s not gonna get off easy for this.”

“Oh, hell no,” Boost muttered. “Soon as she’s conscious, I’m yelling at her.”

“Not before me,” Wolffe said, standing finally. “I’ve got seniority.”

They tried to joke—tried to banter—but it didn’t land. Not yet.

⸻

Your vision was blurry. Everything felt heavy. And sore. So sore.

“Hey—hey! She’s waking up!”

Voices. Familiar. Warm.

You blinked hard. One blurry helmet. Then two. Then a third face appeared—scarred, grim, but so full of relief it almost didn’t look like Wolffe.

“About damn time,” he muttered. “Thought we were gonna have to start arguing over who got to carry your sorry ass out of here.”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaky whisper: “Pack…”

Boost leaned in closer. “Yeah. We’re here.”

Sinker had a hand pressed to your arm, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

You smiled weakly. “Didn’t think about it.”

“No kidding,” Wolffe said, arms crossed now. “You jump in front of another bolt like that and we’re stapling your robes to the floor.”

Plo Koon stepped forward, voice kind and firm. “Rest now, little one. You have done more than enough. The pack is safe. Because of you.”

You let your eyes fall shut again, not from pain this time—but because you knew they were watching over you.

Always would.

Can i request a fox x reader where he's super soft towards them, not like in a ooc way but where he's just nicer and more relaxed with them than anyone else. And maybe the corrie guard overhears him being soft and they burst into the room like "who are you and what have you done with fox?" lmao

Loveyourwritingmydarlingokeybyeeee <3

“Soft Spot”

Commander Fox x Reader

The Commander of the Coruscant Guard was many things: stern, intense, inflexible, direct, and famously immune to nonsense.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

No one really noticed it at first. Fox wasn’t exactly the hand-holding type. His version of affection was a nod of acknowledgment or the way he’d always check to see if you made it back to your quarters safely after Senate briefings. But lately, the cracks in the durasteel facade were getting harder to ignore.

Like now.

You were perched on the edge of his desk in the command center, arms crossed lazily while he keyed in reports with one hand and let the other rest lightly—casually—on your thigh.

His voice, low and gravelly, was uncharacteristically gentle.

“You didn’t sleep much last night,” he murmured, not looking at you but very much not hiding his concern. “You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, giving a little smirk. “That’s just how my face looks when a certain commander forgets to bring caf.”

Fox exhaled a quiet laugh. A laugh. “That’s mutiny talk. You want to end up in a holding cell?”

“With you? Might be worth it.”

He stopped typing. Finally looked up. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

You were just about to tease him back when the door burst open so violently that one of the wall panels actually rattled.

Thorn, Hound, Stone, and Thire stood there like they’d just walked in on a crime scene.

Stone was the first to speak, horrified: “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH FOX?!”

Fox blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hound squinted suspiciously. “No, no, something’s not right. He laughed. I heard it. He laughed. He touched someone willingly. I’m calling medbay—Fox, are you concussed?”

Thorn pointed an accusing finger. “That was flirtation! You flirted, Fox! In Basic! With smiling! You’re a danger to the chain of command!”

Thire just slowly turned to you, deadpan. “How long has this been going on?”

You lifted your hands, grinning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fox stood, dead calm. “Get out.”

“No,” Hound said flatly, arms crossed. “Not until you admit you’re in love and also apologize for emotionally terrorizing us with your… softness. I mean, stars, Fox. You said she looked tired like you care. That’s romantic horror.”

Thorn leaned against the doorframe like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all cycle. “Is this why you actually smiled yesterday when she waved at you across the hall? I thought you were having a stroke.”

“I’m calling a medic anyway,” Stone added. “Just in case.”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. Fox just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I am going to file so many disciplinary reports,” he muttered.

“And we’ll burn them all,” Thire chirped.

Hound grinned. “C’mon, just admit it, vod. You like her.”

“I never denied it,” Fox replied, surprisingly quiet. His eyes met yours. “I just didn’t think it was any of your business.”

The room went dead silent.

Then Thorn wheezed. “He said it. He said it out loud. Commander Fox has feelings.”

You leaned into Fox’s side, bumping your shoulder into his. “You might want to start locking your door if you’re gonna keep being sweet on me like this.”

“I will now,” he muttered, glaring at the four guards still standing there. “Get. Out.”

Stone waved as he backed out, still looking like he’d witnessed a live explosion.

Thire saluted dramatically. “We’ll leave you to your romantic crimes, sir.”

“I’m telling Jet,” Thorn added gleefully.

Fox groaned and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

You leaned down to kiss his temple. “You okay, Commander?”

He grabbed your hand and pressed it to his chest like it grounded him. “Only because you’re still here.”

From the hallway: “SICKENING!”

Fox raised his blaster. “I will shoot them.”

You just smiled and kissed him again.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.9

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The senator had just finished brushing out her hair when the knock sounded on her door. Not urgent. Not protocol. A familiar rhythm.

She smirked before she even opened it.

“Kenobi.”

“Senator,” he greeted smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He wore civilian robes again, lighter and less formal than the ones for Council meetings. He looked tired but amused.

She poured him a drink without asking.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Vos got you in trouble again?”

Obi-Wan laughed as he accepted the glass. “Not this time. Surprisingly. I’m here for a bit of… tea.”

Her brow lifted. “You’re bringing gossip now? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, sipping. “But Commander Cody is. And as it turns out, your favorite Marshal Commander had quite the dramatic evening.”

Her smirk faltered. “Fox?”

“Mhm. Got into a full-on barracks brawl with Commander Thorn. It took Stone, Thire, Hound—and Grizzer, apparently—to break it up. Neyo had to drag Fox out by his collar and gave him a verbal lashing so brutal Cody said even he winced.”

She blinked. “What?”

Obi-Wan leaned casually against the back of her sofa. “Cody said it was over a woman. A senator. Tall. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous past. Ringing any bells?”

She rolled her eyes and finished her drink. “I thought Jedi were above this sort of drama.”

He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Not when we served alongside the subject of said drama during a war that’s still mostly classified.”

That shut her up.

“You always knew how to turn a knife with a smile,” she muttered, setting the glass down.

Obi-Wan’s face gentled. “They care about you. Both of them. Deeply.”

“And I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you earned it. The good and the bad of that kind of loyalty.”

She sighed, suddenly tired. “Did Vos tell them anything?”

Obi-Wan hesitated, then answered honestly. “No. Not really. Just implied. He knows better than to break sealed records. But they’re not stupid, either. Thorn saw the way you moved before you even said a word. Fox… saw something else.”

She didn’t respond.

He set the empty glass down beside hers. “I told Vos to stay out of it. I doubt he listened. But if you want this kept quiet… you might want to speak with the commanders yourself. Before someone else decides to dig deeper.”

Her voice was soft now. “What would you do?”

Obi-Wan gave a small shrug. “I’d probably lie. But I’m not sure that’s your style anymore.”

They shared a long look—one soldier to another, stripped of titles.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

He smiled. “Of course. You always did keep the battlefield interesting.”

As he turned to go, she called after him, dry as sand.

“Tell Cody if he wants to gossip, he should at least have the nerve to come see me himself.”

Obi-Wan chuckled all the way to the door. “Careful what you wish for.”

⸻

The senator had just settled into her chair, datapad in hand, when a familiar and entirely unwelcome sound echoed from her balcony—three sharp knocks, the rattle of the door handle, and then—

“Don’t pretend you’re not home. I saw the lights on.”

She sighed through her teeth. “Vos…”

Opening the door, she found the Jedi standing there with his usual self-satisfied smirk and not a single ounce of shame.

“You ever heard of calling first?” she asked flatly.

“I don’t believe in unnecessary formalities between old war buddies,” he said, brushing past her like he owned the place. “Besides, I’ve got juicy gossip and a bottle of Corellian red.”

She shut the door with a click. “Kenobi beat you to it.”

Vos froze mid-step. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Came by earlier. Looked annoyingly smug the whole time.”

“Dammit,” Vos muttered. “I was hoping to be the one to tell you about the Fox and Thorn Brawl.”

She smirked and took the bottle from him anyway. “Nice try. Obi-Wan already filled me in on the punches, the growling, the whole squad pile-up.”

Vos flopped into her armchair, legs over the arm like a delinquent. “Alright, but did he tell you the best part?”

She gave him a look.

Vos wiggled his eyebrows. “Fox apologized.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To his men?”

Vos pointed at her with a grin. “There it is. That face. Knew you didn’t hear that part.”

She blinked. “Fox. Marshal Commander Fox. The same man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he even has feelings, much less regret?”

“The very same,” Vos said cheerfully. “Apparently gave Hound a bone for his mastiff and everything. I think it actually threw the Guard into a full existential crisis.”

She laughed softly. “Neyo must’ve really given it to him.”

“Oh, he did,” Vos said, eyes twinkling. “Word is, Neyo’s dressing down was so intense, Fox was halfway convinced he’d be reassigned to latrine duty.”

She snorted and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to him.

“Maybe,” she drawled, “I’ve been flirting with the wrong commanders.”

Vos choked on his sip, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Oh no, sweetheart. Even you couldn’t break Neyo.”

She raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Not unless you’re into men who quote the regs during intimate moments.”

She laughed harder than she had in days.

As the amusement settled, Vos looked at her with a little more seriousness than usual. “You alright, really?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her glass.

“I don’t regret anything I did back then,” she said. “But I hate how it’s all resurfacing. Like that version of me is still dragging shadows into every room I walk into.”

Vos leaned forward, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You survived a civil war, ended it, and turned your planet toward peace. And now you’re sitting here, sipping wine in the Senate instead of burning in some bunker. That’s not a shadow. That’s a story. And no one tells it better than you.”

She gave him a long look.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He winked. “Still not letting you off the hook for kissing both your bodyguards though. That’s just messy.”

She threw a pillow at him.

⸻

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, amber hue across the polished floors of her apartment when the soft buzz of her door alerted her to a visitor.

She didn’t expect him.

Not after everything.

When the door slid open, Thorn stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, guarded in that way soldiers perfected when they didn’t want their emotions to show—except in his eyes. His eyes betrayed something deeper.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated… just long enough for him to notice.

Then she stepped aside.

They didn’t speak at first. She returned to her small table where a glass of wine still sat half-drunk, and Vos’ laughter still lingered faintly in the air, as if the apartment hadn’t fully exhaled him yet.

Thorn remained near the doorway, not quite relaxed, not quite tense.

“You don’t have to say it,” she finally murmured, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “I know. You were right.”

He furrowed his brows. “Right about what?”

She gave a soft, dry laugh. “That this was a mistake. All of it.”

Thorn exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant. Not really.”

“You kissed me.”

“You pushed me,” he said with a flicker of that fire that always simmered under his calm. “And I wanted to be kissed.”

She looked up at him. “And then Fox sent you back like a cadet who got caught sneaking out.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I let my feelings show. Because I let him see something he didn’t want to see.”

She stood slowly, her voice gentle but firm. “Thorn… this is dangerous. For both of us. And not just because of rank.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still here.”

He nodded. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even after the fight. Even after watching Fox—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer now, mere inches between them. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t deny it. “I’m angry. Because I tried to walk away. I tried to be the one who did the right thing.”

“And I ruined that for you?”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and in that moment there was no senator, no clone, no war. Just two people with too much history already bleeding into every breath.

“No,” he said quietly. “You made it impossible for me to pretend I didn’t care.”

There was silence.

Then she reached out and touched his chestplate with her fingers, barely grazing it.

“Then stop pretending,” she said.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them stepped closer.

Not yet.

Not until the next moment demanded it.

Thorn stood still, looking at her hand on his chest like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it branded him in a way his armor couldn’t protect against. His voice was low, raw. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why?” she asked, just as softly. “Because you might believe me?”

He set his helmet down on the table with a heavy thud and finally stepped into her space—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath his skin. She thought he might kiss her again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he reached up and gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, like she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. “You terrify me,” he murmured.

She didn’t laugh. “You don’t scare easy.”

“I’ve marched into blaster fire. Held the line when we were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ve watched brothers die and kept moving.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve never wanted anything I wasn’t supposed to have. Until you.”

The words were quiet. Devastating.

Her hand slid up his chestplate, then around the back of his neck, pulling him closer—slowly, as if giving him a chance to step away.

He didn’t.

Their lips met with a quiet kind of urgency, like a dam that had finally cracked. It wasn’t the heat of two people caught in lust—it was aching, it was slow, it was raw with everything they’d tried to suppress. His hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, like he couldn’t believe she was really there.

She guided him out of the armor piece by piece, fingers steady, eyes never leaving his. When he pulled her to the bedroom, it wasn’t with dominance or control, but with reverence.

There, stripped of titles, armor, and pretense, they became something fragile and real.

He kissed her like a man desperate to remember softness.

She held him like someone who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.

And when they lay tangled afterward, skin to skin in the stillness, his fingers traced the scars on her shoulder without asking about them. She didn’t offer the stories. Not yet. But she turned her head to rest against his chest and felt his heartbeat settle under her cheek.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then he said, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t know how to protect you from this. From Fox. From me.”

She closed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just stay.”

And he did.

⸻

Thorn woke first.

For a moment, he didn’t move—afraid that if he did, it would break whatever fragile illusion he was trapped in. The room was bathed in soft morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly in the Coruscant breeze. Outside, speeders hummed far below, distant and dull. But inside…

Peace.

Real, disarming peace.

She was still asleep, curled against him, her breathing even and steady. Her hand was draped lightly over his stomach, and her leg was tangled with his beneath the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without urgency. No missions. No blood. No orders. Just… this.

Serenity.

And it terrified him more than battle ever could.

His hand moved on its own, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, then resting against her bare back. The warmth of her skin anchored him. Her scent lingered faintly—clean, soft, a little sweet—and he closed his eyes just to soak in the feeling a little longer.

She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before blinking awake.

“Mmm… you’re still here,” she said softly, her voice half-sleep, half-smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I am.”

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing a small scar near his collarbone. “You always this quiet in the morning?”

“Not usually awake this long without an alert blaring in my ear.”

She chuckled lightly. “Well… no alarms here.”

He nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling, as though trying to memorize the silence. “It’s strange. This—” he glanced down at her “—all of it. Quiet. Safe. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this.”

“You don’t like it?” she asked, teasing gently, but there was something vulnerable beneath it.

“I didn’t say that.” He met her eyes. “I just… don’t know how to trust it. Or how long it’ll last.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips softly over the scar on his jaw. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth having.”

For a long time, they stayed there. No rushing. No secrets. Just breath and skin and warmth.

He never thought he’d have something like this—however brief.

⸻

Fox stood outside the senator’s residence, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d been pacing for ten minutes.

It was ridiculous. He’d faced death, treason, riots, bombs—Jedi. And yet nothing left him this gutted. This unsure.

Just say it. Say something. Anything.

She deserved to know. After everything. After the tension, the stolen glances, the fights, and—Force help him—the kiss. Thorn might have made his move first, but Fox wasn’t going to keep his silence anymore.

His fist hovered near the door chime.

He didn’t press it.

“Standing there long enough to grow roots, Commander?” Hound’s voice cut in, casual and amused.

Fox turned sharply to find Hound leaning against the nearest pillar with his arms crossed, Grizzer panting beside him, tail wagging lazily. Thire stood just behind, arms behind his back in mock-formal stance, an insufferable little smirk tugging at his lips.

“I swear,” Fox muttered, “the two of you have the worst timing.”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thire said, trying and failing to look innocent. “We just figured we’d keep an eye on our ever-composed Marshal Commander before he does something insane like… confess feelings.”

Fox gave him a glare that could have melted phrik plating.

“Just don’t bite anyone this time,” Hound added with a sidelong glance at Grizzer, who barked once and licked Fox’s hand.

“I didn’t bite anyone,” Fox growled.

“No, you didn’t,” Thire said under his breath.

Fox was about to fire back a very direct suggestion when—

“Oh, what is this delightful little pow-wow?” came a voice from behind them, smug and syrupy smooth.

All four turned just in time to see Quinlan Vos lounging in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the building.

Fox clenched his jaw.

Vos looked far too pleased with himself. “Let me guess… someone was finally going to admit they’re hopelessly in love with the senator? Or was it going to be another punch-up over who gets to carry her datapad?”

“Vos,” Fox said in warning, already half-drawing himself up to full height.

Vos waved a hand. “Relax, Commander Killjoy. I’m just here to observe. Gossip from Kenobi is delicious lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with all the drama.”

Thire bit back a laugh.

Fox sighed through his nose and muttered, “I’m going to regret not stunning him.”

Vos gave him a wink. “You already do.”

Fox turned back toward the door and this time raised his hand again.

Then lowered it.

Vos raised an eyebrow. “Need me to knock for you?”

Fox turned and walked away.

⸻

Quinlan Vos strolled into the senator’s apartment like he owned the place. He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t ask. Naturally.

That wasn’t the Vos way.

He’d barely made it three steps past the threshold when a shape rounded the corner from the hallway—bare chest, tousled hair, pants only halfway buttoned, a blaster slung low on one hip like he’d half expected a fight.

Commander Thorn froze.

Vos grinned.

“Oh,” Vos said, voice all sunshine and sin. “Well this explains why Fox has been spiraling.”

Thorn blinked, assessing, a quiet, burning calculation forming in his eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Vos gestured vaguely at the security panel. “I’ve got my ways. Jedi and their spooky talents, you know.”

“That’s not an answer,” Thorn replied coolly, stepping forward, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath sun-kissed skin. “This is a secure residence.”

“And yet…” Vos made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Here I am.”

Thorn glared.

“Relax, soldier boy. I didn’t see anything,” Vos said, though his smirk implied otherwise. “Well… not everything. Just enough to put together why Fox looked like he was going to snap a durasteel beam in half.”

“You here for a reason or just looking to get punched again?” Thorn said, folding his arms across his bare chest.

Vos’s eyes drifted—not subtly—to Thorn’s arms, then his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Tempting. But no.”

He took a lazy step further into the apartment. “I came to drop some news, actually. Then maybe raid her liquor cabinet, trade some gossip, and go back to annoying every clone I’ve ever met.”

Thorn didn’t move. “She’s not here.”

Vos cocked his head. “She usually is around this hour. Let me guess—you wore her out?”

The look Thorn gave him could’ve killed a man if it had weight.

“Fine, fine,” Vos said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait. Shirtless hostility aside, I do like you, Thorn. You’ve got a nice left hook.”

“You try me again, you’ll meet the right one.”

Vos grinned, utterly unbothered.

“And for the record,” Thorn added, tone low and steely, “if you ever break into this apartment again—Jedi or not—I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

Vos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What floor is this again?”

“High enough.”

Vos clapped his hands once. “Noted.”

He wandered to the couch, dropped onto it like he lived there, and propped his boots up on the table.

Thorn watched him like one might a wild nexu.

⸻

She wasn’t expecting anyone when the lift doors opened on her floor.

She certainly wasn’t expecting him.

Fox.

Full armor. Helmet off. That sharp, unreadable expression carved into his face like durasteel. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor lights hummed low between them. His eyes—dark, stormy, and too honest—met hers.

Behind him, lingering at a respectful distance, were Hound, Thire… and Grizzer, sitting dutifully by Hound’s side, tongue lolling, tail tapping quietly against the floor.

She blinked. “Fox?”

His jaw flexed. “Senator.”

She stepped out of the lift slowly, feeling the air shift between them. Vos was still upstairs—gods help her—but seeing Fox like this, seeing the way he looked at her, like he had something on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t let it go, sent her pulse thrumming.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer than she meant.

“I was going to…” He trailed off, mouth pressing into a firm line. He glanced over his shoulder toward Hound and Thire, who were doing their absolute best to not look like they were listening—while very much listening.

Grizzer gave a low grumble.

Fox sighed. “I was going to talk to you.”

The senator tilted her head slightly. “About?”

He shook his head, gaze sharp, searching her face. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew what I wanted to say but… seeing you now…”

There was something in his eyes. Regret. Hunger. Guilt.

“You’ve already seen me,” she said gently. “That’s not the part you’re afraid of.”

He breathed in through his nose, like he wanted to steady himself—but it didn’t work. “You’re not making this easy.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Behind him, Hound cleared his throat. Loudly.

Fox’s eye twitched.

She stepped closer, brushing past him deliberately slow as she whispered near his ear, “If you have something to say, Marshal Commander, say it. Before someone else does first.”

His breath hitched.

Grizzer barked softly, tail thumping louder now. A silent warning. Or encouragement. Hard to tell.

Fox straightened, but didn’t follow her as she walked past him toward her door.

He stood still, watching.

And then—finally—he turned and walked away.

⸻

Fox had barely turned the corner when his men caught up with him. The quiet corridor buzzed with tension and discontent. Hound and Thire exchanged knowing looks as they trailed close behind.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Fox?” Hound demanded in a low voice, eyes narrowing.

“You had the chance—” Thire piped in, his tone laced with exasperated disbelief.

“A commander should speak when it matters. We expected more from you.”

Hound scoffed. “You were standing there like a malfunctioning protocol droid. What the hell happened to your plan?”

“I had a plan,” Fox muttered. “Then she looked at me.”

Fox’s jaw was set, and his silence only fueled the growing argument. He kept walking, head bowed, but the clones weren’t having it. Voices rose, accusations bounced around the corridor like stray blaster fire, until suddenly a commotion broke the standoff.

Fox’s eye twitched. “Not helping.”

“I am helping,” Hound insisted. “You’re just being—Grizzer, no!”

It was too late.

The mastiff had leapt up on his hind legs, snatched Fox’s helmet clean out of his arms with his teeth, and sprinted off like a warhound possessed.

Fox stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, hells no,” Thire groaned, taking off after him. “That helmet’s got tracking tech and encryption!”

“He’s headed back toward—oh kriff—”

The three of them took off after Grizzer, who had already bounded back into the senator’s building. He knew exactly where he was going.

“Hound,” Fox wheezed as they rounded the stairwell. “If that animal gets us court-martialed, I’m taking you with me.”

Up another flight. And another.

They reached her apartment door just in time to see Grizzer’s large paws scratching at it, tail wagging like this was the most normal thing he’d ever done.

Before anyone could knock or grab the hound, the door swung open.

The senator stood there, blinking.

Grizzer barreled in, tail high, helmet still in his mouth. And—because clearly this day wasn’t chaotic enough—the three clones followed him in before she could even speak.

“Grizzer!” Hound hissed. “Drop it—”

The senator raised a brow, calmly closing the door behind them as she looked around.

Thorn stepped into view from the hallway, half-buttoning up a shirt that still hung open on his chest, a faint bite mark peeking near his collarbone.

Fox blinked and looked anywhere but there.

“Thorn,” he greeted flatly.

“Fox,” Thorn said, with a faint smirk. “Hound. Thire.”

And then—“Fid you scale my balcony again?” the senator called out, walking toward the living room.

“Technically no,” came a familiar, smug voice. “I came in the actual door this time.”

Vos was sprawled on the couch, feet up, eating something from her fruit bowl. A communicator was open in his palm.

“Kenobi says hi,” Vos added, holding up the comm.

“Why is Kenobi—” the senator stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Of course he is.”

Fox was still standing near the threshold, utterly still, face redder than a Coruscanti sunset.

Grizzer trotted up to him and finally, finally dropped the helmet at his feet like a trophy.

“Thanks,” Fox muttered.

“You’re welcome,” the senator said, tone dry.

Vos grinned. “You boys want drinks or…?”

“No,” all three clones snapped in unison.

The senator crossed her arms, her expression flat with just a hint of amusement.

“Anyone else planning to enter uninvited?” she asked. “Any Jedi lurking in the vents? More clones rappelling down from the roof?”

Vos didn’t even look up from his seat. “I think Kenobi and Cody are fine where they are,” he said casually, waving the comm. “Say hi, boys.”

“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi’s voice came through crystal-clear. “Lovely morning. Very dramatic. Please continue.”

“Cody’s listening too,” Vos added. “He’s muted. He wants the unedited drama.”

Fox closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

Meanwhile, Thire nudged Fox hard with an elbow. “You gonna tell her or not?”

“Tell her what?” Thorn asked, stepping into the living room, now actually buttoning his shirt. “We’ve all made enough of a scene this week—what’s another confession?”

Hound, in the corner, was crouched with Grizzer. “You’re on thin ice, you little thief,” he muttered as Grizzer panted happily, tongue lolling and proud of himself.

“Fox has something to say,” Thire announced helpfully, louder this time.

Fox shot him a glare that could’ve cut durasteel. “I will demote you.”

“From what?” Thire smirked. “From one of your only friends? Go ahead, Marshal Commander.”

The senator arched a brow. “You’ve been trying to tell me something, Commander?”

Fox cleared his throat, suddenly stiff. “I—it’s not exactly the right moment.”

“Oh, no, now it is,” Thorn said, folding his arms. “You ran off this morning. You stood outside the door for five minutes. You let a dog start this diplomatic crisis. Now you’re here, with an audience. No better time.”

Vos, lounging like he was poolside, grinned wider. “He’s right. Go on. Tell the pretty senator how much you want to kiss her boots or whatever it is that’s making you punch your own men in the jaw.”

“I didn’t punch him over—” Fox stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You know what? Fine.”

He stepped forward.

All the clones went quiet. Even Grizzer stopped panting.

The senator met his eyes, unreadable.

“I care about you,” Fox said, low and raw, like every word was an uphill battle. “More than I should. I’ve tried to be professional. I’ve tried to respect the fact that you’re a senator, and I’m a soldier—but I’ve failed. I’ve failed spectacularly. And I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Kenobi’s voice broke it.

“Finally,” he muttered. “That’s been excruciating.”

Vos cackled. “Cody says he owes me twenty credits. I told him you’d say it first.”

Fox looked like he might combust on the spot. The senator, for once, seemed genuinely speechless.

Thorn’s jaw tightened.

“So what now?” he asked, his tone flat but his eyes stormy. “You said it. What changes?”

Fox looked at him directly. “I don’t know.”

The tension in the room twisted tighter, like a drawn bow.

The senator sighed and turned away, pouring herself a drink—one for her, one for Fox, and, hesitantly, one for Thorn.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly, handing the glass to Fox. “You all ruined a perfectly quiet morning.”

Vos raised his own glass from the couch. “To chaos. And confessions.”

“Shut up, Vos,” Thorn and Fox said at the same time.

⸻

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, sipping his tea on the Temple balcony, “that was messier than I expected.”

Cody chuckled from where he leaned against the railing. “You expected something else? Fox, Thorn, a senator, a mastiff, and Vos all in one room? You should’ve known better.”

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “I do know better. But I still hold out hope for dignity.”

Cody snorted. “No dignity left in that room. Pretty sure Vos filmed it. He’s probably editing the holo as we speak.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Obi-Wan muttered.

Cody paused, glancing down at the datapad he’d been half-scrolling through. “Honestly, I never thought Fox would crack. The man’s a walking fortress. But after everything, I guess… even he has limits.”

“Of course he does,” Obi-Wan said. “They all do. They were never meant to hold in so much for so long.”

A heavy silence settled between them, not somber—but thoughtful. Until—

“He shouldn’t be cracking.”

Both men turned their heads.

Marshal Commander Neyo had approached silently, his armor immaculate, posture as rigid as durasteel. He stood with his hands behind his back, his expression as frosted as ever.

“Fox is unfit,” Neyo said coolly. “He’s lost control of his unit, he’s fraternizing with a senator, and his judgment is compromised. He should’ve been relieved of command cycles ago.”

Cody straightened, not quite defensive yet, but no longer relaxed. “He’s had it hard, Neyo. You know that.”

“We’ve all had it hard,” Neyo snapped. “That’s not an excuse. The Guard isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t some… emotional playground. What he’s doing compromises the entire integrity of the Guard. And by extension, the Chancellor’s security.”

Obi-Wan’s brow lifted. “You’re saying a man who’s devoted his life to that very cause is now a liability because he’s caught feelings?”

“I’m saying he’s made it personal,” Neyo replied coldly. “And personal costs lives.”

Cody’s jaw tensed. “He’s not a droid, Neyo. He’s a soldier. A man. He’s not perfect, but he’s held the line longer than most of us could.”

Neyo’s expression didn’t shift. “Then maybe it’s time someone else held the line.”

He turned on his heel and walked off without another word.

Obi-Wan watched him go, then sighed into his cup. “Do you ever wonder what it would take to get Neyo to actually crack?”

Cody muttered, “Yeah. But I think even then, he’d just shatter quietly and judge everyone else for crying.”

Obi-Wan let out a soft laugh. “What about Fox?”

Cody was quiet for a beat too long. Then, with rare honesty: “He won’t shatter. He’ll burn.”

⸻

The senator hadn’t slept.

Her apartment was quiet now, the chaos from earlier a memory reduced to half-drunk tea, a discarded clone pauldron by the couch, and Vos’s lingering laughter echoing faintly in her ears. He’d long since vanished—probably off to stir up more drama with a HoloNet gossip blog or Jedi Council member who didn’t ask to be looped into romantic entanglements.

She sat curled up on the edge of her window seat, the city stretching far below, wrapped in the blue shimmer of Coruscant’s dusk.

The door chimed once.

She didn’t answer.

It slid open anyway.

“Senator,” Thorn’s voice came first, soft but firm.

She turned her head to see both of them—Thorn and Fox—standing side by side but somehow miles apart. They looked battle-ready in posture but stripped bare in the eyes. Thorn held his helmet in one hand, arms stiff at his sides. Fox stood with his arms behind his back, jaw clenched, shadows around his eyes making him look ten years older.

Neither looked like they wanted to be the one to speak first.

So she did. “If this is about earlier—”

“It is,” Fox said, cutting in, voice sharp but not cruel. “It has to be.”

Thorn glanced at him, then at her. “We can’t keep dancing around it.”

She folded her hands in her lap, brows pulling together. “I didn’t ask either of you to—”

“No,” Thorn interrupted gently. “You didn’t. But we’re here anyway.”

Fox moved a step forward, his tone tighter. “You’ve made space for both of us, and I know it wasn’t your intention, but—” He paused, exhaled hard. “It’s tearing everything apart.”

Her eyes widened, throat tightening. “Fox—”

“You have to choose,” he said flatly.

The silence afterward felt like a vacuum.

Thorn didn’t speak up to disagree.

He looked at her, gaze softer but no less serious. “I know what we’ve shared. I don’t regret any of it. But I can’t… I won’t keep putting you in the middle. Not if it’s hurting you.”

She stood slowly, her hands falling to her sides, eyes bouncing between them—Fox in his red and black, expression restrained but brimming. Thorn, still rumpled from their quiet morning, eyes carrying the weight of every soft moment they hadn’t dared name.

“I care for both of you,” she admitted, voice raw. “But this—this isn’t fair to any of us. You want me to choose like it’s easy. Like it’s a battle strategy. But this isn’t war. This is my heart.”

Fox’s jaw ticked. Thorn dropped his gaze.

“I’ve spent years making impossible decisions,” she continued. “And most of them got people killed or broken. But this? I don’t want to choose between two people who’ve risked everything to protect me. Two people I trust.” Her voice cracked. “Two people I never meant to hurt.”

Fox looked at the floor. Thorn looked away.

“I can’t choose,” she whispered. “Not now.”

Neither man spoke.

And for the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just give her an order.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Commander Doom x Jedi Reader

Summary: Reader and Commander Doom form a quiet bond during the Clone Wars. After a successful mission, they share a brief but meaningful connection amidst the chaos of war.

Smoke curled through the broken remains of the building as you crouched beside Commander Doom. The twin Jedi Masters and the rest of the squad were a few blocks ahead, sweeping the south sector. You and Doom had been tasked with clearing out this sector—a quieter street, bombed out and ghostly silent.

"You always this calm before a fight?" you asked, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Doom didn't turn to look at you. His blaster stayed aimed at the alley ahead, but his voice carried that easy drawl of someone unshaken by chaos.

"Calm's better than nervous. Panic gets you shot. Calm gets you home."

Then, with a crooked smirk you *couldn't* see under his helmet, "Besides, I've got a Jedi watching my back. I'd be stupid *not* to feel calm."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting your grip on your lightsaber. "And here I thought clones were trained not to trust emotion."

"We are," Doom said, slowly rising to his feet, his tone light but his stance shifting into readiness. "Doesn't mean we don't *feel* it. And trust me—if I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have let you take point."

You blinked. "You let me take point?"

He gave a low chuckle, finally glancing at you. "Don't tell General Tiplar I said that."

The air changed. That subtle, pressing *something* that always whispered right before an ambush.

You both felt it.

No words were needed—Doom raised his fist, signaling a halt. You stepped back to back, instinct and training melding into one fluid motion.

Then came the blaster fire.

Four droids dropped from the rooftop above. Doom was already firing, smooth and precise. You ignited your saber, spinning low and cutting through two before they hit the ground.

The brief firefight was over in seconds. Doom kicked aside a still-sparking arm and looked over at you. "Nice form."

You shrugged. "You're not so bad yourself."

He stepped a little closer, his voice low now, more intimate beneath the helmet modulator. "Not often I get a mission like this. Usually, it's orders, droids, chaos. But right now, it's just you and me. Kind of... peaceful. You know?"

You met his gaze—well, the visor of his helmet—and tilted your head. "You finding peace in the middle of a battlefield, Commander?"

"Maybe," Doom said. "Maybe I just like the company."

Your chest fluttered before you could stop it.

The comm crackled: Tiplar calling for a regroup. The moment passed.

Doom rolled his shoulders, relaxed as ever. "Duty calls, General."

You nodded, but as you turned, he added, quietly, "Let's not wait for another mission to get a moment like that."

And Force help you, you kind of hoped the same.

---

The group reconvened outside a crumbling warehouse, the air thick with heat and the sharp scent of blaster residue. Doom gave you a short nod as you joined up with the others, slipping seamlessly back into his role as calm, capable commander. You did the same—lightsaber clipped to your belt, posture controlled, gaze forward.

But the warmth of that moment lingered like a fingerprint on your skin.

Tiplar stood ahead, arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching the regroup. Tiplee was further off, coordinating with a pair of troopers over comms. The twin Masters had always been in sync, but Tiplar—calculated and observant—noticed *everything*.

She stepped closer as you approached, her gaze flicking between you and Doom.

"You two took longer than expected," she said coolly, eyes narrowing just a little.

"Cleared the sector, no resistance after the ambush," Doom replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "Had to be thorough."

"Hm," Tiplar hummed, then turned to you, tilting her head.

"Strange. For someone so thorough, you were walking awfully close."

Your breath caught for a second—not enough for anyone but a Jedi Master to notice.

"I go where the danger is," you replied, lifting your chin slightly. "That's my job."

Tiplar didn't smile. "Danger comes in many forms."

There was a pause. Doom glanced your way, unreadable behind the visor. You could almost *feel* the amused tension in him. Like he knew exactly what Tiplar was implying—and liked it.

But Tiplar wasn't done.

"You may think you're being subtle," she said, quiet now, only for your ears. "But attachment has a way of showing itself in battle. Don't mistake chemistry for connection."

You wanted to defend yourself. To say it was nothing. But you didn't. Because a small, traitorous part of you *wanted* there to be something there. Something real. Something worth hiding.

She stepped back, expression unreadable.

"Let's move. War waits for no one."

As the squad moved out, Doom fell in beside you again, keeping a careful distance this time.

"She said something, didn't she?" he murmured under his breath, voice pitched low.

You exhaled through your nose. "Just Jedi things."

A beat. Then his voice, dry and quietly amused:

"So... should I stop walking so close, or is that part of the Jedi code you're willing to bend?"

You didn't look at him. But your lips curved into a small, dangerous smile.

"Careful, Commander. You keep talking like that, I *will* start walking closer."

He chuckled. "Noted, General."

And with that, you disappeared into the haze of war once more—together, but not quite allowed to be.

---

The mission was a success. Mostly.

The city had been secured, the Separatist hold broken. Casualties were minimal—by war standards. Commander Doom's squadron had fought with unshakable precision, and you... you had done your duty.

Still, something in the air had shifted. Not in the battlefield, but between you and the Jedi Generals.

They called you to a private meeting the evening before departure, just after sundown. The makeshift command center was quiet, walls humming softly with power, light from the twin moons spilling through the cracks in the tarp-covered window.

Tiplar stood with her arms folded, stern, unreadable. Tiplee offered a small nod in greeting, but her expression was tinged with something softer. Regret, maybe.

"You know why you're here," Tiplar began without preamble.

You said nothing. There was no point pretending. You straightened, hands behind your back like a soldier awaiting reprimand.

"Your connection with Commander Doom," Tiplar said, "has not gone unnoticed. Nor has it gone unspoken."

Your throat tightened, but still, you remained silent.

"We are not unfeeling," Tiplee said gently, stepping closer. "We know the bond between comrades in war. But what we saw—what we *felt*—was something more."

"She's right," Tiplar cut in. "We saw it. And so did your squad. It's not just a bond forged in battle. It's attachment. Emotional compromise. And it's a direct violation of the Jedi Code."

You swallowed hard. "Nothing happened."

"It doesn't need to," Tiplar said. "You should know better. The potential alone is enough. You cannot serve two masters—your duty and your heart."

Tiplee stepped in again, her voice softer. "We believe in your strength. In your discipline. This doesn't make you weak, but it does make your path... complicated."

Silence fell between the three of you. Heavy. Inevitable.

Tiplar spoke last.

"This will be the last and only time you reinforce Doom Squadron under our command. You'll return to your assigned sector tomorrow. No formal reprimand will be filed. But this ends here."

You nodded once, jaw tight. "Understood, Master."

As you turned to leave, Tiplee reached out, gently touching your arm.

"You care for him," she said, not as an accusation, but as truth. "And he cares for you. I hope, in another life—one without war, without codes—you both find peace."

You didn't trust your voice, so you nodded.

---

You found Doom later, standing watch at the edge of the encampment. Moonlight painted his armor silver, his helmet tucked under one arm.

"They talked to you," he said. Not a question.

You looked at him, memorizing every line of his face in the dim light. "Yeah."

He nodded, jaw ticking. "I figured. The way Tiplar looked at me during debrief? I've seen droids with more warmth."

You gave a breath of laughter. But it didn't reach your eyes.

"This is the last time," you said. "I won't be reassigned to your missions again."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Orders?"

You nodded. "The Code."

Doom sighed, running a gloved hand over his buzzed hair. "Can't say I'm surprised. Can't say I like it either."

You stepped closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of him.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "Back when it was just us. I liked the company."

Your voice was barely a whisper. "So did I."

For a moment, the war vanished. The Code. The ranks. The weight.

It was just two souls caught in the space between duty and desire.

And then you stepped back.

No kiss. No promise. Just understanding.

"Goodbye, Commander."

He gave you a crooked, sad smile—the same one he wore before a mission that might go south.

"Until the next war, General."

You didn't look back.

Because if you did, you might not leave.

And the Jedi weren't allowed to stay where their heart was.

---

*Post - Order 66*

The Outer Rim had gone silent.

Not just from war, but from *everything*.

The Jedi were gone. Hunted. Betrayed. Burned out of history by the very men who once followed them into battle.

But not all of them.

And not *him*.

Commander Doom stood alone in the shade of a half-collapsed homestead, a blaster slung low at his hip, no armor, just worn fatigues and a heavy coat that flapped in the wind. The land was dry and dead, forgotten by the Empire. Which made it perfect for hiding someone who used to be a Jedi.

He'd been waiting for hours, unsure if the coordinates he'd been given were real, or a ghost. Maybe that was all that was left of you now—an echo.

But then, across the cracked dirt, you appeared.

Your robes were shredded, your face gaunt and bruised, a long scar cutting across your cheek and jaw. You limped. You looked... wrecked. Like survival had cost you more than life itself.

But your eyes were still yours.

Doom stared for a long time. Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

"I didn't follow it," he said softly. "The chip. I tore it out before the purge. I—felt something. Something was wrong. I didn't shoot. I *couldn't*."

You blinked, like you were still seeing a dream.

"They all turned on us," you said, your voice hollow. "I watched them kill. Everyone. My friends. My old master. My Padawan..."

Doom's throat worked. He reached out, slow, careful. "I didn't know. I didn't know you had a Padawan."

"I didn't, for long." You looked down. "They never had a chance."

A pause.

"I should've stayed away from you," you added bitterly. "Maybe then... maybe I would've kept the Code. Maybe I wouldn't feel so *ruined*."

Doom stepped closer until he was right in front of you. His voice was low, rough. "The Code didn't save you."

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

"The Jedi Code is dead," he continued. "So are the Generals. The Republic. The Order. But we're not. You're not."

You looked like you wanted to believe him.

"I've got land," he said. "Not much. But it's quiet. Safe. I've been building. A place that doesn't need war, or orders, or Codes. Just... life. Peace."

He paused, his voice thick. "It's yours too, if you want it."

You stared at him. For a long time. Then longer still.

And then your shoulders crumpled—like years of weight finally gave way. Doom caught you as you stumbled forward, arms wrapping around you without hesitation.

You didn't speak. You didn't cry. You just *breathed*—his scent, his warmth, the impossible relief of *not being alone*.

And that was enough.o

---

Later, he brought you tea in mismatched mugs. You sat together on the porch of a half-built home, watching the wind move through the dead trees. You didn't speak of the war. Or the dead. Or what came next.

You just sat beside each other, two broken things daring to imagine healing.

---

POV: Bad Batch Season 3 Finale

Endorsed by bestie @hatzlanna-blog 🌝

“Crossfire” pt.5

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The glow of neon signs cut jagged shadows into her face as she pushed open the doors to 79’s. The music hit like a punch to the chest—thick, thrumming, alive. She hadn’t meant to end up here.

But when she’d gotten off the transport, alone and empty-handed, with the kid now a ‘Republic asset’ and Palpatine’s cold praise still ringing in her ears, this was the only place her feet knew how to take her.

The clone bar was alive with movement and noise, filled with off-duty troopers trying to forget the war for a few short hours. They laughed, danced, drank like their lives depended on it.

She just wanted to disappear into it all.

The bartender handed her something neon and stupid. She drank it fast, then another. And another. The buzz settled in her limbs like comfort. Like numbness.

He was just a kid. Force-sensitive, and full of light. And I handed him over to Palpatine.

She tried not to think about it. So she drank more.

And then—they walked in.

She saw them before they saw her. Cody, in civvies but still too clean-cut, golden-brown eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t turn off the commander inside him. And Rex, just a few steps behind, his shoulders broad, jaw tight, wearing the weight of command like a second skin.

She blinked slowly, trying to decide if this was real or just the alcohol playing tricks.

It was real.

They saw her. Stopped short. Eyes locked.

And then they came to her—Cody first, Rex just behind.

“You’re alive,” Cody said, voice low, controlled, but his gaze moved across her face like he was checking for wounds.

They were both staring. They weren’t angry—not really. They were trying to hide the storm of questions behind their eyes. She didn’t owe them anything. But that didn’t stop the guilt from slinking down her spine.

“So…” She lifted her drink lazily. “What brings the Republic’s golden boys here tonight? Hoping to find someone to help you forget how screwed everything is?”

“You were gone for months,” Rex said quietly. “And you didn’t answer a single comm.”

Cody added, “You could’ve told us you were alive.”

She glanced between them. “Why? So you two could fight over who gets to scold me first?”

That stung. She saw it in Cody’s jaw, the twitch in Rex’s brow. She hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had.

The music shifted to something slower, darker. The kind of song that made people sway too close.

Cody surprised her by offering a hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed, bitter. “Feeling sentimental, Commander?”

He didn’t smile. Just held out his hand again.

She took it.

On the dance floor, Cody kept one hand steady on her hip, the other barely brushing her back. He was tense—like he didn’t trust himself. She moved closer, body brushing his. Just enough to test him.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

“You like trouble,” she shot back.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow—cautious. Like he’d waited too long and didn’t want to screw it up. She kissed him back, lips brushing his softly, dangerously, until someone bumped into them and she stumbled, heart suddenly pounding.

She pulled away. “I need air.”

She didn’t look back as she weaved through the crowd and pushed out into the alley.

The night air was damp. She pressed her back against the wall, tilted her head up, breathing hard. The buzz in her chest had turned sharp now. Fractured.

“What was that about?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Rex.

Of course.

He stood in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Jealous?” she asked, half-laughing, half-daring him to admit it.

He stepped closer. “You shouldn’t play with him.”

Her smirk faded. “I’m not playing.”

“You kissed him. After months of silence, you show up drunk and just—”

“What, you mad I didn’t kiss you first?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay.”

Something cracked in her.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do any of this. The war, the kid, you. I never signed up for this mess.”

They stared at each other in the quiet.

Then Rex crossed the space in three strides and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. Frustration. Longing. Everything unsaid between them. She clutched his shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he said.

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Then why didn’t you come find me?”

“Because I didn’t want to find you dead.”

The words dropped like lead.

She stepped back, swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you.”

“You still did.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He left her standing there, alone in the alley, unsure which kiss she regretted more—and which one she wanted again.

⸻

“You kissed her?” Cody’s voice cut the dark like a vibroblade.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “You did too.”

Cody let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I did. Because I’ve been worrying about her for months. Because I thought she might be dead. Because when I saw her again, I felt like I could finally breathe.”

“She kissed me back.”

“She kissed me back, too,” Cody snapped. “You think this is some kind of pissing contest?”

Rex stepped forward, voice lower now, rawer. “No. I think it’s too late for either of us to play noble.”

There was a pause—long and quiet. Neither of them looked at the other.

“She doesn’t belong to us,” Cody said, jaw clenched.

“No,” Rex agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to.”

Cody nodded slowly. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“Yeah,” Rex muttered. “But we’re in it now.”

Silence.

They didn’t say anything else. They couldn’t. There was no answer—no right move. Only damage done and more to come.

⸻

Her head was trying to kill her.

It had to be.

The pounding behind her eyes felt like someone had set off a thermal detonator inside her skull, and her mouth was dry enough to make Tatooine jealous. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the blanket over her face.

And then she noticed it.

Breathing.

Not hers.

She froze.

Lifted the blanket.

And there—laying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head, the other holding a data pad, perfectly at ease—was Kit Fisto.

She bolted upright with a groan, clutching her temples. “Please tell me we didn’t…”

Kit set the datapad aside. “No. You were very vocal about not wanting anyone in your bed unless it was Commander Cody or Captain Rex.” He smirked, just slightly. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I can’t have both, I don’t want either. But I do want both.’”

Kit’s lips pulled into a serene grin. “You passed out the first time halfway through crying about your crops.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I found you stumbling through the lower levels, completely smashed,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I walked you home. You insisted I stay because the ‘walls were conspiring against you’ and also because you thought I was ‘probably the only Jedi who doesn’t want to vivisect you.’”

“…Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“You also tried to get me to do a dramatic reading of your bounty logs.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

“I would’ve, but then you started crying again.”

“Okay!” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the bed. “Thank you for your public service, Master Fisto. You may go now.”

Kit rose with Jedi smoothness, unfazed. “You told me you trusted me, last night.”

She paused.

“And you said you didn’t know if you trusted the others anymore. Not even yourself.”

That sat in the room for a beat too long.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot but suddenly sober. “Did I say why?”

He shook his head. “No. You fell asleep on the floor halfway through telling me about a defective hydrospanner.”

She let out a weak laugh.

Kit stepped toward her, not close, but close enough to offer peace.

“I don’t think you’re the enemy,” he said softly. “But I do think you’re lost. And I think you’re trying to keep the war from turning you into something else.”

She stared at him, the noise of last night crashing down like static. Rex. Cody. The kid. Palpatine. The Council.

Kit stood and poured her a glass of water. “You cried. You yelled. You kissed one of the clones on a dance floor and kissed the other in an alley. And then you tried to fight a waitress because she wouldn’t give you more shots.”

Everything was bleeding together.

“Why didn’t you just leave me in the gutter where I belonged?”

“Because, despite my early concerns, I don’t think you belong in a gutter.”

She sipped the water. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a nod. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off. But… maybe don’t wait too long to talk to the people you care about. This mess? It only gets worse if you let it rot.”

“I should’ve stayed gone,” she whispered.

Kit didn’t argue. He just nodded once and said, “But you didn’t.”

And then he left.

Leaving her alone in the echo of too many choices—and a very, very bad hangover.

⸻

Silence took over the apartment, broken only by the kettle still screaming on the stove. She didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night was heavy. The confusion heavier. Every memory came in splinters—Rex’s hand on her waist, Cody’s voice in her ear, the heat of lips, the taste of regret.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral.

She froze.

It knocked again. Three times. Familiar.

She crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Rex stood there, hands in the pockets of his civvies. No armor. No helmet. Just tired eyes and a quiet storm in his chest.

“…Hey,” she rasped, voice still ruined from alcohol and heartbreak.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.” She stepped aside without another word.

He walked in slowly. Glanced around like he was expecting someone else. “You alone?”

“Kit Fisto left an hour ago. He was just being decent.” She watched his jaw twitch. “Nothing happened.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the empty bottle on the counter. “Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

He finally turned. “You kissed me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then you kissed Cody.”

“…Yeah.”

He took a breath, like he’d been holding it for too long. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Like he was searching for something beneath the haze and the jokes and the armor she wore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep hurting us while you figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to,” she whispered.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Rex turned to leave.

But at the door, he paused. “When you figure it out… when you really know—come find me. If it’s not me, I’ll live. But don’t kiss me again unless you’re sure.”

Then he left.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay. And clean the pieces she’d scattered.

⸻

Whispers traveled fast in the Temple.

Faster than transports.

Faster than truth.

By the time Master Kit Fisto stepped into the Council chambers, most of the senior Jedi were already seated—and they were looking at him with measured, expectant expressions.

Even Master Yoda’s ears twitched a little too knowingly.

Mace Windu’s stare was sharp as a lightsaber. “We’ve heard some… interesting accounts of your whereabouts last night.”

Kit didn’t blink. “Then I assume you already know I spent the evening ensuring a very drunk bounty hunter didn’t choke on her own regrets.”

Murmurs among the Masters. Ki-Adi-Mundi’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she’s been seen involving herself with members of the Republic.”

Luminara’s tone was clipped. “Nor the first time she’s manipulated proximity for influence.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms, but said nothing.

“She didn’t manipulate anything,” Kit said evenly. “She confided in me. The kind of honesty we’ve been demanding from her.”

Mace tilted his head. “And?”

Kit looked at him directly. “She’s in love with both of them—Commander Cody and Captain Rex. But that’s not what concerns her most.”

Now Obi-Wan stirred. “Go on.”

Kit’s voice was low. “She’s terrified of the Chancellor.”

Yoda’s ears perked. “Hmmm. Afraid, she is?”

“She didn’t say it directly. But I could hear it. She’s afraid of what she knows… and what he might do if she doesn’t play along.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous,” Ki-Adi-Mundi warned.

“It means she’s been alone in the middle of a political war, with no clear side to stand on,” Kit replied firmly. “We sent her into the shadows and now condemn her for adapting to them.”

“She took a child from a warzone,” Luminara said. “Lied about how she got him. Hid from the Republic.”

“Because she was ordered to,” Kit said, sharper now. “And when that order changed—to something unthinkable—she defied it. She saved him.”

Silence followed that.

Windu was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe her loyalty lies with us?”

Kit hesitated. Then nodded. “I believe her loyalty lies with the people she cares about. And right now… that includes two of our most trusted commanders and Captains.”

Obi-Wan finally spoke. “The Chancellor won’t like this.”

“No,” Windu agreed, standing. “But he doesn’t get to dictate how we perceive loyalty. Or love.”

Yoda’s voice, gentle but sure, followed: “The dark side clouds much. But clearer, the truth becomes. Watch her, we will. But trust her, we must begin to consider.”

Kit bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As the Council slowly began to adjourn, Windu approached him quietly.

“You’ve changed your mind about her.”

“I have,” Kit admitted. “Because I stopped looking at her record… and started listening to her heart.”

Windu nodded once. “We’ll see if that heart leads her back to us—or away for good.”

⸻

She had just finished showering off the night—physically, anyway. The emotional fog still clung like smoke in her lungs. Her clothes were clean, the kettle quiet, and the apartment smelled faintly of burned caf.

When the knock came again, softer this time, she already knew who it was.

She opened the door, and there stood Commander Cody. Arms crossed. Still in his armor minus the helmet. His posture was less “soldier on a mission” and more “man at the edge of patience.”

He gave her a once-over. “You look better.”

She gave a tired smile. “You should’ve seen me this morning.”

“I did. In the alley.”

That shut her up.

He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t bother walking further in—just stood there, facing her like she was on trial. And in a way, she was.

“You kissed me,” he said flatly.

“I did.”

“You kissed Rex.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do you want us to fight over you?”

“No.” Her voice cracked like old glass. “Never.”

Cody tilted his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His tone was low—not angry, not accusing—just tired and honest. “You know exactly what you’re doing. You run when it gets too real. You lie when someone gets too close. You play both sides of everything so no one ever gets close enough to hurt you.”

She looked away.

“I don’t care who you choose,” he said, voice gentler now. “Rex, me, no one. I care that you keep lying. You keep manipulating people. You keep running. You say you care about us, but you treat us like we’re temporary. Like we’ll disappear the second things get hard.”

She stepped back, eyes welling up. “I’m trying, Cody. I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

“Everything gets complicated with you.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I can handle complicated. But I won’t be your second choice. And neither will Rex.”

Silence.

Her throat was raw. “You’re not a second choice. You’re… you’re Cody.”

“Then stop treating me like a backup plan.”

That cut deeper than she expected.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t regret kissing you. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But if it’s not real—don’t do it again.”

The door opened.

“Cody.”

He stopped.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, not turning around. “So am I. But we don’t get to use that as an excuse forever.”

Then he was gone.

And she stood there, in her too-clean apartment, surrounded by silence and the scent of burned caf, wishing she could burn away the shame just as easily.

Prev part | Next Part

“Theoretical Feelings”

Tech x Female Reader

⸻

“Tech, you’re smarter than you look,” you said, fingers flying across the datapad as you recalibrated the long-range scanner’s neural relays.

Tech didn’t even glance up. “Is that a compliment for my intelligence or an insult for my appearance?”

You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe both. You’ll never know.”

That got him. He looked at you over the rim of his goggles, blinking once. “You are remarkably cryptic for someone so precise in data analysis.”

“And you’re remarkably dense for someone with a photographic memory.”

He opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver a factually loaded rebuttal—but Omega’s groan from the doorway cut him off.

“Ugh, will you two just kiss already?”

Wrecker let out a bark of laughter from the other side of the room. “They’re both so smart and yet so stupid. It’s kinda impressive, honestly.”

Hunter passed by without even looking up from his weapon check. “I give it three more arguments before one of them short-circuits.”

Echo, lounging at the gunner’s console, rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen better communication from malfunctioning droids.”

You turned bright red. “We’re not—! I mean, it’s not like that.”

Tech, completely deadpan: “I fail to see the logic in a kiss solving anything.”

“Oh my stars,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’d think two geniuses wouldn’t be so emotionally… constipated.”

Omega laughed as she flopped into a chair. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes,” you said, shooting Tech a sidelong glance. “He’s got a whole datacard full of tactical strategy, but apparently no folder for feelings.”

“I have folders,” Tech protested, indignant. “I just haven’t… opened them.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. “Well, maybe you should. Before I go flirt with Echo just to see if he can keep up.”

Tech’s goggles glinted as he straightened, spine stiff. “That would be inefficient. Echo’s humor is marginally less compatible with yours. Statistically, I am the superior match.”

The room went dead silent.

Even Hunter looked up.

“…What?” Tech asked, genuinely confused. “Was that not the correct response?”

You blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. Finally, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.

“Tech,” you said slowly. “Are you… trying to court me via statistics?”

“Well, that is the language I am most fluent in,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have also calculated the probability of your reciprocal affection to be relatively high, based on prolonged eye contact, increased heart rate during proximity, and your tendency to brush your hair back when speaking to me.”

Your face went completely warm. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly. “I simply haven’t known what to do with the information.”

Your heart stuttered—because for all his clinical language, there was vulnerability behind it. Soft. Honest. Tech didn’t lie. He just struggled to feel out loud.

You offered a small smile. “You don’t have to do anything… except meet me halfway.”

He tilted his head. “Can you define halfway in this context?”

You stood up, stepped in front of him, and placed your hand gently on the side of his face—just enough pressure for his breath to catch. He froze like a statue.

“This,” you whispered, “is halfway.”

“Oh,” Tech said softly, eyes wide behind his goggles. “I see.”

And then—slowly, cautiously, with all the finesse of a man defusing a bomb—he leaned forward and kissed you.

Echo let out a low whistle. Wrecker whooped. Omega cheered.

Hunter smirked to himself. “About time.”

When you pulled back, Tech looked dazed. Awestruck.

You grinned and nudged his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I must say… I found it remarkably agreeable.”

“You’re so weird,” you whispered, grinning.

He smiled back. “Yes. But apparently, I am your kind of weird.”

⸻

Hey! I’m from Australia(Melbourne) too!! I had a request for a Wollfe X Fem!Reader where he has to rescue her but it’s like disneys Hercules where Meg says “I’m a damsel and I’m in distress, I can handle this” and it’s a bunch of cute banter and flirting and maybe some spice thrown in? Love your work! Xx

Hey lovely! Thank you for your request, I hope the below is somewhat what you were hoping for!

“Tactical Complications”

Commander Wolffe x Reader

Blaster bolts screamed overhead, debris rained from the shattered rooftop, and your heels—gorgeous, custom, Senate-issue—were now coated in soot.

Typical.

You were pinned behind the shattered remains of what used to be a speeder—now a flaming, sparking coffin. Your blaster was out of charge, your dress had a tear the size of a hyperspace route down the side, and your thigh throbbed from where shrapnel had bit deep.

So no, this wasn’t ideal.

But it wasn’t your first disaster either.

“You’re going to regret this,” you muttered to the squad of droids advancing with heavy steps. “Because I’m very well-connected, and also—” you raised the empty blaster like it was worth something, “—kind of terrifying when cornered.”

The droids didn’t seem impressed.

And then—

Blasterfire. Sharp, clean, precise.

Heads popped. Limbs flew. The last droid barely had time to turn before its chest caved inward from a single, well-placed bolt.

Smoke curled in the air as silence fell.

You didn’t look surprised when he stepped into view—tall, armored, and absolutely furious.

Commander Wolffe.

“You took your time,” you called, voice dry. “I was two seconds from charming them into an alliance.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you—soot-smudged, limping, bleeding—like you were a glitch in his mission log he couldn’t delete.

“You’re injured.”

“You’re observant.”

He stormed toward you, ignoring your sass, and crouched beside your leg. “Hold still.”

“Careful,” you breathed, as his fingers brushed your bare thigh to check the wound. “You keep touching me like that, people might talk.”

“You’re bleeding through your sarcasm,” he said coolly. “Try being quiet for five seconds.”

You leaned closer, voice low. “That sounded suspiciously like a request.”

He looked up at you then, helmet off, one brow twitching with something like restraint. His hands were steady. His jaw—tight.

“You disobeyed direct evacuation orders,” he muttered, wrapping a field bandage tight. “And you think I’m the one being reckless.”

“I had intel,” you shot back. “I stayed to gather it. The mission mattered.”

“You nearly got vaped.”

“Please. I’ve had worse nights in the Senate.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just for a second. A crack in the façade.

“I should drag you out of here by your pretty little neck,” he muttered.

“Pretty?” you echoed, pretending to swoon. “Wolffe, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He lifted you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You hissed through your teeth at the movement, clutching his pauldron.

“You don’t have to carry me.”

“I’m not arguing with a senator who thinks she’s immortal.”

You stared up at him as the evac ship loomed in view. “You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.”

You smirked. “And yet, you still came for me.”

His grip tightened.

“I always come for what’s mine.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you again, didn’t say another word. But you felt it—that heat simmering under all his armor, all his rules.

And you knew next time… he wouldn’t be so professional.